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once-in-a-blood-moon · 1 year

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The Fall of the House of Lamentation

All seven brothers (and reader, but neither romantically or platonically specified)

Summary: Inspired by "The Fall of the House of Usher" by Edgar Allan Poe, the reader reflects how different the brothers and the House of Lamentation are from the present to the past.

AN: Uh, hi! This is a bit obscure, I'm sure, but I liked "The Fall of the House of Usher" and was inspired to write this, but with the House of Lamentation. Literally have two finals projects due tomorrow that I put off while writing this, so...go me!

Warnings: Light spoilers for the beginning of Nightbringer, but nothing specific, it's angsty...so there's that.

After being thrown back into the past, you’ve found the Devildom to not be much different from the present version. Sure, there were some shops that had gone out of business in the present that you can visit now in the past, RAD hasn’t been established yet, and hey, there’s seven new demons who are one year into figuring out the demon life. But right now, they aren’t quite demons - they’re seven fallen angels.

These aren’t the demons you’ve come to know and love throughout several years of your significantly shorter lifespan, these were beings of confusion and hatred of who they’ve become and where they’ve fallen.

One such place - the wonderful and terrible House of Lamentation.

In the present, it’s the den of seven mighty, powerful, and influential demon lords. Upon first glance when you had first arrived in the Devildom, you noticed the haunting vibe the house gave off. A glorious, gothic - perhaps even medieval, mansion. It’s large. The paneling is dark and worn from time and the harsh Devildom elements, and a select few roof tiles seem to be missing. The four towering steeples that reach towards the sky have piercing points that remind you of a front of a church, but there is no gospel to be found in a place such as the Devildom - where many demons practice hedonistic lifestyles without care. And, the many ominous headstones that line the yard give a less than inviting impression.

Several millennia forward, it stands tall like the demons who occupy it. A little worn, but seemingly everlasting. The house emanates every sin that lives within it in a determined stance, in learned harmony…and chaos. It holds and shelters the beings of old sin, true sin. And for every sin, the gothic house stands arrogantly, possessively, resentfully, cholerically; it stands lasciviously, insatiably, and lackadaisically.

The vision to anyone who unknowingly stumbles upon it would be chilled to the bone and filled with a feeling of dread - and possibly a longing to indulge in every sin that permeates their senses from behind the iron wrought gate.

However, in the past, the house looks relatively the same, but the feeling, the aura, is different. No, this past version contradicts what you’ve come to know of it, as a home that was once yours as well.

Standing before it now, the House of Lamentation is consumed by sorrow. An aura of contempt, confusion, and regret fill the everlit windows. The house that once felt welcoming to you in the present, doesn’t even feel welcoming for the brothers who live within it in this unfamiliar timeline.

The first step through the grand front door is a shock, to say the least. Like the exterior, the interior is relatively the same. But now the feelings of chaos and hurt seem to suffocate your very being. There is no love or life in a house like this, there’s only hate and decay of lives that once seemed perfect. The air is thick with hidden truths and spoken lies. Truths about the memories and emotions that reflect the brothers’ involvement in the Great Celestial war, the defeat in their cause, and the fall from their home kept locked in their hearts and minds, only for the four walls in their respective rooms to watch tumble out of them in the form of hot tears or muffled curses into feather stuffed pillows. Lies spoken between the seven in a frantic dance to not show weakness or insecurity of who they are now.

Who are they now?

Seven angels with eyes and bodies tainted with the muck of sin? Or seven demons who still reach for a paradise lost?

It’s here that whispers can be heard if you were a fly on the wall –

Where Lucifer sighs behind his desk with his head in his hands, mussing up his graying hair, his elbows becoming sore from the long duration upon the sturdy oak, “my pride hurt my brothers…”

Where Mammon sits on his bed as he stares at the floor, biting his lip until the taste of blood mixes with his saliva, his arms resting lazily in his lap as he attempts to reason with himself, “we chose to follow Lucifer here. We all had reasons for doin’ what we did.”

Where Leviathan lays in his bathtub, the tail he despises curling around him for comfort as he sobs, “I never wanted to come to this awful place to begin with!”

Where Satan seethes in his room, pacing as irritation builds beneath his chest, “I can barely stand being around them…it’s torture.”

Where Asmodeus stares at the reflection in the mirror with mascara running down his cheeks, gently touching the rough texture of his demonic horns, “I want to return back to the Celestial realm…! I want to be an angel again!”

Where Beelzebub lays on his back in his bed on his side of the twins’ room, glancing over to Belphie’s dark sheets with a sigh of frustration as he tries to suppress the stomach growls like that of a grizzly bear, “I have a big secret that I’ve never been able to tell…not even Belphie.”

Where Belphegor lays like his twin on the floor of the planetarium with his arms behind his head for support as he gazes at the Devildom stars in contemplation, “who deserves to be punished the most?”

The Great Celestial war has been fought and long concluded, but not short of a year, seven different wars have been waged behind closed doors - behind closed eyes. The angels who have fallen from grace, are falling even harder as demons…within the House of Lamentation.

#obey me #obey me angst #obey me shall we date #obey me nightbringer #obey me nightbringer spoilers #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me asmo #obey me beelzebub #obey me beel #obey me belphegor #obey me belphie #obey me fanfic #jo writes

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broiderie · 8 months

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Lost Princessa: Meet the Reaper 24

It's a short one. Like... I don't think I've ever posted a chapter this short. However, I'm just getting back in the saddle so you'll have to forgive me. I do have plenty more written. We're not done with Megan and Hank. It's about to get interesting.

Please don't copy my shit. This is the only place it's published. Don't translate it. Don't steal it. Don't copy it. I'm just getting it back. Don't piss me off now.

Warnings: Fluff. I don't even think I cuss in this part. It's just a bit of filler.

A short while later, Taza chuckled as he realized that it would be a tight fit for all of them in the Bronco. It was an older model and could only comfortably fit five. There were seven of them.

Bishop sighed looking at the vehicle as he came to the same conclusion. “Shit.” He finished his cigarette in frustration.

Chibs laughed. “Well… tha’ lass is tiny, but tha’ rest of us ain’t.”

Angel shrugged. “I’ll sit in the back with the pooch. Put Shorty on someone’s lap though. With a seatbelt.”

Marcus nodded. “It’s fine Primo. It’s not a long ride.”

They piled in with Bishop driving and Marcus in the front. Taza took the middle seat in the back with Chibs and Hank against the doors. Megan sat in Hank’s lap and snuggled down so Taza could fasten the seat belt for them with a giggle.

“Comfy, Chica?” he asked with a chuckle.

“Mmmhmm.” She tucked her feet in between Taza and Hank’s legs and her head under Hank’s chin. Hank just grinned and pressed a kiss to her hair since Bishop had put her hat on the dash for her.

A short ride later, Bishop parked the truck on a side street near the center of the city of Santa Madre. “We’ll walk from here. Where are we meeting them in the market?” he asked Angel.

Angel checked the burner phone from his kutte pocket. “They’ll meet us near the church. We’re a little early though.”

“That’s alright. We can take Poquito shopping…” Marcus said grinning as Megan stuck her tongue out at him.

They wandered to the open square where an open air market was held continually. At the far end of the square a beautiful church stood. Megan could see the steeple from where they were. As they entered the square, the buildings blocked the warm sun causing the temperature to drop several degrees. Megan cuddled close to Hank’s side as he automatically wrapped an arm around her back to warm her. Megan hooked Rex’s leash to her belt loop to free up her hand and took a deep breath as they entered the crowd.

They browsed several stalls. Megan enjoyed looking through the different vendors. She grinned as she found small hand carved figures at one of them. A horse made of light wood caught her eye and she couldn’t help but show it to Taza. “Papa, look. It’s Rocket.”

Taza grinned at the flagged tail and flowing mane on the figure which looked to be in full gallop. “It does look like him.” He waved down the vendor and in quick Spanish bought the little horse. “There, Chica. Now you can take Rocket home with us.”

Hank chuckled as Megan tucked the little figure into her hoody pocket. She looked up at him with a smile. “What?”

“Nothing, mi reina. Just enjoying the market.” Hank pressed a kiss to the top of her hat and guided her to the next stall.

Bishop laughed and sidled up beside Taza to ask under his breath “So does she realize how much that thing cost?”

Taza shushed him. “Don’t even say it. She doesn’t know conversion rates and I’m enjoying it for a bit.”

Marcus laughed aloud at that. “If Poquito enjoys it - who cares?” He pointed to a stall further down the row. “Think she’d like another cowboy hat?”

Eventually all the men carried bags of things that they’d managed to point out to Megan. Even Chibs had a bag with a pin in the shape of a Celtic knot for her kutte and another to fasten shawls or rebozos with.

Megan was staying close to Hank in the crowd and kept Rex’s leash short. She couldn’t help but notice - their group seemed to be drawing a lot of attention. That wasn’t exactly the best thing for a covert meeting with what actually qualified as international terrorists. Four men and a woman that she didn’t recognize kept popping up at stalls nearby. Something about them just bugged her.

Angel’s pocket beeped as Hank was buying Megan a bag of candy. “They’re here and ready to meet,” he said quietly to Marcus and Bishop.

Bishop nodded. “We’ll head that way then.” He flagged Hank down as the big Mayan handed over the cash for Megan’s treat.

As a group, they all headed for the church. Megan noticed that the woman had moved to the balcony of a nearby house and the men kept getting closer as they started for the church. She didn’t like it. Adelita and another man waited on a side street as they got close.

“Luisa!” Megan said, smiling. “Imagine seeing you here. Papa and the tíos wanted to show me the market!” She stepped closer as if she and Adelita were just friends who happened to meet in town. “We had visitors from our overseas friends so they came along for the ride.”

Adelita paused, but then went along with Megan’s act. “Ah… Hola Megan. The market is always a great place to bring visitors.”

Hank glanced around to see several men who were paying too much attention to their meeting. He nodded at Taza to draw his attention to them as well. Somehow - despite not having the training - Megan had picked up that they had a tail before any of the men. Instead of drawing undue attention to it, she’d taken matters into her own hands. She smiled and popped up on tiptoe to kiss Hank’s cheek and whispered “They’ve been there this whole time, but close for about fifteen minutes.” He smiled a bit and nodded.

“Papa,” Megan smiled at him. “Can Luisa show me that carving we were talking about? The one in the church? It won’t take long…”

“Of course, Chica. Your tíos and I can wait. We’ll head home when you’re done-” Taza said as he subtly moved to put himself between Megan and the tails.

Angel looked confused, but kept his mouth shut, and the others trusted that Megan had a reason for suddenly acting like she and Adelita were childhood friends.

She handed Hank Rex’s leash reluctantly, but moved to link her good arm through Adelita’s and move towards the door of the church chattering away. To anyone nearby it looked like two friends wandering off for a moment. Adelita played along.

Megan leaned close. “Are they L.O.?” she asked quietly, keeping a smile plastered on her face.

Luisa shook her head. “No. Not mine. We thought they were yours.” She made a show of smiling as they walked up the church steps.

“Just the seven of us. Did you recognize any of them? Maybe as Galindo’s?” Megan asked. They paused for Luisa to cross herself like a good Catholic girl as they entered the sanctuary.

“Not any that I have seen.”

Megan nodded and followed Luisa to an alcove off the sanctuary where they could see everyone coming or going. “Then we have to assume…”

“That they’re unfriendly,” Luisa agreed.

Megan nodded. “So - neither group knows who they really are. Do you want to continue with the meet, or should we try again later?”

“We should wait for the official meeting,” Luisa said quietly.

Megan nodded. “Agreed. We do, however, have our Irish connection in town. Is there any information that I can give him to help settle their minds? Even the name of the port they’d be shipping to?”

Luisa turned to face Megan and watched her face for a moment, then she nodded. “Ensenada is the port. We’ll work the rest out when we can. Your liaison - do you trust him?”

Megan snorted a bit. “Angel? For the most part. As long as he’s not too pissed off and not making any life changing decisions that affect me…”

Adelita nodded. “Good. I’ll set a meet with him to pass on more information.” She smiled. “You tend to draw attention with your escorts.”

That made Megan smile. “We are a bit conspicuous. We’ll send Angel to the meets for now with our prospect - his brother. EZ has a cooler head for strategy and a trained memory.”

“Good.” Adelita smiled. “We should get back. Only so much excuse we can use. When we part as friends, my man and I will lose any tail. We’ll contact you within twenty-four hours.”

Megan nodded. “Agreed.”

Adelita squeezed Megan’s good hand gently. “Be careful. Don’t push yourself too much.”

“You be careful too.”

The two women strolled out, just as they’d strolled in to the church and made a show of parting outside like best friends.

Megan struggled to keep up the act a bit once they were back with the men. She took a minute to fuss with Rex’s ears to compose herself. Cloak and dagger didn’t come easily to her.

“You good, Princessa?” Angel asked.

Megan smiled her Southern Belle smile. “All good, Angel. Just getting tired.”

“Well Poquito - let’s get you home then,” Bishop said. “You’ve had a long day.”

Once they were all piled back into the Bronco, Megan breathed a sigh of relief.

“Alrigh’ now. Wha’ the fuck jus’ ‘appened?” Chibs asked.

Hank rubbed a hand down Megan’s spine and relieved the weight of her sling a bit. “Megan clocked that we were being followed to the meet point.”

Chibs’ eyebrows nearly hit his silver hairline. “How many?”

“At least four…” Bishop said. “After Megan started acting off, I caught sight of them.”

“Five,” Megan corrected. “There was a woman on the balcony of the square…”

“Who the hell…” Angel asked.

“Adelita didn’t know. She thought they might be ours.”

“Poquito, that cool head of yours just saved our asses. Again,” Bishop said, watching his mirrors for a tail. “Acting like you were just meeting Adelita for a chat… perfect.”

Taza and Marcus nodded.

“Well, luckily, Adelita believed me that they weren’t ours. We pushed the meeting. She’s going to contact the burner within twenty-four hours for another meet.” Megan turned to look at Angel over the seat where he sat in the bed of the Bronco with Rex. “Angel - you’ll go meet ehr with EZ and be our go between for now.”

Marcus sighed. “Probably best. We have too many eyes on us.”

Chibs ran his ringed fingers through his silver hair. “Did she give you anything I can take back to the Kings? Anythin’ at all?”

“I got the port name. The L.O. control Ensenada port. That’s where the shipments will go. It’s all she’d give me under the circumstances.” Megan leaned her head onto Hank’s shoulder tiredly.

Chibs smiled gently at her over Taza. “Good Lass. That will help.” He reached over and patted her knee. “You look exhausted.”

Taza frowned. “Are you hurting, Chica? You haven’t had any pain relief since this morning.”

Hank immediately dug in his pocket for her pill bottle. “He’s right, Princessa. You shouldn’t let the pain get ahead of you.”

Megan smiled tiredly. “I’m okay. Just the adrenaline.”

“And tension,” El Padrino said. “Take your pain meds, Poquito. We’ll be home soon.”

tags:

@jemmakates

@msjava1972

@drabbles-mc

@delightfulheroshoeflap

@xeniarocks

@iamthegraham

@oureternalbond

@lyly00

@camelia35

@anaeve

@tallrock35

#lost princessa #meet the reaper #lost princessa sequel #taza x daughter!oc #mayans mc #che taza romero #hank loza #megan(oc) x hank #marcus alvarez #angel reyes #chibs telford #mayans mc fanfic #mayans mc fanfiction #mayans

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redneaththedogwood · 7 months

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Groups

Hello! In this post I'll be doing my best to expand upon and explain the three major groups within Red 'Neath the Dogwood. Things like religious leanings, politics, and naming conventions will be discussed! Again, these are all early in development so things are subject to change.

Also important to note: the territory is made up of a central body of water large enough to house three different small towns around it. It is majorly deciduous and mountainous.

I hope you enjoy! :)

Steeple's Point Church

The Church is made up of a group of cats with a fairly rigid structure- their leader is the reverend, and their names are medieval in nature. They follow a monarchy, where the reverend's eldest child is appointed next in line with an advisory figure who can take over in case something happens. However- power struggles have happened in the past, and the current reverend, Hildegod, is the second generation of a completely new reverend bloodline.

They are also monotheistic and have a single godly figure with nine saints who can provide protection to those assigned to their guards. The saints are D'arce, Cyril, Ashwy, Nantelm, Grimald, Eloy, Osgyth, Rosceline, and Ursilda. Their god's has not been decided yet! I would gladly take suggestions when I get around to designing them.

Steeple's Point Church cats are granted names when they complete training, but before that their childhood names are denoted by birth order and litter number, and their apprenticeship names are taken from their mentors. An apprentice will likely be called "Paw of [Mentor]", and a more literal translation from Filssnya could be "Extension of [Mentor]" or "[Mentor]'s Paw". When they complete training they are sent with the reverend, apostle, and doctor to the territory's flowering dogwood tree, where they enter a medically induced sleep and visit with their god. They must complete several trials to determine which of the saints will look after them, and at the end of those trials they speak to their god directly- who strikes them with their new holy name. With that, they wake up and can inform the cats with them what they've been called and head back home to celebrate.

It is very rare for a cat not to receive a godly name, but it has happened in the past. Very very long ago, far back enough that no one currently alive remembers firsthand. However, recently there's been a cat who hasn't received a name- Hildegod's child. Many are skeptical of this fact, and even more so are shocked when she claims their god told her she should choose her own name. A cat choosing their own name in the Church is completely unheard of- even among the history of the nameless.

Now, to talk about their name parts! This will be shorter.

Church names, as adults, are made up of a singular holy name, medieval in origin, and a saintly name- one that is only really uttered to wish good fortune. An example would be Hildegod D'arce, who's saintly name is only ever said during times of trouble. It's more meant to draw the attention of the saint to protect that cat more thoroughly.

The Union of Feline Colliers

Union cats are an...apprehensive bunch. They do not follow a single god, nor do they have a pantheon of gods, instead they believe in ghosts and spirits rather than godly forces being the reason the world is the way it is. They reside in a lost mining town, both above ground and in the mines beneath it- where they excavate what they can to use in trading and bartering.

Union cats also believe in reincarnation. When a cat is no longer remembered by the living, their soul transfers into the natural world, and can be recycled back into the Union. Anything could have potentially been a relative or ancestor, so Union cats are careful in not taking more than they need. They also tend to be wary of nighttime, believing that the bridge from the spiritual to the living is only a few pawsteps long during those hours.

Names in the Union are untranslated Filssnya, the unifying language of the three groups, and can potentially be anything. They also have translated nicknames, often simple physical characteristics, as they do not give out their personal names to strangers- in case that stranger is a spirit looking to whisk them away. An example would be Ssifza "Long Claw" Hyyia*. Their names are made up of a first name given by their parents at birth and a second that is an attribute wished upon the child. Their names are subject to change with age, and oftentimes that attribute will change to a trait they possess as an adult. It is very rare for a childhood attribute name to be the same when they reach adulthood. Nicknames are also subject to change, particularly if the cat has a new defining physical trait!

*note: Filssnya words are always written in italics!

Their political structure is very democratic in nature, where all cats who are old enough vote on who they wish to be their foreman, the term used for leaders. Potential foremen can run campaigns within the Union but will often be cats who are notable for skills in hunting, battle, social situations, and trading between groups.

Every cat in the Union knows basic first aid, but they have a more knowledgeable medic who can be called upon to help with more serious cases. It is also required for all members of the Union to be able to identify the types of plants and animals found in their mine shaft, in case of danger.

Lastly, Union cats are the only group with more than only a handful of terms for ghosts and apparitions, and they take documenting and passing that knowledge on to the next generation very seriously. While I do not personally like using the term "superstitious", it's the best word that can really describe the Union.

The HarborKin

Finally we have the HarborKin! The HarborKin is a group of very proud cats who revere the water and the lake they live on and around, believing that water is essential to life and is at the root of everything. They have a pantheon of several gods, being polytheistic, and believe that anyone can achieve godhood is they can do a great enough feat.

The HarborKin has a council of cats, made up of their most important figures and an appointed head who communicates with the other groups and makes announcements. The council is made up of their head of hunting, head of child rearing, head of crafting and trading, doctor, and finally their religious guide- the sibyl. Of these cats the head spokesperson is chosen, and can rotate.

HarborKin cats, like I've mentioned, are very proud and have names to reflect that. There are two parts with a potential third part, the first part being made up of a prefix given at birth by the parents and then a suffix given by the council when they graduate apprenticehood. The potential second part is an honor title or legendary name, wherein the cat who receives it has done something of great note. They are sent to the sibyl and are guided to speak to the gods, who grant them the name themselves- it is often a prefix and suffix style name. Finally, the third name is a familial name. Sons will take the given birth name of their father and daughters will take the given birth name of their mother, followed by a denotation of their relation to that parent. And example of a full HarborKin name would be RedBurr PikeRend KingfishersSon.

HarborKin cats are more likely to tell epics or legends rather than ghost tales or creation myths, and take their status as a HarborKin very seriously. Cats outside of the HarborKin refer to them by their full names to their faces (but will shorten the name in private) and cats within the HarborKin drop the familial name. Nicknames are reserved for close family, childhood friends, or mates. It is seen as a direct challenge to refer to a HarborKin by anything but their full name.

#Red 'Neath the Dogwood #World building #R'NtD #Group Information #The HarborKin #Steeple's Point Church #The Union of Feline Colliers #I have so much work to do on this skfhjksf but! second post of the blog yippee!!!#also the names are colored so they're easy to find #all of these will be real characters btw!#original xenofiction #xenofiction

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miirshroom · 7 months

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Mushroom Vision

I am going to attempt explaining how there is an entire vast segment of environmental storytelling in Elden Ring that is going unremarked upon. It isn't just about mushrooms. But that's where I first took notice, so that's where I will start in this post.

The above is the view from a mushroom on the entry ramp to Raya Lucaria, just above where the merchant is sitting. This was maybe my 3rd or 4th random stop back when I decided to appreciate the scenery from the point of view of the mushroom (for fun!). It is an example of perfect framing for elements in the far distance:

The North Liurnia Minor Erdtree

The Church of Vows

The Erdtree

But really, it's "perfect" framing of only the Erdtrees - the Church of Vows is blocked from view and hidden by a stone pillar with a quatrefoil symbol on it. This is a noticeable trend at many mushroom spots - it would be a great view...except there is a nearby tree or a piece of stone exactly in front of one element in the far distance. The perspectives seen from these mushrooms are missing the full picture. Rotating to the left on top of the same mushroom, there is also a perfectly clear view of the Bellum Gate in front of Mt. Gelmir.

Setting the scene a bit more, the ramp is heavily forested, populated by 4 packs of wolves (numbering 3, 3, 3, and 5 including the white wolf in the group lowest down the ramp), then the Isolated Merchant, a Trina's Lily, a corpse with 2 strips of white flesh, and right inside the impassible gate is a Bloodhound Knight guarding a corpse holding Celestial Dew. The sealed entry to the ramp is looking directly towards the Cathedral of Manus Celes.

Also, there is a second mushroom on the bridge which has a view of the Church of Vows restored, but instead this one is blocked from viewing Mt. Gelmir. The Church of Vows is directly aligned with Morgott/Mohg's Divine Tower. This mushroom is between the 2nd and 3rd wolf pack.

Paying attention to the mushrooms also calls attention to something else interesting. There are 4 stone viewing spots built into the ramp face - the two middle ones occurring at those two mushroom spots, one at the top of the ramp just before the 1st wolf pack, and one at the bottom of the ramp between the merchant and the bloodhound knight.

The lowest of these viewing points has a clear view at the Erdtree (nearest to the gate). Also from this vantage point the Liurnia North Minor Erdtree is in alignment with the withered Minor Erdtree in the Altus Plateau:

The highest viewing point near the top of the ramp has views of Mt. Gelmir, Bellum highway Gate, and the Wandering Mausoleums:

In the photos of the first mushroom (lower ramp) I placed more emphasis on the Erdtrees, as this is the view obtained by looking directly at the minor Erdtree. See below as rotated to face the pillar directly, which corrects for peripheral vision picking up certain distant objects that do not actually have direct sightline to the mushroom.

And like at the upper ramp mushroom, the transparency of the Erdtree is accounted for in what is visible from this vantage point. From the corrected viewpoint Rykard's Divine Tower is also completely obscured by the pillar and Morgott/Mohg's Divine Tower is not only behind the Erdtree, but also behind a conveniently placed rock spear. Rotating to the right, a clear view of Liurnia Divine Tower and just the top of the Isolated Divine Tower. Caelid Divine Tower is obscured by the Carian Study Hall, and Limgrave Divine Tower is exactly behind the steeple of a pillar.

So what does it matter exactly, that landmarks are blocked from certain locations? Good question! I am trying to understand this! It seems to me quite obvious from the framing of this one small corner of the map that care is being taken to craft these vistas in a certain way. Perhaps travelling up the ramp is telling a story in sequence. Perhaps there is one story told from the balcony spots while a second lens is placed on the story from the mushroom spots.

Overall, what I see are pieces of an environmental puzzle deliberately crafted at hundreds of locations. Just from mushrooms alone. But there is no reason to stop at mushrooms - I know that some people are already taking interest in the locations of Trina's Lilies and Miquella's Lilies, but has any attempt been made to really consider what is visible (or not visible) from their locations? The things that NPC's can see from their vantage points, the directions that corpses are looking and the items they hold, the view of the divine towers from rebirth monuments (previously discussed in a different post) all seem to be carefully planned. Rowa bushes are very frequently found in pairs, and at almost every location I've checked so far across Limgrave there will be something clearly visible from one bush that is just barely out of sight from the other.

For anyone wondering whether Elden Ring actually innovated on anything compared to Dark Souls? It's this. Literally - it's the depth of environmental storytelling.

#elden ring #environmental storytelling #mushroom vision #wandering around looking at stuff is more fun than making posts #but sometimes the findings need to be documented #this is basically the same skillset that I use for taking photos documenting site conditions for work lol

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kevin--of-desert-bluffs · 8 months

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WTNV quick rundown - It Devours! - Joyous Congregation&members

Click here for the plot points! Click here for facts about Nilanjana! Click here for facts about Darryl! Click here for facts about Night Vale and it's citizens (including Cecil and Carlos) in It Devours! Click here for stuff about the other scientists! Click here for misc interesting facts I found!

Stephanie is a young woman who befriended Darryl when they were both children. She is studying for a degree in theology and wants to become a Church Elder (which she does in the end). She is good at volleyball and enjoys the academic side of her religion. She and Darryl end up dating.

Jamillah is a young woman who never lets go of her power drill and understands a lot about machines despite not being too interested in science. She does the illustrations for the churchs pamphlets.

Martin McCaffry is a church member who used to work for the TSA out at the NV airport. He was unhappy with his job and continuously made drawings of an elongated dark figure with no memory of making them. He tried setting traps, making sacrifices and even using a future predicting machine to try and catch it. Eventually, he met a church member called May who turned him onto the religion and a new (worse paying) job overseeing the summer camp counsellers. This doesn't help him either. He eventually becomes consumed with drawing the figure and spends all his time making them, but has never been happier.

The church urges all of it's members to present a happy face to the world with the intention of spreading joy but outside presentation is valued higher than actual feelings.

A religious gesture in the JC is to make a 'circling motion with an upright fist'. If returned, the participants than make eye contact and hum a single low note for ten seconds.

They believe the Smiling God has always been here even before the Big Bang. It lives beneath the earth but used to live with people except people 'weren't ready' and so it had to go away. The DOW is heaven.

The Smiling God uses exclusively it/it's pronouns and has a wide smile with a vast field of teeth.

Blood-letting is part of worshipping a Smiling God.

It is believed to devour your sins, unwanted desires, regrets and worst memories, things you wish you did and didn't and vice versa.

The Central Church of the JC in NV used to practice out of storefronts in half-empty strip malls but earlier 'this year' a proper church was constructed a few miles off of route 800. It's tall silver steeple is visible from the highway and it looks like a mix of a church and an office building. It has huge old looking doors with ringed knockers in the shape of centipedes. The real door to enter is a more office-building looking one around the side.

The JC believe in the '11 stages of human education' which are: birth, earthly nourishment, divine nourishment, friendship, love, awareness, family, enlightment, community and the Devouring. Depictions of these in the church often include foxes, for reasons not fully understood but a possible theory is just that Kevin (their prophet, who apparently brought them the Book of Devouring from 'heaven'/the DOW and would preach on his show) just really liked foxes.

There are classrooms in the church, full of toys like dolls and candles and cars with human faces painted on them. There's also books like 'Felicia finds an obelisk' and 'Smiley the centipede accidentally swallows the Earth'. There is a board with the question 'What is Divine Pain?' on it. The teacher is called Ms French (or was when Darryl was young).

The congregation religious outfits consist of long shapeless yellow robes and big square hats with mesh that covers the face.

Once a year the church holds a 'Youth Culling' where children can choose to become full members.

Before services, church members fast so their hunger will remind them of the Smiling God's hunger.

The Congregation has missionaries in Venezuela, Mexico and Double Mexico. Darryl teaches them Double Spanish.

Gordon hates and fears books.

The Book of Devouring is bound in centipede skin and has a pattern made of nails with wire strung between them on the cover, which makes the interlocking triangles of the centipedes hunting pattern. It is written on the yellow pages of a legal pad and contains diary-like entries of observations and many drawings of the triangular movement patterns. The invocation to summon a Smiling God involves wearing fox masks, jumping up and down and having a tray of milk and teeth.

#wtnv #welcome to night vale #wtnv quick rundown #wtnv it devours! rundown

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sunshine-gumdrop · 8 months

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Whispers of the Forgotten World

Disclaimer: I disregard the events in the far cry 5 ending.

In the hush of dawn, where the remnants of the old world whispered secrets to the new, Jacob Seed and the silent Judge, known as Deputy beneath her wooden mask, wandered through the remnants of Hope County. The land was a patchwork of what was and what might be, a testament to nature's indifferent claim over the follies of mankind.

The morning mist clung to the ground as they traversed the fields, the dew mirroring the world in each droplet. Jacob's boots crushed the grass beneath, a steady rhythm in the quiet. Beside him, the Judge moved with a ghost's grace, her presence an echo of the past they both shared but never spoke of.

They reached the remains of an old church, its steeple a skeleton against the sky. Here, they paused, the air heavy with unvoiced memories. The judge's hand brushed against the weathered wood, her touch a benediction for the lost.

***********************************************

At noon, they found shelter beneath the skeletal remains of an old oak, its branches a testament to resilience. Jacob unpacked a meager meal while the judge surveyed the perimeter, her bow at the ready. They ate in silence, an understanding passed between them in glances and the soft clink of their scavenged cans.

When a rustle in the underbrush caught their attention, the judge's mask turned to Jacob. Her eyes, the only part of her face he'd ever seen, were calm. It was a deer, moving on as they would.

***********************************************

As the sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the land, the judge's fingers danced in the fading light. Jacob watched, a student of her silent language. She pointed to the sky, where the first stars dared to shine, and then to the ground, where the shadow of the world lay.

"We're like that, aren't we?" Jacob mused. "Part of the dark, part of the light. Walking in between."

Judge's gloved hand reached out, touching his arm, her gesture a wordless agreement.

***********************************************

By the campfire's glow, Jacob spoke of his fears and hopes, a confession to the silent sentinel beside him. The judge's mask watched, impassive, but her hand found a stick, and she drew in the earth—a circle, a cross, a question.

Jacob nodded, understanding her inquiry. "Yes," he said, "I think tomorrow is worth the fight."

***********************************************

In the gray light of predawn, they stood side by side, the Judge and the Seed, guardians of a new day. The judge's mask faced the east, awaiting the sun. Jacob's eyes were on the path ahead, clear for the first time in years.

They stepped forward together, leaving footprints in the dewy earth—a silent pact to carry the memories of the fallen world into the promise of the new. In the chorus of the waking birds, in the rustle of the leaves, their story continued—a tale of redemption found not in words, but in the shared silence of two souls bound by the hope of what comes after the end.

#far cry 5 #jacob seed #fc5 #far cry #far cry new dawn #fcnd #the judge #judge deputy #my oc #ellie #jacob seed x oc #jacob seed x reader #jacob seed x the judge #alternate universe #if jacob was alive instead of joseph

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chiropteracupola · 11 months

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I really need to know more about your TI selkie AU!

oh I have not worked on this one for A While... I'm still very invested in selkie!Trelawney, but I think I need to maybe do a full rewrite of this one, since I've been thinking that the detective-y tone that I've got going at this point is really not working out. I think a round of relistening to some good selkie ballads is in order, perhaps...

“Trelawneys have been born and buried here this hundred years and more, doctor. And fine upright land-settled folk they’ve been all the while, save the last two.” The wind blew cold through the churchyard, and Livesey stifled a shiver. He drew the collar of his cloak closer about his throat, attempting to keep the warmth inside. “Whatever do you mean by that?” “Why, they’ve done as gentlemen are wont to do, of course, take stock of the farms and the forests and mind their workings, send their sons to war and daughters to marriage, have the vicar to supper of a Sunday. Now, the old squire, he went a-traveling instead, you see, and all the fisherfolk knew what would come of it when he returned with that fair pretty bride of his.” “Well, what did come of it? I cannot figure what you are at, man.” The sexton nodded, and gathered up his tools. “Ah, you’re a landsman and a soldier, and you’ve been to the city schools, have you not? I shouldn’t have thought the old stories had kept around for such as yourself. I’ll say it plainer then. Say your young man here, one who’s got a fire in his heart and luck on his side, sets out for sea with no destination in particular, and returns married already to a lady from nowhere at all. James Trelawney never married her in any church, not this one or any other, and never did we hear of whence she came nor who her people were, save that they met at sea. Now add to that her oddnesses, that she could tell when a storm was coming days before anyone else, that she had teeth sharp like a cat’s, that she spent all her time down at the shore chattering away to the seals like she was one of their own… if you’d been born by the sea, doctor, as I was, you’d know right well that the old squire married no mortal woman when he brought back his bride to Black Cove.” “That can’t be—“ “And the son, what do you make of him now, knowing that? You’re near enough to him to see. He’s got sharp teeth and selkiepaws, same as his mother had.” “Trelawney doesn’t—“ “Oh, but he does, doctor. A bit more webbing between his fingers than he ought? A little more of a fang to his smile than most men do? And I lay he’s got a bit of a flirtation for you, keeping to the shore as he has since you came to town.” Livesey’s hands clenched into fists before he realized he had moved them at all, fingernails digging into the thin leather of his gloves. In the few minutes he’d been talking in the churchyard, the sun had dipped below the horizon and left the gravestones and the steeple silhouetted in blue half-shadow. “Good— good evening, sir.” He managed to spit out the words with some semblance of politeness, but even so, the sexton merely chuckled. “And may it be a good evening, doctor. Consider what I’ve said, for I’ve told you not one falsehood.” Livesey moved to speak, but the sexton turned away, slinging his bag of tools over his shoulder, and walked off towards the church, vanishing quickly into the shadows. For a long moment, Livesey watched him go, the wind blowing chill through his coat.

#em writes stuff #treasure island blogging #this fic is a bit of a love letter to sigurd towrie's orkneyjar website (which was very influential to the young emmothy)#unfortunately at the present time the website is Somewhat Borkened... oh hey wait it works fine on wayback machine!#awright this fic is back in business then. or it is as soon as I have time for Really Really Writing :|

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victorian-vampir · 9 months

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I fucking hate the "Victor abandoned his monster" take.

That man stood in the front garden for literal hours before going for a crisis walk in the rain to a near by train station before returning to his apartment again. He was actually away from the house for, a max an hour or two. He didn't abandon shit.

"Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had

created, I rushed out of the room, and continued a long time

traversing my bed-chamber"

The man went like, a room away.

" I took refuge in the

court-yard belonging to the house which I inhabited; where I

remained during the rest of the night-"

"Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned, and discovered

to my sleepless and aching eyes the church of Ingolstadt,

its white steeple and clock, which indicated the sixth

hour. The porter opened the gates of the court, which had

that night been my asylum, and I issued into the streets, pacing

them with quick steps"

The man left his house at 6 am. Mind you he doesn't mention the time when he comes back to the house and goes back inside, but it's just about breakfast time as the servent brings him and Henry breakfast once they get back, he was gone for likely an hour or two max. He didn't just leave the monster on a road somewhere, the creature left victors home of his own fucking will.

Also the creature is very intelligent. He speaks to Victor. Victor just doesn't really hear what he says because he just woke up from a nightmare to this (admittedly grotesque) creature looming over him. And yes. The creature looks gross. Victor used all of the best pieces he could find but the creature still looks gross, he's peak uncanny valley, he's a fucking Mandela catalog alternate pretending to be a hot guy.

"but the creature didn't know how to read and write!" Yeah. This was the 1700s. While most adults knew how to read to varying degrees not all of them knew how to write. That doesn't mean the creature wasn't intelligent... You guys know not knowing how to read doesn't mean he was entirely incapable right? Him struggling with some forms of communication doesn't mean his brain was empty. He was an adult. The creature had the mind of an adult. We wasn't a helpless child.

The creature is an incredibly sympathetic character, I can't disagree with that, I can however point at Victor Frankenstein and say he's just as sympathetic, his biggest wrong doing was making the creature. He doesn't hurt anyone directly, his only sin is not searching for the creature during the first 2 years its missing, most of which Victor is in and out of paranoid, anxeity induced episodes where he can't even get out of bed. You can't even really blame Victor for the creature being so scary to look at, obviously before he was brought to life Victor thought he looked fine, Victor actively did his best to find the best, most attractive pieces of bodies he could, it's not really his fault it turned out wrong.

Victors only mistake is playing with life or death, the creature is a serial killer. I'm team victor.

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averagejoesolomon · 10 months

Text

It's heeeeere! This one surprised even me, so I hope you're ready! I'm so stoked to share 1986 with you all. If you're new here, you can read Full Circle from the beginning on Ao3. Enjoy!

Chapter Three

In the white-steepled churches of Nebraska, Hell is said to be fire, and brimstone, and torture. Nine layers of labyrinthine stone cast in a heat so demonic that even a soul can feel it. There are stories devoted to its wrath. Songs written about its misfortune. Matt’s childhood church, situated on the far edge of Hay Springs, has an entire window dedicated to the fall of Lucifer, wings burning as the angel descends from clean, uniform strands of blue to the chaotic, shattered shards of red. He always wondered what would happen if he reached out and touched the glass—if he would feel the fire in his fingertips. He’s never had the guts to try.

And anyway, Matt knows better now. Hell isn’t hot embers and smoldering chains. Hell is a two-cushion loveseat in a Russian safe house.

He blinks awake for the sixth time in five hours, his right foot on the verge of total numbness. Last time, it was his left hand and the time before that it was his entire right shoulder. It seems every part of his body is keen to fall deeply asleep before he gets the chance. In a halfhearted attempt to soothe the prickling static, he throws his leg over the arm of the loveseat and sinks back into his drowsiness.

When his entire calf begins to buzz in response, Matt reckons this is some sort of karmic payback—for what, he doesn’t know, though he’s surely tallied up some serious ill will over the past few years—and he finally surrenders. With a sigh, he rolls to his feet and convinces himself that five hours of sleep is enough to run an op on.

This is Moscow, after all, and mornings always come early in Moscow.

It helps when the crisp, smoky scent of bacon wafts through the room. Matt latches onto it like a hound on a rabbit, shaking feeling back into his foot as he lumbers through the predawn darkness. With as little noise as he can muster, he cracks open the door and slips into the low, golden light of the living room, careful not to cross into any of the shadows Rachel still sleeps through.

“Morning, mate,” someone greets him. “You must be Matthew.”

Across the room, where carpet gives way to linoleum, a broad-shouldered brick of a man stands at the stove top. The glow of the range light outlines the stockiness of his silhouette as he scrapes a spatula against cast iron, dueling with the pops and sizzles of bacon fat. “Uh, yeah. Matt’s fine,” Matt mutters, softly shutting the door at his back. “You must be… the husband?”

At this, the man breaks out into a broad grin, as though the wind is at his back from here on out. It’s beyond endearing. “That I am, Matt,” he says. “Although most people call me Abe.”

Matt’s next words get caught up in a yawn. “Mighty nice to meet you, Abe,” he drawls, twisting sleep from his eye. “Don’t suppose you’ve got any coffee over there?”

“Tea?”

“Mm.”

Abe’s laugh, much like the rest of him, is a small but mighty sort of ordeal that’s perfectly suited to the ease of slow mornings. “Understood,” he says. “I did spot some grounds in one of these cabinets—ah, yes, the one with the map of the Moskva shoreline taped to it. How about I heat up another kettle and let you handle the rest?”

“Sounds awfully fair to me,” Matt agrees. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.” Without breaking focus, Abe points the spatula toward the living room’s sole chair, just at Matt’s side. “Your bag, by the way. You’ll be happy to know it’s bug free.”

Sure enough, Matt’s backpack rests beside a lonely throw pillow. It looks pristine and untouched, but Matt knows better. Abe has been through every zipper, every pocket, every shirt, every sock, and every last bristle on Matt’s toothbrush. Probably for the best. A fella can never be too careful in Moscow.

“Thanks,” Matt says, grabbing the bag by its top and unzipping the main compartment. This early into an op, all of his clothes are still neatly folded and grouped by type, so it’s easy enough to rummage below his sole sweatshirt and slip into the concealed pocket sewn into the lining. The resulting device is no bigger than his palm, save the long rubberized antenna sticking from the top. He runs his thumbs against each ridged knob. Finds the hard plastic switch along the side. “D’you mind if I…?”

Abe eyes Matt just in time to see him gesture broadly toward the room. “Not at all,” Abe tells him. “Although you should know that I already swept the place last night. We’re clear.”

This is said with the sort of calm, reassuring tone that probably works wonders on assets and assailants alike, but it doesn’t do much to put Matt at ease. Not in Moscow. Not when he’s lost three guys in the last year, not when Langley won’t let him fly overseas without signing a half-dozen waivers, not when he’s only just learned Abe’s name. Rachel Cameron is one room over and Matt would prefer to live long enough to make things right with her.

“Sure,” he cautions, still sluggish from a night of sporadic sleep. “And I’m not looking to offend, but they do build bugs straight into the walls, here in Moscow.”

Abe nods, laying another few strips of bacon into his pan. “Yes, I’m aware.”

The part of Matt that was raised with Midwest politeness struggles against the part of him that’s trained to survive a volatile Russia. “Sometimes they’re remote activated,” he goes on, trying to keep his tone light. “And after your first sweep, once you’re sure you’ve got everything, they turn on a second batch.”

At Matt’s continued insistence, Abe finally glances up at Matt when he says, “Which is why I did another sweep this morning.”

This ain’t the first impression Matt likes to make, but he also can’t compromise like he’s used to. Instead, he holds his arms out to each side, trying to broker a little bit of peace on the subject. “It’s not you I don’t trust,” he promises. “It’s just the Soviets can be real bastards sometimes, is all.”

“Right.” Abe considers this and seems to take in Matt anew. Then, just as quickly, he drops his attention back down to breakfast. “Well, I’m told you’re the expert. Far be it from me to stop you. Do you want one piece of bacon or two?”

And that’s that. “Four, please,” says Matt. “If we can spare it.”

“Four it is,” Abe replies.

Matt’s stomach rumbles at the thought. “And eggs?”

“Of course,” says Abe. “I like to fry them in the leftover fat.”

“Good man.”

With breakfast on the horizon, they leave one another to work, descending into the sort of easy quiet that doesn’t feel like it needs filling. For his part, Matt searches the room the way he was taught, starting with the perimeter and spiraling inward. He has access to the kind of tech that Langley only spares for agents regularly posted in this part of the world—minimizing the risk of equipment being captured, reverse engineered, and shared among enemies—which might explain why he finds his first bug in five minutes flat. It’s a tricky one, tucked inside a hollowed door hinge, but it’s enough to keep Matt vigilant throughout the rest of his search. The scanner click, click, clicks in his hand as he goes. Goddamn Moscow.

He’s about halfway through his sweep, ruling out a potential false positive triggered by a wayward nail sunken into a crooked floorboard, when Grace makes her first appearance of the morning. She seems to have gotten no shortage of sleep, positively glowing as she joins Abe at the stove top with a soft, “Good morning, darling.”

He mutters his own sweet nothings in return, lends her a kiss on the cheek, and leans into the way her arms wrap around his waist. Something about the way they sway, and touch, and giggle sends a flush to Matt’s face. Even though he knows he ought to look away, he can’t seem to stop himself from stealing glances at their casual intimacy. The simplicity of her chin on his shoulder. The peace of his voice, kept low and rumbling so only she can truly hear. A calm and unbroken back-and-forth between two people who really, honestly love one another.

Matt turns his attention back toward the floorboards, lest his chest collapse under the weight of his own want.

He overturns every cushion, unscrews every light bulb, checks every outlet, and disassembles the entire phone, promising to piece it back together when he’s done. Meanwhile, Grace pours herself a cup of tea, props herself onto the countertop, and begins to debate the finer points of egg making with her husband. “Honestly, Abraham,” she says, taking a sip. “The yolks are meant to be runny.”

“That may be so, my love,” he allows, “but sometimes a yolk simply must be sacrificed for a crispy edge—I don’t make the rules.”

“Likely story,” she teases. Then, across the room, “What was that you said to me last night, Matt? The guy with the spatula makes all the rules?”

By now, Matt is standing on top of the dining table, combing through each component of the overhead lighting. He doesn’t break focus when he says, “Guy with the knife, I think is what I said.”

“Close enough,” Grace replies.

This prompts another one of Abe’s compact laughs. “Close enough,” he echoes, breaking away from a busy stove top to make a move toward Grace. “I ought to show you close enough.”

“I’d like to see you try—” But her words are interrupted by her own short squeaks as Abe pokes at her sides, her legs, and anywhere else that may cause her to squirm and smile. “Oh, you absolute beast of a man,” she says through a laugh like sunshine. “You stop it, stop that right now.”

Abe obliges, but not without trading ticklish teasing for an eager and earnest kiss. Grace meets him with equal enthusiasm, leaning in without another word. Her arms fall loose along his shoulders while her legs wrap around his torso. With no end in sight, Matt glues his eyes to the light fixture, focusing hard on each individual piece needed to reconstruct it. It takes everything in him not to clear his throat, as he wonders whether or not this is how the third wheel on his Radio Flyer trike always felt.

Thankfully, Grace has the good sense to break away in the presence of company. “You’re going to burn your eggs,” she tells Abe.

“Eggs?” Abe sounds like he’s never even heard of such a concept, still leaning in close to his beloved. “Who ever cared about eggs? Let them burn—let the whole world burn.”

“I would, darling,” she says. “Except I think Matt probably prefers his breakfast to be… well, eatable.”

Matt would do just about anything not to be included in this particular conversation, but this point does seem to slow Abe in his tracks. With a sigh, he gives up his hold on Grace and returns to the perfectly mundane task of frying eggs. “Yes, well,” he says. “You really ought to try sitting at the table, Matt, rather than standing on it. Really, breakfast will be ready shortly.”

Matt, glad to be back in more neutral conversational territory, screws the final piece back into the light fixture. “Just wrapping up,” he says. “Can never be too careful.”

“Even so,” Abe agrees, “nothing that can’t wait until after a good breakfast. Titanium locks, bullet-proof windows, sound-proof paneling in every wall—”

“Amen to that,” Grace chimes in, with a little more flirtation in her tone than Matt feels comfortable hearing.

“We’re safe for now,” Abe assures him. “So come make yourself some coffee while the kettle’s hot.”

Matt reckons they’re about as safe as mice running through a room full of spring traps, and it’s only going to take one wrong step to bring fury down upon their necks. Frankly, he’s a little concerned by the attitude in the room. He likes Abe. He likes Grace. He’d hate to see them end up dead before he really got to know them, so he channels the same energy Joe once gave him, when he needed a wake-up call of his own.

He climbs down to the ground, reaches into his pocket, and leaves six missed bugs at the center of the table.

Their eyes both go wide, and they’re not smiling anymore. “Look,” says Matt. “I’m sure you’re excellent agents. Rachel knows how to pick‘em—except maybe myself, as the one notable exception. And I don’t mean to be a buzzkill, but this ain’t a usual romp through western Europe. This is Moscow. When the agencies send us in, they immediately assume we’re dead until proven otherwise. We’re not safe here, and we won’t be safe anywhere we go.”

The pair of them take on the same look Matt’s teammates used to when his mama scolded them for playing ball in the house. It sends his insides twisting, because he’s never been good at this kind of thing. Maybe that’s why he lets them off the hook so soon. “Good news for us, though,” he says, crossing into the kitchen. “Those bugs are long dead, which is why we didn’t catch them sooner. No signal. Must’ve fried up years ago, and the Soviets didn’t want to risk retrieving them. Probably out of date, too, so they won’t tell us much—my guess is mid-to-late sixties. Completely useless, and if I’m remembering the specs right, they wouldn’t be able to transmit through our jammers anyway.”

He rattles this off during a thoughtless coffee routine, moving through mugs, filters, and grounds. “As far as live bugs go, you’re right. We’re clear for now,” he goes on, reaching for the kettle. The water steams as he pours it over dark roast. “Well done on that, Abe.”

Abe plates the last of his eggs, a little more life in him now that Matt’s scorn has been met with renewed reassurance. “Thank you.”

Matt’s well within his wheelhouse now and can’t stop himself from rolling onward. “We should keep up with regular sweeps, in case of sleepers. And we’ll need to sweep again every time we leave and come back—there’s no telling who can get in while we’re away, I don’t care how secure Langley says we are. The pencil pushers in charge of managing the safe houses aren’t the same people putting their ass on the line by staying in one, y’know?” Water trickles into his cup and it seems like a waste to get so little use out of these grounds. “And no matter how many times we sweep, don’t say anything you wouldn’t want to explain to a KGB agent after twelve-to-eighteen hours of torture—coffee for anyone else?”

He might be imagining the dumbfounded shock on Abe and Grace’s face, with the way they watch him, jaws dropped ever so slightly, as though they’re not quite sure if he’s some half-man-half-computer hybrid. It’s possible they just didn’t hear his call for coffee, but before he can offer again, a third voice answers.

“I’ll have one.”

The thing about Rachel Cameron is that she never looks out of place in a room. This is different from Matt, who sinks into the crevices of a crowd to go unseen—Rachel doesn’t go unseen, and she never will. She’s a lot like Abby in that way, wrapped up in enough beauty and stature that it’s impossible to miss her presence. But while Abby is the white-hot crackle of static over a signal, Rachel is the low and even buzz. She is the steady constant that’s always supposed to be there, acting as she’s expected to act, being as she’s expected to be.

Even now, buried somewhere in the backmost forests of Russia, she looks well and truly in her element. Gone is the heiress he last saw, replaced with someone who has spent the last two years getting her hands dirty and isn’t afraid to show it. She’s a mix of denim, and flannel, and a good night’s sleep, leaning in the doorway with an eye toward the entire room. “Now you see why I looped in a specialist,” she says, working her way toward the table. “And a coffee aficionado.”

When Rachel sits, the entire room follows suit. Abe and Grace bring plates to the table and Matt makes quick work out of pouring a second cup of coffee, delivering it, and taking the seat at her side. “He’s clever, Rachel,” Grace comments. She finds a seat in Abe’s lap, ignoring the table’s fourth and final chair. Abe doesn’t seem to mind. “You didn’t say he was clever.”

Rachel blows ever so slightly at the steam of her mug. “Sure I did.”

Abe, who has already cut into his eggs with the side of his fork, shakes his head. “I distinctly remember you saying trustworthy,” he says, one cheek stuffed. Matt finds this tidbit to be awfully interesting. “Reliable and trustworthy—”

“And good in a crowd,” Grace adds. Even more interesting.

“Yes, good in a crowd, thank you love,” he says. Then, back to Rachel. “But you never warned us he’d be clever, too.”

Matt does his best to bite back a creeping grin, glancing up at Rachel. There’s no sign of a crack in her usual cool demeanor, save the slightest purse of pink lips, but she swiftly covers this with her first sip of coffee. Like a barn cat with eyes on a field mouse, he can’t resist pouncing on the moment. “Reliable and trustworthy, huh?”

Her eyes flit toward him. “Careful, Matthew.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He hides the rest of his smile behind a sip of his own coffee and by the time he turns back to Abe and Grace, he’s got his grin reigned in. “In Rachel’s defense, I’m only clever on occasion. Y’all happen to have met me in my area of expertise—I’ve been in and out of Moscow so many times, they ought to give me a key to the city.”

Grace rips off a bite of bacon. “I’m surprised Langley sends you over that often,” she says. “Six only sends in agents as a last resort.”

A twinge of something sharp and electric zips between Matt and Rachel, because they both know Grace is onto something. More often than not, Matt is in the Soviet Union on his own orders, not Langley’s, and that’s the kind of thing that has all the makings of their usual fights. Rather than work their way toward an argument so early in the morning, Matt shifts the subject. “MI6?” he asks. “I didn’t realize this was a joint mission.”

Grace shrugs. “More like a tag-along, really,” she says. “You lot are running this one—Six just wants to know what you find.”

“Grace is being humble,” Rachel cuts in, apparently satisfied to skirt around the frustration, same as Matt. “We worked an extraction job in France a couple years back, and you’d be hard pressed to find someone more knowledgeable about escape and evasion tactics.”

Matt digs into his breakfast. “Useful skill set to have in this part of the world.”

Rachel joins him. “When they told me to put a team together, she was one of the first on my list,” she goes on. “And lucky for us, she was able to open up her schedule.”

“Yes, well,” says Grace, “I do still owe you one after Paris, and anyway you’re much better company than some of the stiffs at Six. Acting all high and mighty with their Windsor knots and their posh boarding school backgrounds.”

Abe is gentle in her ear when he reminds her, “Darling, you have a posh boarding school background.”

“Yes, but I don’t go around acting like it, do I?”

“Certainly not, you’re perfect in every way.”

This is said with another one of their sickly sweet kisses, which prompts Matt to fixate on his eggs as though they are the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. When they carry on a little too long for comfort, Rachel steps in. “You’ll have to excuse these two,” she tells Matt. “They’re still in their honeymoon phase.”

Grace breaks free with a doting glance toward Rachel. “You can hardly blame us.”

“That’s sweet,” says Matt, and he means it. “How long have you been married?”

The two of them turn toward one another, mentally running through the numbers. Grace hangs from Abe’s shoulders. Abe’s hand rests along her leg. Finally, Abe replies with, “Oh, probably, sixteen hours, by this point?”

Matt, who made the mistake of sipping his coffee again, chokes on the answer. “Sixteen hours?” he repeats through a cough. “You’re not in the honeymoon phase—you’re on your honeymoon.”

“Why travel on your own dime when your agency will pay the airfare for you?” says Grace, downright logical about the whole thing. “And this will be better than sitting on some boring old beach anyway.”

Matt’s morning starts to make more sense, given the context, and he’s glad to have a reason for all of the extra love going around. He’s not quite sure how he would have handled it, if Grace and Abe were like this all the time. Honeymoon is fine. Honeymoon is good. “I suppose congratulations are in order.”

Grace waves a hand. “We left our congratulations back in London where they belong,” she says. “I’m far more interested to find out what I’m supposed to be doing in Moscow.”

The table turns toward Rachel, who sits completely at ease as she finishes her last bite of eggs. Once again, she looks perfectly positioned to rise to this moment, as though she knew the conversation would lead this way eventually and all she had to do was wait patiently for everyone else to catch up with her brain. Matt wonders how many times she’s had to wait for the rest of the world to rise to her level. He’s not sure a number that high can be counted. “We’re confident there are no bugs?”

“As confident as we can be,” Matt confirms. “And if we’re wrong, we’ll find out soon enough.”

Rachel doesn’t seem especially satisfied with this answer, but she must decide to contend with it, because she goes on with a strong and easy cadence. “Right,” she says. “The details are need-to-know, but long story short, my last op uncovered a possible exchange happening in the city tomorrow.”

It’s like a switch has flipped in the room, and he’s now sharing the table with entirely different people.

Grace asks, “Two agents?”

Rachel answers, “As far as we know.”

Abe asks, “What agencies?”

Rachel answers, “Langley would very much like us to find that out.”

Grace asks, “What are they exchanging?”

Rachel answers, “Passports.”

Abe asks, “We’re in Moscow for a bunch of bloody passports?”

Rachel hesitates. The moment is brief, but Matt knows her well enough to spot it. He watches closely, looking for any of her usual tells. Chewing on her cheek. Jutting out her jaw. None of them come, which tells Matt that she’s trying very hard not to say something, and she’s trying even harder not to show it.

“We have reason to believe,” she starts, “that hostile agents have intelligence about select US operatives. Aliases. Cover legends. Official cryptonyms. And we suspect that once they get their hands on the passports, they’ll be able to confirm the real identities of everyone on that list—walk back every mission they’ve taken part in, target their families, target their allies, target them.”

Rachel speaks like stone. Sits like glass. She divides her eye contact in perfect thirds across each of them, as though she’s counting the seconds. Rachel is strict and disciplined by nature, but she is never rigid. Not like this.

Abe doesn’t seem to notice. “So these aren’t fakes,” he clarifies. “These are real, genuine passports—name, picture, birth date.”

“Correct,” says Rachel.

“And we need to intercept them,” says Grace. “Before our hostiles blow the cover of every US operative they have access to.”

Rachel nods. “They get the passports, some of our best operatives die,” she confirms. “We get the passports, those operatives get to live another day.”

It’s a continuation of the same dangers he’s been hearing all summer—agents selling out other agents for hundreds of thousands of dollars. Stolen identities leading to the very real executions of significant allies and informants. Ten dead last summer. Plenty more missing. Now Rachel’s gone and pulled him into a Moscow op, and there’s no such thing as coincidence.

So Matt asks, “You said select US operatives?”

And Rachel answers, “Yes.”

Matt asks, “How select?”

Rachel answers, “We think it’s between six and ten passports.”

Matt asks, “Who are they targeting?”

Her eyes linger now, no longer bouncing evenly between everyone and landing firmly on Matt. Rachel’s out-of-character reluctance reads a lot like her in-character stubbornness, but somehow Matt can spot the subtle difference. She’s nervous, which ought to scare the shit out of everyone else at the table. She’s nervous, which ought to tell them all everything they need to know.

Still, he needs her to say it. “Rachel,” he tries again. “Who are they tar—?”

“Soviet specialists.” It comes out fast. Cold. An icicle falling from a rooftop and shattering along the sidewalk. “US operatives with ties to the Soviet Union.”

Abe and Grace turn toward him, and suddenly everyone at the table is watching him like he’s a dead man walking. Logistically speaking, he doesn’t need to ask his next question. Everyone already knows the answer. But he still has to get it out, if only for the sake of his sanity. “Do they have my passport?”

Fire and brimstone have nothing on the look in Rachel Cameron’s eyes when she doesn’t seem to have an answer. “I don’t know… I tried to—” She takes a deep breath. Sets her jaw, the same way she always has. “I don’t know, Matthew.”

It’s his mama that comes to mind first. Then his pops. Joe, Joe, Joe. He’s always known the risks of this profession, but he’s always had a way of justifying them. Rationalizing them. Except now all he can picture is a Soviet bullet in his mama’s forehead and that’s a mighty hard image to wave away. Before he knows what he’s doing, he stands. Nods. “Excuse me.”

And then Matt bolts toward the sole bathroom, hunches over the toilet bowl, and hurls up all four pieces of bacon.

#Full Circle #Gallagher Girls #Ally Carter #Matthew Morgan #Rachel Morgan

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