sassyteatimeinquiries

[sassyteatimeinquiries]

I have a dog, his name is Castiel. Yes, after Supernatural. We also call him Cas, or Casserole, or Casserole Dish, or anything that starts with Cas. Well, Cas had cancer and lost one of his back legs. He is fine now. Thriving. Living his best life. Although there is a terrible irony. I discovered or remembered that Angel Castiel lost his wings in season nine. Castiel the dog is nine years old. So, ya'll can sit with that and I am going to go fight the universe now.

P.S Here is a picture of Cas the dog.

[sassyteatimeinquiries]

Writing prompt/idea

A dishonored medical examiner named Mortimer Blake opens her own funeral home and crime scene cleaning business. She works both sides of the law. The police have no evidence, and she's the best there is, regardless of the suspicion. She calls the business "Mortie's Clean-up Crew."

Potential dialog option:

Employee answers phone

Employee: Mortie's Clean-up Crew, you slice it, we dice it. How can we help you?

Client: Is this the place?

Employee: For today only, due to weather, we are doing a one for two special.

Client: Don't you mean a two for one?

Employee: No. Have you seen the weather. I need galoshes to get anywhere. So, no. It is a one for two special. You pay a two body price for a one body removal.

Client:

Employee:

Client:

Employee: Thank you for your time, goodbye.

[sassyteatimeinquiries]

My mood constantly is "I'm awake and I hate it." I am awake now and I hate it.

[sassyteatimeinquiries]

Around this time last year, I was playing Baldur's Gate 3. I did not know much DnD lore until playing the game and doing some research. When I got to the second chapter and we were in the shadow-cursed Lands, did I learn more about Shar. The more I learned, the more I hated her. Just her, not he worshippers. They seemed more like lost children following a self-destructing god. And Shar well she a liar who simply desired oblivion. Apparently angered by the fact that others found that others did not view existent as she did, wanted destruction. I do not believe she believes what she tells her followers. They are in fact a means to an end. This thought brought about the thought of what would one of my oc's think of this. One of my dimension walker's come to see the place she has only seen as a player playing a video game. What would she think. What would she feel. What would she do. And so I wrote Shar Crazes Oblivion. It is very short and in second person but here it is after nearly a year.

Shar Crazes Oblivion

You had never seen her cry, or at least cry like this. Her knees cracking into the pebbled and cobble roaded ground. Tears streaming. Face twisted in pain and rage. Jaw shaking with fragile breath. Clutching the shadow orb to her chest. A memory making the last bits of a person. Who had so much ahead of them. Time left. A thing you knew from the words of others that meant something deeply to her. A thing written on the skin. A thing written in a language you may speak. This was a mistake. You and her should have never come here. Curiosity killed the cat but this time satisfaction was not bringing it back. It was left abandoned with other old bones no one dared to touch. Bones that laid at her feet and knees as she mourned for people she did not know and the lives they never would be able to live. Mourning that changed tone as you watched her tilt her head to the blackened sky away from the moon. To part sealed lips to speak to someone unknown. 

“You craze oblivion,” words she spoke in a soft crackled tone. Dripped and dressed in rage and hatred. “Then Go. And find it, and—” Her face dips from the sky. She pauses. Cradles the lost life to her cheeks. And from shaking lips tumbled the last words soft like velvet and all for the dead, “And—, touch nothing else.”

[sassyteatimeinquiries]

I had a dream that the former President Obama was a zombie in a wheelchair and he was being pushed around by another zombie. They were the zombies of a Voodoo priest who was also a mechanic and he was my friend. He was very excited to see me but I was wary of his zombies. So he told me "Ah, don't worry. They don't bite." Then zombie Obama was wheeled over to me and just held my hands. He said something, I don't remember it. But I know it was nice. Also I don't know if the Voodoo priest was fixing a car or stripping it for parts but it was very bare.

Also this is one of the less strange dream I have had. It was a nice dream.

[sassyteatimeinquiries]

This is the mystery portrait Larkis Andrews finds in Chapter 2. It's not quite exactly as described but the figure is it. The Portrait of an Unknown Woman by Larkis Andrews.

[sassyteatimeinquiries]

I finished!!! This is the Nameless Lady and part of Dorain Payne. It is done in gouache and watercolor. It is a partial portrait done off a story I am writing. I've never really made artwork of my stories before, so this is a brand-new frontier for me, so if you like the portrait. Please feel free to read the story.

Links to the Intro | Chapter One | Chapter Two

(Also, I scanned one of my pictures for the first time. Yay!)

[sassyteatimeinquiries]

It's not done. Dorian’s missing a hand. The Nameless Lady’s hair is missing some strands. And that's not all of what needs to be finished. Oh, and the blue tape. But, I introduce you to the Nameless Lady and part of Dorian Payne.

[sassyteatimeinquiries]

Moriarity's "Watson" is Sebastian Moran, if I understood your question correctly

Sorry for the late reply. Life got busy. In essence, yes. While I think I was also asking in regards to the idea of a post I read years ago about the idea that everyone has their Watson and their Sherlock. So what of those who are not either but fall into more of the Moriarty category. So it was the idea that if Sherlock has Watson, who does Moriarty have. And as many have now replied, it would be Sebastian Moran.

Although now I have more questions. So many more questions.

[sassyteatimeinquiries]

An important need to know. So, if Watson is Sherlock's Watson then who is Moriarty's Watson?

Asking for a friend. They don't like Moriarty's Watson, something about it being too vague, and I don't like Tod.

[sassyteatimeinquiries]

The Would be Tragedy at the Midnight Manor of Dorian Payne

(Psst. Tap tap. This is the second chapter. If you haven't read the first click here.)

Chapter 2: The Portrait of Dorian Payne

They had left him. Alone. In his room. For three days. Not hours, days. Three of them. Three of what would have been long, painfully slow days if he had not actually left the room for short bursts. Trying maybe too hard to figure out the whims of the halls and rooms of the Midnight Manor. Never traveling too far. Memorizing every twisting turn, the details of every doorway and window. The slight variations. The titles of books. Small changes in carved facades. Nicknacks and furniture. Every specifically particular element. A landmark to hang upon, to track and to travel careful steps back towards and past. 

He turned those landmarks into paths for three days. Three days of memorizing those paths. Three days of letting the Midnight Manor lead him deeper. The deeper he was pulled the more he was taken to trailing fingers in the dips and rises of the carved reliefs adorned the top of the panels lining the hall. Taken to learning every element of the hall outside his door. Taken to touch every little odd detail. He found all seemed to be made to brush fingers against. To be picked up and felt. Like the wallpaper with velvet designs lining a random hall or, the curtain with little metal pieces woven into the fabric. It shimmered with each ray of sun that hit it. In this tactile nature he found pleasure in pressing fingers and palms into carved and cut reliefs of not only his hall but of the other halls, and of the doorways and other little wooden features. 

He picked up books to run fingertips across the spines. To memorize the titles and their authors. To see if the genres formed a pattern fitting to a tailored taste. If only he knew even half of the varied languages keeping the bookkeeper’s secrets. Of all of the books he found the ones with the loopy line designs had the softest covers and pages, like vellum silk. Designs he had discovered to be a written language when he had cracked the spine of a particularly well loved volume. A volume which went missing when he had wandered back just a couple hours later. After eating one of many meals left in his room. 

At least they were feeding him. Simple meals. Simple meals of cold sandwiches, or hot soups and stews, and mugs of fragrant teas. Sometimes strange teas matching their stranger receptacle. A mug, an amusing little thing. The same one. Each time. A plain cream colored mug with colorful little mushroom reliefs with one of the mushrooms forming the handle. The silly little mug. It had made him grin when he first saw it . He had spun it in his hands, careful of the tea inside, studying. The mug made him wonder as to whose personality this silly little mug spoke of. 

The same mug he turned in his hand, empty now. Studying the mushrooms once more on this third day. Before. Before setting it down again. Down next to the plate on the plain wooden tray. Exchanging it for the severely patched leather sketchbook. Another desperate attempt to understand and document the madness of corridors of the Midnight Manor. Fingers curled around the spine pulling the sketchbook into his chest as he took quick steps to the door. Grasping the brass handle down he steps forward and through. 

Closing the door on the plain sitting room connected to the even plainer bedroom compared to the rest of the Midnight Manor. A couple more steps he moved away from the door and he was off. A memorized path. Soon leading to a path not taken. To a left when before it was a right, and vice versa. Each turn led him further away as twists and turns turned into a path found where there was no path before. A path that led to a place he had not been before. An unknown place at the end of a hall to a pair of double doors. 

A mimicry of almost any important space within the manor. Each special place led to by a varying of different double doors. This one was no different than any of the rest, seeing as the doorframe was adorned with two antlers, origin unknown. The burr at the base fused seamlessly into the wood of the door frame. Or, or the whole thing was antler with the texture and pallor mimicking the bone growth all too well. Just another oddity to add to the list consuming the edges and pages of the ratty journal.

Full of sketches and notes, following the same pattern of the Midnight Manor. This place already pulled him in three short days. And in three days the regret grew. He should have never come here. He should have stayed safe and sound, locked away in his studio. Frantically painting the same portrait over and over. Until he had forgotten his own name. Until the very edges of reality melted together—

Or.

Or, he could walk away now. He could walk away and just like that, three days left forgotten. Just pack his bags and go home. All he had to do was to ignore the pull of curiosity. To pull his hands from the door. To turn his feet away and back towards his room. Pack his bags and leave. All he had to do was walk away.

—_____—

He should have walked away. He would have walked away. If not for the fact his feet and hands had already led him in. Into a room with the only closed curtains he has seen so far. Heavy, and slightly parted, just enough to let a little light in. Light that lit up the whole room in glow settling itself along the walls and would be dark corners. Revealing secrets all too easily.

Revealing the warmly lit room to simply be a gallery. Plain and small with more than a dozen paintings lining the walls. Each one unique, playing out its own story within a plain frame. A collection of scenes and people. All in a style he did not recognize. A strange thing to see an unregistered artist, especially with such a prolific collection. There was no one under sixteen within the Midnight  Manor. None that he knew of, and yet here they were. Landscapes of places he could not place. Of people as impossible and wondrous as the places they stood before and hung next to.

Landscapes of ice plains that looked as if there were geysers of steam dotting the foreground, and of deserts where the very sand was beginning to melt. Of cities made from stone, glass and materials he could not name. With all of it draped and dressed in flora. Some of those paintings showed the impossible cities in expansive shots. While others pulled him close, into streets and alleyways where he walked alone, or among strangers. A few were of people. People dressed in varying fashions, some he almost knew, and others he could not place, and the faces even less so. 

A woman with bright eyes almost closed, smiling head tilted towards the sun. Greying hair pulled up, spilling across her ears in graceful waves. Ageless. Less in the idea of the immorality of a painting but of the subject themselves. Somehow, in some way, they looked so young, even with grey. They looked as if time had forgotten them in its haste to move the moment around them forward. As if time had forgotten all of the strange painter’s subjects. 

Strange. Strange, how many more times would he use it in this manor before it loses all meaning, but it fit. It fit as his eyes moved from the dancing horned figure, silks twisting around them. The laughing woman, again. This time with whom looked to be her children, two. The three of them somewhere metal laced and star painted. It fit still as his eyes continued to move across the room following each scene and face till his shoulders brushed the thick cotton of the heavy curtains covering the windows. Shifting them as he turned to look at the over wall revealing a mystery hidden in the corner wrapped in those heavy drapes.

It was there in that corner, on the floor leaning against those heavy curtains with a chipped frame was a portrait. One that brought his knees to the floor to study. A face he did not recognize for the briefest of minutes. It was simply a portrait of Dorian Payne. Not one he had painted. No. The painter was the one whose work hung on upon the walls, now mocking him. Mocking that he could never capture his golden muse the way this painter did. Regal and gentle. Light and airy like the world could not touch him. The burden lifted and lost let go of. Pain released. Mocking him. Telling him a cat clawed truth. Telling him that Dorian Payne did not love him. He loved this painter. Adored this painter. Trusted this painter. 

And they loved him. His Dorain. Their Dorian. No. No, his Dorian. He had to be his Dorian. Right? Right?!?

Right…

Not his Dorian. 

Not. His. Anger flashed up like magma. It burned like tendrils. Tendrils that gripped at his insides. Tendrils that rose, reaching for the throat. Tendrils that nearly touched, nearly curled around the throat. Then it didn’t. It didn’t curl. It just stopped. Falling away. Leaving him with an empty feeling like a full body drop. The feeling one gets the moment the floor gives way but before the falling starts. The moment when everything hangs mid air, when everything hits but nothing is processed. An empty feeling. All air and no footing. The feeling faded. Rage and jealousy gurgled and dissipated, leaving him on the floor alone. 

Yet a question bubbled to the surface with an almost ringing pop. Why was this portrait of Dorain Payne on the floor. Hidden and settled so gently into the folds of the heavy curtain. With frame that hid all its damage  beneath crude repairs. Cracked and missing corners, as if thrown. But where did it come from, before—. Before it was thrown, and left to rest on the floor as if abandoned. But,the care in how it was placed could not have been a mistake. Why? Why move such a perfect portrait? Where did it hang? Who moved it and why?

Questions he could not answer, unless he looked for himself. Unless he found where the portrait once hung. He just had to look. To study the opposite wall. The one he had yet to explore. An exploration cut short as where it once hung was easily found by the ripped and gathered wallpaper. Damaged when the portrait was pulled roughly from the wall, leaving an empty space. Or what was once an empty space. Instead it seemed the portrait of Dorian Payne was moved for a different portrait. The size of the canvas was smaller and inornate. Hanging haphazardly from the hook was a painting unlike any of the rest.

It had no frame except for the one where the pulled canvas rested upon. Stapled and cut. He recognized the brush strokes in an instance. They were his. His brush strokes created a portrait of a woman he had never seen before. Sketched and painted quickly to capture a moment he could not have lived. A moment where she laid resting against blue tinted glass windows, eyes closed. Face mostly away from him. Hiding most of her features. Just like the nook in the wall she occupied. Taken to sitting on the wooden ledge instead of the comfortable cushion with blankets and pillows. Where she seemed to have decided to assign the purpose of the ledge to it instead. Books piled haphazardly, falled and crushed dozens or so papers beneath them. It was all so serene.

"So, this is where you are." 

A sudden spoken sentence to break once nearly still silence. Eyes darted to find the source. To find the voice. A voice connected to a smiling man wearing his age on his face and in his ghost peppered hair. In a swift movement, the older man bent his body into a bow, eyes never left his, and smile never dropped. "Leopold Edvaars at your service, sir."

"Sir, I thought I was Mister Andrews," the words hopped from his tongue before he realized he had spoken. His gaze had moved back to the portrait to the woman his brush so adored. Nevertheless his words pulled forth from Mr. Edvaars a deep sounding laugh. Joyful and Hearty. This was the man Mae spoke of.

“Well, sir. We have places to go and people to—,” Mr. Edvaars began to turn away from him.

“Please, just call me Mister Andrews.” 

He stopped him, and Mr. Edvaars looked surprised. Like the words were not expected. As if the idea had never crossed his mind. His expression changed. Thoughtful but only a second before the smile returned.

“Well, then call me Edvaars,” Edvaars began to turn once more, directing his gaze to the door. But, he stopped and looked back at him. Edvaars paused, then simply said, “Come.”

“Where to?” With that question he didn't move. Why should he when all these residents seemed to take pleasure in dragging him around to places unknown. He did his best to display his stubborn refusal on his face. Whatever emotion he was showing Edvaars seemed to find rather funny.

 “To the garden, of course.”

With that Edvaars turned from him once more. Having left his feet to run after another denizen of the Midnight Manor. To blindly trust another one. Just because of the sheer fear of being left behind. Again. And again the manor swallowed him as he followed in step with Edvaars. He Looked back briefly, and wondered if the manor would ever let him back into that little gallery. If it will ever let him find the lady from the portrait. The lady he seemed to adorn all the same as Dorain Payne.

—_____—

Another journey through twisting halls. A journey past plotted courses he had made and discovered from his room in those three days. Three days leading from one door to the next. Leading him through the Midnight Manor with each twist and turn. All converging upon a single plain door with a colored glass mosaic spilling sunlight on red desert kissed tiles.

A pattern broken as Edvaars stepped forward, staining his shoes with the light. He turned back to him, and smiled, “Please excuse the mess, Miss Ingwer quite enjoys using this room to store her things.”

Edvaars gestured outwards into the space. The space that was not at all as he described. It was messy but in an expected way, or in a way that settled into his bones as right. Everything was set back against the walls in a way that left the middle of the room open. Shovels and rakes on the wall by the door. A bench on the other side guarded a row of hooks filled with jackets and a pile of shoes gathered underneath. And the knitted green—, a memory, screaming as something dug in and ripped at its roots before any could take hold. His teeth clattered as knees met the tile. Cardigan—, bile to the back of the throat, he gagged on the air. With a needle that scraped at the back of his eye sockets. Hers—, the needle pushed through. 

“Edvaars,” A gasped word. It resonated in the throat, lost to his ears. A single hand grasped towards the older man. It begged for reprieve and landed as a silent whimper on uncaring ears. 

Edvaars stood there at the door, stiff and unmoved. His face set to a look of general disinterest, and dare he say, annoyance. He sighed, looked to the corner and looked back. And with three words everything reset.  

“Forget, Mister Andrews.”

Just like that, and a rubber band snap. He was standing. Edvaars swept his arm into space with a flourish, but the space was not at all as he described. It was messy but in an expected way, at least for the gardener who seemed to have taken up residences in the space. 

“I’ve heard of her. The outlaw,” the words felt a little stiff as he said them. As to why, he was uncertain. But whatever the reason was, it mattered not. Not with one of the denizens of the Midnight Manor standing before him. Even though he had followed him here.  

“Ah, yes. Our very own outlaw gardener,” Edvaars hearty laughter filled the space between. Laughter that ended with his next words, but the smile did not slip from his lips. “You’ll most likely meet her very soon.”

With that he opened the door and ushered him forward. Forward towards the world waiting outside the manor itself. To the dangers lurking in the forest just beyond the looming walls and towering guard towers which circled the manor. With scarcely a couple steps he was outside, bracing against the nipping wind of autumn.

With each step the air bit at his cheeks and nose, and the breeze pulled at his hair. It pulled the long locks up and over his eyes. Made his feet hit the stairs that led down to the pebbled path wrong. He fell forward, the ground rushed up, fast. Only to halt its approach as an arm wrapped around his waist stopping him. 

“Careful there,” Edvaars breath caught the back of his neck as the older man pulled him up. Feet caught the stairs and he could breathe. Each breath created misty wisps as his feet brought him to the ground. A click, the sound of the door closing. Edvaars voice carried down to him as his graze turned up towards him, “I’ll catch up to you. There is something I need to finish first.”

A nod. A single hesitant gesture, and he turned towards the garden away from the manor. Quick steps taken till he had almost reached the edge of the building. He looked up and. And—, it was just a garden. Like almost any garden, with stone walls, knee high, that created space for flowers to be planted and grow. Expect that the walls blocked in expanses of trees with ground having a forest floor like appearance. Growths of moss along the ground covering roots, weaved between ferns, and wild flowers, alike. Ivy even creeped up behind one wall, threatening to overtake the dahlias planted there. And the lilacs grew up and out like a torrent consuming the corner of the walled planter it grew behind. Even with the mystic-like beauty the garden gave off, two things stood out, the greenhouse and the single weeping willow growing near the stone wall, past the greenhouse. 

A mourning tree. A thing he did not think he would find here. Yet here it was. And under the willow several feet ahead of him was a figure elbows deep in the dirt. Pulled at weeds just beginning to choke out the blooms planted there. Even from a distance he could tell. It was the woman from the painting. 

He moved towards her. Feet crunched against gravel or pebble or whatever mundane material the path was made from. She was so close. His hand stretched out as if to touch her. Words unable to form on his lips yet she looked up. She looked up at him, and—. And, it wasn’t her.

"Maria. Maria Ingwer." Head tilted up, smiling at him. Smiling at him with almond shaped eyes the color the world takes just after rain in spring. The first thing that didn’t match. The second being the lack of freckles around the eyes or the lack of moles that should have dotted her face. It wasn't her. She was not the woman in the portrait. 

A fact that did not change when she rose to her feet. Folded herself into a bow that hid her face behind the hat’s wide bream. The same bow demonstrated by Sae and Mae. Feet apart, forward and back, with legs slightly crossed. Left arm forward and right arm behind the back. Fluid but held for a moment as her voice cheerfully rang out, "At your service."

He wasn’t quite sure how to respond. Not with the disappointment settled in his chest like stones to water. Stones that hit the bottom in an acid lurch to the nose, and instead a question bubbled up and out before he could catch it.

“The Greenhouse?” The very question he could not catch felt incomplete as it tumbled from his tongue half formed. One he had not expected a reply to. With the way her nose scrunched, confused and gaze flickered for a moment until some kind of realization seemed to hit. She produced an almost silent ‘oh’ with a look, before she replied. 

“I do not touch that.” A lie. Simple, to the point yet, a lie all the same. A fact he was certain of. The kind of certainty that rested in the bones. Or, it could have been due to the way she held his gaze, like a dare. A dare ended when shifted to look over his shoulder, and ended her sentence simply with, “It is our Lady’s domain.”

“Mr. Andrews, it seems you have found our resident outlaw gardener,” Edvaars voice, spoken over his shoulder. The old man had caught up. Whatever he had to do, was done. Even so, the words he had spoken undoubtedly annoyed Maria. Her nose scrunched, and her face transparent, like a book, as her eyes narrowed.

“Mr. Edvaars, I was just introducing myself.”

A single moment. Just a single moment to change everything. Of words falling from Maria’s lips in a faltered waltz as something caught her gaze somewhere above his head. Away from his view. Whatever it was, her smile slipped, shifted to a startled kind of fear that was almost too brief to capture. But long enough for him to follow up to a window. To a window with a young woman leaned up against the frame as she stared out at the sky.

Just a single moment, and he knew. She was the woman from the portrait. She was seated up against the glass with knee hanging out and foot clutched upon the frame. Looking out past the garden. Out at a distance past his head. Almost as if she was studying the sky the same way he studied her. He wanted to—. No, needed to restudy the lines of her face. Remember the color of her eyes, the shape if her lips as she say his name, or even Dorian’s name. To remember the name of the woman he had painted. It was on the tip of his tongue like a song he would sing with kisses up her jaw bone as Dorian laughed, playing with her hair. 

She was—,

She looked down. Eyes met and her chin tilted up, eyes never left his. Her expression shattered the daydream within a single lost breath. It wasn't what he would call cold. It was the look she wore when she analyzed something she found to be a nuisance. An agitation. Even from where he stood he could see she looked tired, and her hair was down. She rarely ever—.

A bell. Clear and sudden as rain. Ringing out into the expanse. His head turned to follow the sound to the road. The same road he had arrived upon just three days ago. The same road a caravan now traveled upon. A caravan of dark wood wooden wagons, about a dozen or so. Maybe less. Each drew closer to the entry with every ring of the bell. Something new and strange, introduced to him by the Midnight Manor. Yet, he knew the caravan as if he had stood here before. As if that bell rang out as he looked up at the window—.

The window. His gaze darted back to the window. The window where the bell rang in time with the pull and flutter of the curtains that wrapped themselves around the resting cat. A cat. Was that what was there before. Before the caravan and its bell drew his attention. Was it—.

“Are you okay, Mister Andrews,” It wasn’t a question but Maria looked concerned regardless, as their eyes met. She smiled at him then at Edvaars. She brushed off what little dirt she had on her trousers, and pulled off her gloves.

“Well.” A huff of air, before she said, “I think it is time for tea.”

Maria stalked off ahead of them. Feet quick and steps light. Her hat seemed to be trying to learn to fly as the breeze pulled at the brim. Her hands had to pull it to her head as she spun back around in one easy movement.

“You two, come. Now. Tea.” 

One command and his feet followed yet another denizen of the Midnight Manor. To yet another place. Though this time his thoughts did not cease. This time all he could think was and mutter under his breath, “Cat”.

Chapter Three: To Trade in Bones (In Progress)

[sassyteatimeinquiries]

The Unfillable Wish for a Soft Epilogue

I just watched something that made this thought I have swirl around my head. A thought that brushes past then stays awhile. About Kae and her species immensely and incomprehensibly long lives. I'll proceed in her words, maybe they will settle into the bones right.

I remember this post with these words that go along the lines of "I hope we can have a soft epilogue." And they hurt. They always hurt. It's like a happily ever after, it has a meaning. And a requirement I can never fulfill or I can't unless I meet some very specific requirements. Ones that will not happen for a very long time. A happily ever after, or a soft epilogue seem to always imply that the two people involved grow old and die, together. So, how is it a soft epilogue if only one person grows old and dies, and I. I am the same as I was when all of this began. How can it be a soft epilogue for two people when only one gets it. Let alone if it is for a group. What is it worth when I begin alone and end alone. How? What is it worth to love someone or anyone outside of my species when the only guarantee is that I will outlive them all.

[sassyteatimeinquiries]

The Would be Tragedy at the Midnight Manor of Dorian Payne

Chapter One: Welcome to the Midnight Manor

Maybe it was because he was expecting something more— Gruesome. An expectation making this settle into his bones all wrong. The Mitternacht der Wald was most certainly should not, could not, be not this. Not this strange forest with its twisted and twisting dark foliage. Never lingering, never touching the graveled road. Yet it sang. The Wald sang as if it did. As if its dark roots tangled their way up the sides of the carriage. Singing a song. A song he could almost remember. A midnight lullaby. Transforming— No, Revealing the forest for what it was, a wonderland of midnight secrets. Shimmering and whispering just beyond carriage doors. Beckoning him. Pulling at the very fibers of his being to return. Pulling at his fingertips, making them graze the handle of the door. Pushing the cool brass handle down. Door shuddering beneath the weight exerted yet refusing to budge. Just a little more weight and he can go back. Just a little more and they can’t stop him. Not this time.

No. 

No, that couldn’t be right. This was his first time here. His first and only visit to the Mitternacht der Wald. To this bizarre place, and it's strange manor,  whose visage just began to break from the Wald’s treeline.

“How odd.”

Not the first. Maybe the third? No, the fifth. No? No matter how many times those words have floated through his mind. This place only became stranger and stranger the further he was pulled in. Nothing had met, or seemed to have any desire to meet expectations. Nothing matched its name quite the right way, and appeared to relish in it. The Mitternacht der Wald, and most of all the actual Midnight Manor. It wasn’t blazing pink but it certainly wasn’t a gothic castle horror either. What it was, was a conglomeration of oddity. A hodgepodge of stained glass, open archways, a variety of roof types, winding ivy and flowering vines, and more windows than he has ever seen. All seamlessly blending. All melding in a way that made it absolutely Beautiful. 

Or in the very least fascinating. Created lines for the eye to follow, a spiderweb of the architecture shifting seamlessly from one odd feature to the next. A trail slowly leading to the main entrance with the unhurried shifting of the carriage.

Empty. Yet again.

Agitating. Like an oil slick laggedly coating the skin, sticking to the flesh. But it shouldn’t surprise him. He was an unwanted guest. With the strings and so-called favors that must have been cashed in and pulled to get him here. To get him before the Nameless Lady. He was aware of what it took to get even a brief moment of her attention. Yet here he was with a personal invitation from the Nameless Lady, herself, signed and sealed. Oh, and all too aware that was most certainly forced. An invitation to paint the portraits of not only the enigma herself but of her new heir. The infamous, if not almost as infamous as her, Dorian Payne. 

His liquid gold. His muse. His obsession. His golden beauty. Who had an almost tragic tale. A similar tale to the golden muse's own deceased birth mother. A sculpted angel that ran to the place even royalty fear to try to impose their will upon. A tale that mattered little to nothing to him. All that mattered was getting in. To find what was his. Hidden within the rumored and labyrinthine halls of the Midnight Manor. All of it just past the very annoyed face of the driver. Carriage door thrown wide open. Revealing his baggage all piled, leaning haphazardly against the pillars of the entrance archway.

All it took was a moment. A moment of pulling breath in too quick. With heart clutched by someone else’s hand. And the rush of acid to the throat. Burning along the back of the esophagus. Like bubbles rising and popping in a champagne glass. Then eyes shifted, breath and heart were released. There they were, the most important things. The only things of any true value to him. All in three neat stacks were his art supplies.

“Our Lady would not be pleased if something of that value were ruined due to the sheer displeasure of having you, Mr. Andrews.”

He stopped. Hand clutched to the doorframe, eyes snapped back to the driver. They spoke. He was certain the small lad was mute. With the way they met him and his previous carriage at the very edge of the Mitternacht der Wald. Curt and odd. They made him carry his own luggage the last few meters past the edge of the Wald. Refused both to help or allow the other driver past the limits with only a shake of the head. Answering every several questions with a nod or a shake. It only made sense. 

Sense lost to whatever happened in those few seconds. It made the driver’s head tilt, eyes caught the light and for a brief second they looked— Metallic. Like blackened silver lost as eyes narrowed and lips pulled back, bared, a predator’s smile. 

Then, gone. Both smile and driver simply vanished within the moment of a spider’s breath. Leaving him to ponder if any of this was actually real. Stumbling out of the carriage, door swinging close behind him, just, as it began pulling away if by some invisible force. Knees barely putting one foot in front of the other to pull, or push him towards the entrance. Carriage disappeared as each step brought him closer to the entry and towards his bags. Towards uncertainty. And towards unwelcoming hosts. 

—_____—

He stood within the entrance just past the doors for what felt like an hour, or more likely a gathering of several stifling stiff minutes. Each one spent staring at his own feet. With each minute certain that as long as he didn’t look up the building would not warp around him. It would not be what it was. It would not be the Midnight Manor. The stain-glass windows would fade back to where they belonged. Their colorful sunlight would not be splattering his muddy shoes. And the windows would match the outside. No. All the inside would match the outside. It would not twist and it would not be different than what reality allowed. The solution was simple. He only needed to stare at his shoes. A little longer. Just a little longer.

“Mister Andrews.” 

With two simple words he had failed. The lie had lost all viability the moment his head moved. The moment he looked up past the stairs to the balcony. To the second floor landing. To the figure with hip leaned against the railing of twisted gold vines sprouting leaves and heavy dusk dusted blooms. Looking up at golden eyes, a feature and feat as impossible as all the rest. The figure themselves looked like liquid midnight, a moonless night lost behind clouds and new moon wanings. Hidden behind a mask covering only the upper right quarter of their face. A mask with little horns pressed into the hairline. Hands clasped before them. Chin tilted up with eyes angled down. Watching him, moments ticking by as if they were waiting.

Eyes feeding fear. Unsure, no uncertainty building his anxiety. With each second another piece placed for decorum lost. Stomach to the throat. The smell of acid rising in the nose. Stomach climbed further into his throat as he leaned forward into a swallow bow.

“Thanking you my Lady for this honor—,”

He made eye contact with his shoes again, the figure cut off his even shallower words. A puddle not even a worm would drown in. The figure’s words are monotone yet somehow he knew that the stranger was annoyed.

“Leave the false platitudes for when you meet our Lady.”

They were already gone from the railing when his back had straightened and his eyes had raised back up. Leaving him alone. Again. Leaving him to the rearing anxiety. To feet drawing him forward with each pounding heartbeat. Every other beat a stabbing breath stealer. With each pang, another breath lost. Walls closed in like colored sun stained spots as feet hit the stairs tumbling forward with frantic thoughts. If only. If only he hadn’t insisted, if only—

“Come,” They were back. Standing on the stairs an arms length away. Hand clutched the railing. Gold clawed nails dung in. He must be making Mae angry, again. It wasn’t that hard to do. She never had much patiences. Like the time he— he—. He, what? And Mae? Who was Mae? Mae— “Mister Andrews, our Lady does not have all day.”

“Yes, I am sorry—"

 "False platitudes," she, no, they were looking back. Headed titled, mismatched eyes locked on his face.

Then, gone. Standing once more on the balcony near where the stairs met the second floor. Now leaned forward over the railing, head angled to the lower floor. Looking towards something, and all he can think is “One push”. Just one push and no more Mae. Simple, easy, qui— no. Whoever this was. They weren't Mae.

"Sae, get Edvaars' to move the bags,"

Sh—They. They were talking to someone below them. Someone new. Someone, somehow in a room he was certain only had entry from the floor above. From the floor he was only one last flight of stairs from. From the floor the midnight figure stood leaned over that same railing. Leading eye to the someone new down below. A string he grasped hungerly to. If one was like a moonless night this one was moonlight swirled with vibrant stars and a near willowed match in height and stance. Except for their mask. Theirs was the same design but on the left side with similar little horns pressing into the hairline. And like the other, this Sae locked golden eyes with him and tilted their head. Watching and waiting.

“Mister Andrews.”

“Yes,” Conceivable it could be that he responded too quick or that the whiplash was finally settling in. With the way his stomach rolled or was it the way the stairs moved. Clutched at the railing as he swayed. Crushing a fragile bloom under vice-like grip. Or, maybe Sae swayed him. The swaying of Sae. Sae swayed to the swaying of Sae’s solemn song. The undignified sound escaped through his nose. Cheeks burned, flushing all the way to his fingertips. Mortification yanked his head to the side, eyes down. 

Gone. 

Just gone. Not a sign of them. The second midnight figure, Sae. They were just gone. A fact that remained unchanged no matter how far he leaned over the railing. This circumstance did not change even as he took long legged steps up to the balcony. It did not change as he looked over yet another railing. And it did not change when he looked to the first and back again. They, unlike him, did not look back. Instead continued with clicking steps, getting further and further away. 

—_____—

*Click— Click— Click—*

Each step another bend turned. Another flight of stairs taken. Another window passed. The further he was pulled, and the further he was lost. Maybe, he should have— No, it was too late now. Especially since he was here now. Within these walls. Steps behind the moonless night as it shifted its weight from heel to heel. Taking a graceful, slow pace never once joustling the golden ornaments woven into the thick ropelike strands. 

The same nimble pace shifting silk, fluttering it around thin willowed limbs. Hypnotizing as they moved him through archways leading to slithering halls and magpied rooms alike. Never knowing what the next turn or step would take him. A room with floral paper walls matching the potted plants dappled throughout and a fainting couch where someone has left a single book. A hall with partial paneling, who’s large windows and their deep sills had become home for several potted plants and a dozen or so books. Another room with different walls lined with bookcases with books spilling forth, a torrent tidal wave threatening to consume every corner of space. Books on window sills, seats cushions, and any empty space but not the floor. Another hall as distinctive as the last, leading to yet another hall. 

A journey unending. A fruitless endeavor. If only, he hadn’t—.

They stopped. All those minutes lost to a journey of stairs, and labyrinthine halls and adjoining rooms. A journey that led him to a door. The first. It was an overtly ornate door, two making one. Adorned with reliefs of trees winding and coiling over each other, trees from the Mitternacht der Wald, hiding eyes of furred beastlings behind treeline. Like troubling thoughts of an unquiet mind, always barely visible.

His strange guide placed one foot forward and pressed palms to either side. Opening the doors with undue flourish. 

“Lord Payne. As requested, Larkis Andrews.”

One simple sentence, and bliss returned. Waiting inside was Dorian Payne. Past long limbs and expecting golden eyes. Golden. Golden like endless fields of wheat swaying. Swaying like strands of hair caught in a breeze. Golden silk swooping past shoulders, escaping blue fabric tie. Brushing fingers across vellum, pausing then looking up. Gracing him— them with a golden smile.

He looked as godly as the last time he had seen him. No—. He looked better. No more hidden bags under the eyes. No more gauntly skin clingy to bone. Not that it had been so apparent before. All of it hiding under expensive clothes as he was paraded around at parties, a prized pig. Or, show horse. Something prized to be traded for greed. It’s just that now, looking at him. Really looking at him. Now, the contrast was so clear. Dorian’s eyes, there was life there. Everything else just followed. Making him so much more beautiful. His Dorian. His beautiful happy healthy Dorian. What was he supposed to do now—.

 A throat clears. The sound grabbing his attention, gaze refocuses, taking in the full room. In that short time he hadn’t noticed a key problem. The midnight figure had moved. Now lazily leaned with hip against Dorian’s chair. Both of them, observing him.

He bows, a reflux he is unable to stop. Angled towards his “helpful” guide. He tries two words. A struggle at a polite dismissal in a place he had no power.

“Thank you—.”

He doesn’t know their name. He. Doesn't. Know. Their. Name. 

A sound like silk bells drifts down to his ears. Body pulled from its bow to look. To look at Dorian Payne laughing. Touching. Moving. Holding the nameless figure softly by the elbow. Smiling at them. Not him.

“This is Mae.”

 Mae. A Mae. No, it had to be that Mae. A Mae he shouldn't, doesn't know. But he didn't know any other Mae. This place was wrong. He shouldn't be smiling at her, they, whoever. They don't deserve it. He should be smiling at him. He was his Dorian. Not her's.

“Isn’t she beautiful?”

He was still holding her elbow. He was still smiling at her, and she was letting him. Letting Dorian stand, maneuvering with him. Book slipped between hands. Hers now clutching it against her chest. Pulling away as she watched his face. Not Dorian’s, his. Observing, whatever twist and turns it was taking. 

“The people here are all so beautiful,” Dorian is looking at him, smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes not like it did with Mae. He was unwanted here, all round, even by what was his. And it was her fault. Mae’s. All her fault. 

No.

No, it wasn’t. Not with the way she pulled herself away. Stoic face never changed, except for the slight twitch in her fingers, tapping at the book’s hardcover. A nervousness, no. A discomfort. A discomfort that led her away to the tall imposing window behind Dorian. His hand still lingering on her elbow. Head turning to her away from him. A private exchange and whatever was said or not said, the tapping stopped and Dorian let go.

Dorian’s face had turned solemn. The smile, now all gone. Mischief long faded from his eyes. How dare she. How dare she sadden what is his. How dare she take away his joy. And crush it under foot no matter how ridiculously dainty and graceful they were. Dorian was his. If anyone was to crush him, it would be him. 

But Dorian hurt Mae first.

He blinks. This voice, one he had not heard before. A soft voice he was certain was not his own internal dialogue. And certainly not a thought he would normally have concerning his precious Dorian Payne. He would need to ponder this later. After. After he had spoken to the Nameless Lady.

He watched, the room still stiff, as Dorian returned to his seat. Mae shifted back around him, headed towards the door. She had left the book leaning on the window sill. Eyes returning to Dorian, watching him watch Mae. Then smiling, gaze flittered back to him as he waved towards the second chair, “Please sit. We can wai—.”

The door had shuddered open. The face of Sae briefly revealed as it lowered into a low bow. Long locks shifting to the chime similar golden ornaments together, falling past the shoulder.

“I apologize, Lord Payne. Our Lady will not be able to make it.”

Trinkets jingled once more as Sae raised, back straightening. Mae appeared at their shoulder. She leaned forward to whisper something next to their ear. Her lips moved in a pattern he could not recognize. Whatever language it was. It was not one of the several that he knew. Whoever they were, this Mae and Sae, they were not of the Epsclaen Empire. A fact that he should not forget.

“Mae, can you and your sister escort our guest to their quarter,” Dorian’s words are tired. This did not seem like it was the plan. A clear message as eyes flickered between themselves. For a moment it was if they all forgot he was there. A minute, or a second. Another bow, hair ornaments ringing out a soft medley once more. 

With no words, and only the golden song playing as Mae stood and looked to him. With expression stoic she pushed past with clicking heels. Doors opened once more by pressed palm. Only then did she look back, past to him. 

He followed her eye to Sae.

“We’ll lead the way, Mister Andrews,” Sae smiled at him, tilted her head. Gestured with her hand. If he hadn’t been looking at her, he would have sworn it was Mae that spoke. Their voices were identical. Except Mae’s expression never changed and Sae’s did. The smile provided it. 

“Please, Mister Andrews.”

It was Mae this time. Yet either, or, it did not matter as to whose words pushed him forward to the hall. Forward to stand there, awkwardly in a patch of sunlight shaded pink. Leaving only Mae and Sae to follow him, a pair of shifting midnight figures adorn in gold and unknown silk. Placing three people together in a small hall. Three people that did not want to be in the same space as the others. Or, at least in the same place as one of them. Staring each other down, as a force outside of any one of them, closed the door behind them.

If you haven't read the introduction. Here is the link.

Or, here is the second chapter.

[sassyteatimeinquiries]

So, my mom has this skill that I think is pretty cool. She is able to, after watching a show or movie for a bit, pick a character that you are most like. Apparently, it is pretty spot on seeing as others have agreed with the assessments she has previously made. But two of her guesses for me have left me in confusion and mild worry. I have asked, and she has refused to tell me her reasons. And in all likelihood, I will never know why.

So the first one is Marvel, cause why not. Also, it's technically three. We were watching Thor, and of course, I asked who I was. Answer Loki. I was too excited in retrospect. Second, I asked what superhero I would be if I am Loki. Answer Spiderman. Then, because I am glutton for punishment, I asked which X-Men I would be. Answer Wolverine. What does this mean! These three are not a combination I can comprehend.

The second happened sometime after this. We were watching the second Sherlock Holmes movie with Robert Downy Jr. I asked once more who would I be in Sherlock Holmes universe. If the previous answers give an indication as to what the answer would be. The answer was Professor James Moriarty! How? Why? Thank you?

So, the lesson in this story is that I should be worried, and I still don't know how I am Moriarty. Also, too many people agree with this.

[sassyteatimeinquiries]

The Would be Tragedy at the Midnight Manor of Dorian Payne

Welcome to the Midnight Manor, varied readers. To the home and sanctuary of the Nameless Lady, where we have a variety of players, each holding their tongue and each not knowing what's to come. A place where time flows strange, and the mysteries are a little more than deranged. Are you already lost in its labyrinthine halls? If not, come stay awhile, and forget the absentee and drink in the mystery. You are now at the epicenter of things hidden, forgotten, and lost. So let the tale unfold in all its calamitous glory, and through the looking glass you go, our varied readers. So watch this tragic riddle from the eyes of the unfortunate and artistic Larkis Andrews as he wanders our winding halls in this thirty-ninth rendition of The Would be Tragedy at the Midnight Manor of Dorian Payne.

Here is the link to the first chapter.

[sassyteatimeinquiries]

Favorite joke. Bad joke. But I laugh every time. But my sense of humor is not good...

Necromancy, because everyone is just dying to join us.

It requires more... Flair than text permits. Pause after necromancy. Over pronounce dying. Then giggle like a loon. Yep. That's it, bye.

[sassyteatimeinquiries]

It all began a really long time ago. As to truly when. Maybe the beginning of the universe. Or the end. Most say the middle. As all things begin in the middle. After all, that is what we say. We begin in the middle. Shattered across stars and scars alike. We, the Hafbridian. We began as nothing more than stardust with a conscience and a will. Humming tunes amongst ourselves, all tales long forgotten. Until we noticed, or maybe it was a beginning, at least for our small piece of the universe. It bursts to life. Stars, galaxies, planets, and the infinite anythingness. A planet, a solar system, began to form around us. And we watched. We watched it grow, form, and change. When we knew all of it, we looked beyond. And we watched. Life began and changed. People. Animals. Plants. Minerals. Cultures. Relationships. A complexity of living and dying. And a sudden desire. A desire to be a part of all of it. A desire that started out small until it grew, and it consumed. First, the flesh forms we took were impermanent, then they weren’t. Starting with Damavara. Last to be born, first to take form. She dragged Eostrol with her. An inseparable pair. As more of us joined her, problems arose, and with each problem, a solution found. Until all had form. Not in a way one would think. Non-corporal, corporal, a phrase we often use. And soon we came into the world, the universe, like any other flesh-like based lifeform, we were born. With time came change. With time came understanding. With time came a people. We were now more. We were Hafbridian. A homeworld with cultures and dialectics a many. But eventually, a problem arose or question from a perceived problem created by outside parties. We lived but we did not die. We lived and lived and lived and continued to live. The years and numbers so vast and long, eating away dimensions and universes a many. Outliving non-Hafbridian loved ones, friends, family, children. All dying of old age, and on we lived. The question began. Do we die? No. Can we die? In a way. Will we die? Eventually depending on the individual. When we have completed everything, done all we can, lived all we can. Then yes, the end of our story has come, and the beginning of a new story is to begin. Maybe this is why I exist today. Beyond generations past the first Hafbridians, born into this world like any of you. All I know of Damavara and Eostrol are stories. And stories they will stay because in the end we are all stories anyway.

A story from and about Kae.