#Taste of the Heartland

[sortanonymous]

[autistichalsin]

Do you happen to how / have made a good timeline of The Shadowlands? What was there before? What it was called? When it fell? IIRC one of the writers confirmed that the rude pale elf in the list of customers banned from the pub was a reference to Astarion. IDK is that was canon or more a joke that stayed in. Having a collected resource on that would be amazing for plotting out fics!

I have no idea if the banned elf was Astarion- I've seen conflicting things on it. But for everything else:

So, the Shadow-Cursed Lands cover primarily the town of Reithwin along with Moonrise, in the Western Heartlands. Thaniel is the nature spirit of this land. (Sidenote: because nature spirits can't really leave the area they embody, and Halsin knew Thaniel as a child, this implies that Halsin grew up somewhere near here, probably in a nearby forest. Since he also mentions his family being buried in High Forest, which is quite far away, it seems likely that they moved at some point, or maybe they lived in the area for a few generations but still considered themselves to have very strong ties to High Forest.)

As for a timeline of the Shadow Curse:

1142: Halsin is born in a forest, most likely near Reithwin. Over the next years, he becomes close friends with the nature spirit Thaniel. Growing while Thaniel stays the same age drives him to decide to become a Druid, as he realized nature, his first friend, needed protecting. After his last family member passes away (Halsin being the youngest son of an ancient line of elves that faded out due to illness and accidents, according to Halsin's writer), Halsin is "turned over to the Druids," at a "comparatively young age" (per his writer).

Sometimes before 1392: Isobel Thorm, Ketheric's daughter, is born. Melodia, Isobel's mother, and Ketheric's wife, tragically passes away.

Sometime between this and 1392: Dame Aylin arrives in Reithwin. She and Isobel Thorm fall in love at first sight.

Roughly 1392: Isobel dies. In Early Access, this was at Halsin's hands, as a fight broke out due to Shar's influence, causing Isobel to attack Halsin, and him to stab her on reflex. In the full release version, this was cut, and no one seems to know exactly how or why she died. Ketheric is devastated by grief, converts to Shar worship, and gathers an army of Dark Justiciars.

Later in 1392: The Archdruid who served the Emerald Grove before Halsin gathers a group of Druids and Harpers (including Jaheira) to face them; they win, with many losses, but Ketheric uses Shar's powers to unleash the Shadow Curse as revenge. Almost all the Druids and Harpers who had survived are then killed by the curse. Halsin takes what survivors he can manage, gets back to the Emerald Grove, and is appointed the new Archdruid. Some days later, he returns to the Shadow-Cursed Lands looking for survivors, finds the Shadow-Cursed version of the previous Archdruid, and is forced to kill it. He keeps his glaive as a "reminder that victory can taste bitter" and locks it away, along with his journal from that day. (In the original, this glaive/dagger, called Sorrow, was the weapon Halsin used to kill Isobel, and had a different journal to go with it talking about his guilt.) This curse, of course, also causes the nature spirit Thaniel to be split in two. One half is trapped in the Shadowfell, while the other half stays in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, eventually becoming Oliver.

Meanwhile, Dame Aylin is kidnapped by Ketheric Thorm and locked away so he can leech her power to make himself immortal.

1392-1492: Halsin spends the next 100 years researching the curse and trying to gain Silvanus's favor to be able to break it. Almost everyone else abandons the land; Jaheira admits to doing so, and a note Halsin wrote laments that the Emerald Enclave wouldn't help even if he asked. The few people who do attempt to go there perish- a Druid from another community got some information from Halsin, tried to enter the land, and then fell to the Curse. Some lines Halsin had in Early Access indicated that his being there when the curse fell and his empathy with the suffering of the Shadow-Cursed Lands/its people were key in his ability to later break the curse.

Meanwhile, Art Cullagh, a Flaming Fist, is trapped in the Shadowfell with Thaniel. They form a very close friendship, and Thaniel repeatedly tells Art that Halsin- and only Halsin- can save him.

At some point, Ketheric converts to worshipping Myrkul in exchange for resurrecting Isobel, becomes his Chosen, and helps hatch the Absolute plot along with Gortash and the Dark Urge.

1492: Shortly before the start of canon, Halsin meets Aradin and his band of adventurers, who tell him they're looking for the Nightsong at Moonrise Towers. Seeing a chance to investigate both the Curse and the modified mindflayer tadpoles he's encountered, Halsin joins them, then is betrayed when they're attacked by goblins and Aradin promptly abandons Halsin to the goblins.

After that comes everything in canon with the Break the Shadow Curse quest and all of its sub-quests.

1493, roughly: In the 6 months after the curse is broken, Halsin (/and Tav, if applicable) repurpose what was left of Reithwin to become a new community for those needing a new start, the narrator noting that it's "hidden from those who are not welcome, open to any who need shelter." Halsin is noted to have "built a schoolhouse in a day" for all the nine wagonfuls of children who joined their community, and become an unofficial leader of the community. He says that the place is unrecognizable in a good way, with the scars rapidly becoming invisible even to those who know what happened.

Sadly, Art Cullagh passes away sometime between the curse breaking and the epilogue, but he remained close to Thaniel until the end, and it is noted that Thaniel and Oliver come to the community often to play.

I think that's everything for the parts of the Shadow-Curse story we don't directly play through in canon!

Random interesting fact that @ride-a-dromedary and I noticed: the name "Reithwin" is one letter off from "Relthwin", the Elvish word for "refuge". That may or may not be intentional.

[curiositydooropened]

Ranged • 00: Prologue

After Hell brought Horror to the Heartland, America’s dirt roads and open woods began to fall to rot and ruin. To prevent further inter dimensional slips, the government dispatched several workers, such as yourselves, to travel the country saving small communities. 

Pairing: special agent!Steve Harrington x special agent!Reader

Wordcount: 922 - This fic is episodic.

Warnings: very slowburn, coworkers to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, canon-typical gore, weapons, fighting, murder, viruses, decay, monsters *This chapter contains mentions of animal harm, blood, and vomit/nausea.

This blog is 18+ only. I do not give permission for any of my fics to be duplicated, reposted, or put into AI. Thank you!

Navigation • Masterlist

---

Moodboard • Episode 01: Firetower

Blood shone in thick, dark splatters across a freckled cheekbone. It stuck his hair to his ear and his collar to his throat. It stained a shoulder. You watched it glimmer under street lamps, watched the clench of his knuckles around the steering wheel, watched the bob of his Adam’s apple as he avoided your gaze.

There was no point saying it anymore, the words exhausted their meaning a year ago, but it was true nonetheless. You can’t save everyone. You both knew it. It didn’t hurt less.

You mopped at the blood splatter on your own cheeks with a spare t-shirt to flirt a discount out of the motel attendant. He slid you a key on a novelty ring while Steve parked on the far side of the lot.

You’d set the phone on its receiver by the time he exited the shower. You rinsed bloody clothes in the sink and brushed your teeth and slipped into an oversized t-shirt. You couldn’t remember who it belonged to. Maybe you’d picked it up at a thrift store along the way. 

“Owens?” He asked, voice gruff, eyes red. A claw mark dug into the flesh of his cheek, to the bone.

You reached into your duffle for the first aid kit to procure ointment and a butterfly bandage. “Sit.” 

He sighed, but did as instructed, towel falling to his shoulder. He winced as you patted ointment into his wound. “Did he say where to go next?” 

You nodded, pressing his flesh together until it wrinkled near his eye. “Small town in Western Montana. Locals think it’s the water supply. Park ranger called it in.” 

“How far?”

“Eight hours.” You zipped the kit closed and wedged it back into your bag.

“Okay,” he muttered, tossing his towel into a corner near the sink. He stretched sore muscles with a groan, and you watched the bruise on his ribs bloom in greens and browns. The swelling was down significantly from two days earlier. “We’ll leave first thing.” 

He meant first light. You glanced out a fogged window at the glow of street lamps. The vacancy sign buzzed bright red. The sky remained dark just beyond.

“Okay.” You sighed and toed under linens that had yellowed years ago. 

Steve triple checked the lock and toted his bat from the nook near the front door to his bedside. Then, he pulled his lighter from his pants pocket and shook it to his ear. By the look on his face, it needed a refill. He placed it to the bedside table between you, just beside the Bible.

“Are you okay?” He’d asked it four times already, a compulsion you’d learned to ignore.

“Yes.” You knew better than to reciprocate, knew he wouldn’t answer you anyway. You had minimal sleep hours left. It wasn’t worth the fight. You can’t save everyone.

“I’m going to turn the light out.” He warned, sliding himself into his own double bed. A large hand reached beneath an orange lampshade and the room went dark.

The darkness was spotted orange and blue, and you fought back the images of Steve’s fists meeting and elderly man’s face. You fought back the screams that rang in your ears, the copper taste on your tongue, and that pang that lay permanent in your nostrils.

Steve shifted in his bed, springs groaning beneath his weight, and you honed in on him instead. Every night, you fell asleep to the steady in and out of his breath, the comfort of him an arm’s length away.

—

The ranger’s uniform matched the coffee and cream in your styrofoam cup. The confusion knit between his brows matched those of dozens of local law enforcement across this country over the last year. You flashed you badges and asked him to take a seat, and hours later you were holding your hand over your nose to mask the smell of decay.

The corners of Steve’s mouth pulled upwards in a grim apology, sipping his own coffee.

A room full of National Guardsmen looked aghast. There was no guarantee a burn of that size could stay contained. Half of the state could be up in flames by the end of the week.

“Better than the alternative.” You promised.

The Spread started on a cattle ranch north of town, the herd dwindling as calves and heifers slipped into cracks and broke legs and necks. A large crevasse rotted through a patch in the back forty, splitting the land down the middle from government land near to the rancher’s estate.

On the back side, it seeped into the river. Trees were downed and turned to mush and rot. Where once sat a hunting perch, now folded into a vat in the ground.

The Ranger had taken you up by four-wheeler, an excursion neither of you had been prepared for in slacks and blazers. You supposed those were hazards of the job though, wading through the remnants of a hillside in nylon stockings.

Steve rolled the cuffs of his sleeves up past his elbows to dive into the meat of a fallen tree. It came back green and gooey, but nothing had nest inside. Not yet, at least.

“You called just in time,” he wiped his hand on his pant leg and you dry heaved a little.

“So this… virus,” the Ranger gestured to the pocket of melted flesh, root to branch, “it can infect humans too?”

“If it festers too long,” you nodded.

“And what might that look like?” He asked like he already knew the answer.

---

[A/N: Here she is. These two have been my new best friends lately, the one thing I've written that actually stuck because it felt good. Let's hope it stays that way so I can keep riding this train. I don't know how often I'll update this, but it'll be on-going. I'd love to write blurbs, and I have a few episode locations/monsters in mind.

I'd really appreciate it if you reblogged and/or left me a comment. Or if you're more inclined, head to my Ao3 and leave me a comment there. It'd really mean the whole world. xoxoxo]

[wildlyglittering]

Illyrian Comfort Pie

I shared a post with some Christmas OTP prompts and asked if anyone wanted any for Nessian and @dustjacketmusings chose:

"Every country has different traditions for Christmas when it comes to food: trying something new when they have always eaten the same dishes for the holidays feels wrong at first. But when it’s cooked with love by their favourite person, it can sure taste like new traditions."

I don't know if this entirely fills the prompt and it's a lot rougher than I'd like but please enjoy!

Illyrian Comfort Pie

“Fuck you, Morrigan.” Nesta wiped her bare arm across her brow, spices and herbs transferring straight from her forehead onto her forearm, the little green and orange specks dusting her skin. “And fuck you Rhys come to that.”

The alarm on her phone screamed and Nesta whirled around in her small kitchen space. She’d put the device down earlier, stabbing at the timer with a flour covered fingertip whilst trying to shove her pie into the oven.

Where the hell had she put the damn thing?

On the counter stood an open cookbook entitled ‘Recipes from the Heartland of Illyria,’ a bottle of wine which doubled as a rolling pin and cooking motivation, and Nesta’s pathetic pastry attempts one, two, and three – each one slightly less gloopy than the last - until she finally made semi-successful attempt number four.

No phone.  

Nesta let out a noise halfway between a screech and a yell, her hands reaching either side of her head, ignoring whatever food stuff would end up in her hair.

“Shit!” At least she managed to remember what the phone alarm was for, swivelling behind her and yanking down the oven door, reaching for the mitts as she ducked a plume of smoke.

This one didn’t smell too bad. Nesta grabbed the pie and shoved it onto the trivet on the counter. The crust was a little singed on one side but, if she was careful, she’d be able to scrape that off.

Her movements jostled a reem of paper towels and as they fell to their side, they revealed the object of Nesta’s irritation. One phone.

“Thank you,” she muttered, her eyes drifting upwards to the ceiling as she turned off the alarm. Her thanks was to whatever cookery god was willing to listen and half to the smoke alarm not going off.

Three notifications waited for her. She took a breath in and hit open on the first one.

Hahaha. You agreed to what?! Even *I* run from making that dish. Pretty sure my *grandmother* ran from making that dish and she used to be a baker. Anyway, are you coming Thursday?

Emerie. Not providing the answers Nesta was so desperately hoping for, instead reminding Nesta she had yet to confirm drinks with her and Gwyn. Nesta typed out a quick response.

Yes to Thursday. Any chance your grandmother would attempt making this again if I paid her?

Sent. Nesta moved onto notification number two - Feyre.

Did you want me to see if the Illyrian restaurant down Sidra Street will do a delivery? If you put it in the oven for a bit and burn the edges no one will know.

Nesta raised an eyebrow. The audacity of her sister to assume Nesta would need assistance and that she’d burn the pie. She had burnt the pie but still, the audacity.

She chose not to respond to that one and instead moved to the final notification. Cassian. Nesta took a deep breath and hit open.

Are you having as much fun as I am? Thinking I could do this as a side hustle.

There was a photo attached. Cassian had taken a selfie of himself standing in front of his obnoxiously large quartz kitchen counter. His dark hair was tied in a messy bun and he winked into the camera. He wore an apron Nesta had never seen before, deep red with candy cane striped ties and in Christmas style writing was embroidered ‘Kiss the Chef’ underneath a sprig of mistletoe.

Nesta squinted at the image, zooming past Cassian himself to the dishes behind him slightly out of frame. Was that a bowl of perfectly glazed parsnips? A tray of immaculate shortbreads?

She let out another noise and flung the phone back onto the counter so she could press her palms into her eyes. At this point she was covered in flour, meat juice, and soggy pastry pieces. Sweat gathered under her breasts and trickled down her back from the constant heat of the oven.

Nesta had been baking for over six hours now and though there was a small part of her which wanted to cry, she refused. Although she’d cursed Morrigan and Rhys the biggest ‘fuck you’ should have been delivered to Nesta herself.

She’d agreed to this when she should have declined, and now her pride would cause her to take a fall.

There had been five of them for drinks at Rita’s. Should have been two – only Nesta and Cassian for their quiet post theatre drinks, but Morrigan had been there with other friends who she swiftly abandoned as soon as she saw Cassian arrive.

Within minutes Morrigan had called Feyre and then before Nesta knew it, she was being squished into a booth, Cassian to her left and Feyre to her right, while she sipped her chilled white wine and counted the minutes until it was socially acceptable to say her goodbyes.

“Oh my god,” Morrigan had been saying. “That was the best dish I think I’d ever eaten. Do you remember it Rhys? The caramelised onions and gravy? What was it called again Cass?”

Cassian groaned and lolled his head back. “Illyrian Comfort Pie. My favourite.” He took a sip of his beer. “The Illyrian army did a version with off-cuts, almost ruined a perfect dish.”

“What’s this pie?” Feyre asked.

“Only the best pie in the world,” Cassian replied, his eyes misting over. “Imagine thick tender beef soaked in its own juices for hours, drowned in rich gravy and embedded with caramelised onions all under a cover of hot crust pastry.”

“You need a room, Cass?” Rhys laughed.

Cassian raised his middle finger to Rhys but joined him in the laughter.

“Cassian’s ex made the best version,” Morrigan said, her eyes sliding to Nesta. “Honestly no one would be able to top it. Bri wasn’t even Illyrian but it was spot on.” She took a long sip from her own glass of red wine. “I guess it doesn’t need to be your own tradition if you care enough to put in the effort.”

There was a heavy silence which would have lingered if not for the clearing of Feyre’s throat. “Who’s got who for Secret Santa?”

“Oh, I’m sure if Nesta put in the effort it would be just as good. Right?” Nesta looked up and met Rhys’ eyes as he ignored Feyre’s question. He smirked as he finished speaking, cocking his own beer bottle to his mouth.

Three more pairs of eyes looked her way. Nesta felt the slight, almost imperceptible tensing from Cassian but it was Feyre’s eyes which widened the most. There was a kick against Nesta’s shin under the table.

“I’m sure it would,” Nesta said, “if I had the time.”

“Cassian was telling us at the bar you’re now on vacation. All your gifts already wrapped and under the tree. Sounds like you have time.”

“Rhys...” Feyre began but Morrigan jumped in.

“I think that would be a lovely Christmas present for Cass. You can start your own tradition now you’re official. Illyrian food is so hearty.”

There was a part of Nesta which was too stubborn for her own good. Rhys’ smirk and Morrigan’s too-wide grin opposite her, the meeting of the cousin’s eyes like this was some in-joke they had just started. Feyre kept kicking her under the table, the jostling movement irritating Nesta further.

The flash of irritation was the problem. That, and the second glass of wine she’d drunk on a half empty stomach fuelling it. Her temperature rose and her skin prickled and instead of counting to twenty like she’d been practicing in her apartment Nesta opened her mouth.

“Fine,” she said, “this whole thing sounds great. One Illyrian Comfort Pie it is. When do you want it? Day after next?” Nesta quickly grabbed her glass to take a swig of her drink before she agreed to anything else.

Cassian’s eyebrows shot up but she didn’t want to meet his eyes, he was probably thinking how Nesta wasn’t implementing those ‘take a moment’ techniques. But his hand reached down to clasp her free one under the table, giving it a squeeze.

“You know what?” he said, looking at the group. “I want in on this. New traditions sound great. You’re making mine so how about yours. What’s the Archeron family dish of choice?” He asked this looking at Nesta but she still had the wine glass clamped to her lips. No longer drinking, just holding it there to feel the cold.

“Ooh,” Feyre said, clapping her hands and jiggling a little on her seat. “Roasted venison, but that’s quite tricky. We haven’t eaten that since Elain went vegetarian. We also had roast potatoes and honey glazed parsnips. Green beans. There was a cheesy mash and – oh, oh, the shortbread biscuits with a chocolate drizzle and the Prythian Pavlova. That’s Nesta’s favourite.”

Cassian laughed. “You want to take a breath there, Feyre?”

In response, Feyre’s stomach grumbled. “No, but I think I need some dinner.”

Aside from Nesta, the table laughed. Her wine glass was now empty and back on the table, her fingers toying with the stem, her mind too preoccupied with the thought of this pie and how the hell she’d even find the recipe.

As the chatter resumed, now about where Rhys and Feyre were going for dinner, Cassian’s weight shifted against her, his arm casually slinging around her shoulders.

“You ok?”

She glanced up at him, plastering a smile on her face. “Absolutely fine.”

“Hmm. Is that genuine fine or Nesta fine?”

Cassian was staring at her intently, concern swimming in his dark eyes. She knew if she immediately conceded he’d let it go, their friendship group knew Nesta wasn’t known for her domestic pursuits and Cassian could whip up a mean dish filled with flavour.

If she really wanted to, Nesta could cheat her way out of this. Getting Elain to bake the pie for her would have once been a consideration until Elain and Lucien’s diet change. No meat, no dairy, no sugar.

No flavour, Lucien had added, ignoring Elain’s frown.

Still, there was something else shining in Cassian’s eyes. Excitement. He was pleased she’d agreed, he relished competition in all its forms and he seemed eager to do this with her.

Nesta’s smile melted in a more genuine one and she squeezed his hand back. “Honestly, it’s good. Dare I say I may even find it fun?”

That was two days ago. Two long days.

“Ha!” She now shouted to her cramped kitchen. “Two drink Nesta has no concept of what the fuck fun is.”

Everything was a mess, even the edges of the cookbook were singed and Nesta cringed at the sight. Gwyn had managed to track down the edition on her behalf and Nesta hated to see a book suffer.

She looked at the clock. Two hours to go – plenty of time to shower, dress up and cart the pie to Cassian’s where they would have a grand unveiling in front of their friends. Her phone pinged and Nesta glanced down to see a reply from Emerie.

She says no chance.

“That’s not a problem,” Nesta said, wiping her hands on her thighs and staining her jeans further. “Because I now have a half decent pie.” She picked up the sharp knife. “Just scrape some of the black bits off and we are good to go.”

The knife slid through the crust and Nesta lifted some of the burnt pastry off using the blade. Odd. What was a deep and crispy brown on the surface seemed pale and soft underneath. Almost as though the pastry hadn’t fully cooked all the way through.

“It’s just this bit,” Nesta told herself. “I’m sure the rest is just fine.” But as she gently lifted the pie-top she could see the same pale colour underneath. Worse was the distinct lack of steam rising from the filling. “No, no, no, no. You’ve been in the oven for almost two hours.”

Grabbing a fork, she stuck it into the dish and scooped out a lump of meat. Juice, which looked far too oily for her liking, dripped off the prongs. Nesta placed the meat on the counter and cut through it with a knife.

She was met with resistance. The beef was still cold. A noise left her throat unbidden, something akin to a half sob. Nesta had researched the best meat cuts for the pie, she’d made sure to go to the best butcher and spent no less than forty-five minutes asking the rather exasperated man behind the counter questions from her list.

Her eyes flew up to the clock. Less than two hours to go. The time she’d budgeted to get ready and go to Cassian’s now shrivelled up. Just like my hopes for this pie.

She peered into the dish, the caramelized onions bobbing in the gravy like some apple bobbing contest gone wrong. “You’re mocking me,” she said and then groaned. They wouldn’t be the only ones.  

Nesta sank down onto her floor, ignoring the drip of gravy she sat on and put her head on her knees. She could imagine it all now; Feyre, Rhys, and Morrigan all dressed up, swanning around Cassian’s apartment waiting to be served their multiple courses.

Feyre’s eyes would go wide at Nesta’s attempt but she’d try and make Nesta feel better and yet somehow by trying, she’d only make Nesta feel worse. Cassian would likely tuck the monstrosity – if she even bothered bringing it – behind some extravaganza he’d made and perform an elaborate distraction.

Rhys and Morrigan would probably just snigger behind their drinks and tell her that ‘at least she tried.’ Patronising fuckers.

A tear dripped from the corner of her eye down her chin.

Nesta had tried. Had really tried. She’d memorised the recipe from back to front before she even started, she’d gone out into Velaris Market with a clipboard, she’d called Elain early for pastry tips ignoring Lucien joining the call to ask Nesta if she could describe what real food tasted like because the memory of butter was fading fast.

She wiped her eyes with her fingers, knowing she must look even more of a state than before. But wait – there was an option open to her. Hope flared yet.

Nesta grabbed her phone from the counter. What had Feyre said? The Illyrian restaurant down Sidra Street might be able to deliver. If anyone served an Illyrian Comfort Pie, it would be them. She scrolled through her favourites for the number. Her and Cassian had eaten there so often, she practically had them on speed dial.

The phone answered after the second ring.

“Hello? Hi. I know it’s late notice but I’m in a bit of a bind and hoping you could help.”

She explained the situation, confirming that yes, her pie request was for that Cassian, the one with the tattoos and arms.

“I mean, I don’t know,” Nesta said, eyeing up the clock and tapping her foot against the cupboard. “I’ll ask him. Some kind of protein shake, I think. Yeah, it’s really glossy hair. I’ll ask him that too. Anyway – the pie?”

They were regretful. Truly. Nesta could almost feel their sorrow down the phone. They didn’t have any pies pre-baked and they wouldn’t have one ready for the time she needed it by. They offered Nesta and Cassian a discount on their next visit and Nesta thanked them before hanging up.

“Well. Shit.”

Her eyes itched and she wanted to cry again but this wasn’t the Archeron way. She shook her shoulders and cleared her throat. There would be no pie but Nesta would be damned if she turned up without bringing anything and looking like a chaotic mess.

The kitchen horror show was a problem for future her, but in less than an hour, she had showered, dressed herself in her most confidence boosting little black dress and practiced her affirmations in front of the hallway mirror.

“You are a calm, confident, capable woman. You did not achieve the pie. Others have probably not achieved the pie. You have achieved other things. Like your best friends, two degrees, and this awesome looking pavlova.”

Nesta held the covered bowl to the mirror as though to show her reflection the cream and meringue evidence. Her lipstick red smile shook a little but the taxi driver was calling to say he was downstairs so there was no time for doubt to creep in.

On a usual night it took too long to get to Cassian’s. The drive was less than fifteen minutes from one end of the small city where Nesta lived to Cassian’s address and every second stretched out painfully slow.

Tonight, it was as though all roads had cleared especially for her just to say ‘look, you can get to your ritual humiliation even earlier.’

“It’s not like I’ve ever seen Rhys or Morrigan cook,” she mumbled to herself as she exited the cab and entered Cassian’s building. The porter nodded and buzzed her in and then Nesta was counting the too-quick numbers on the elevator.

Cassian’s apartment was one of two at the top of the building and though the sound-proofing was excellent, which they could attest to personally, Nesta was surprised at the distinct lack of any festivities sounding from behind his door when she approached.

He answered after one knock, hair freshly washed and dried. His white dress shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and the top buttons were undone, swathes of black swirling tattoos on display.

Cassian let out a low whistle and grinned like a wolf when he saw her. “Well, if it isn’t my favourite lady, in my favourite dress of hers, with my favourite dish.”

He leant in to kiss her and Nesta winced at the mention of food. Cassian’s lips met hers in a chaste kiss but he must have noticed her response as he was frowning when he pulled away.

“Come in,” he said with a light tone. “Let me take that.” He held his hands out for the bowl she was carrying but she clutched it tighter to her body.

“That’s ok, let me find a space to put it.”

“Sure.”

Nesta stepped further into the apartment. Everything was chrome, quartz, or wood but Cassian couldn’t help himself when it came to Christmas. What was once an interior designers dream for a ‘bachelor living’ magazine spread was now a grotto fit for the dreams of any eight-year-old girl.

A smile lifted the corner of her lips. She’d never begrudge him this. Foster care and ten endless churn of care homes hadn’t left Cassian with any sense of home and the orphanage tried their best but lacked the funds.

Cassian had told her that his best Christmas eventually came in the Illyrian military and all that involved was eating dry turkey from paper plates and reading stupid jokes from cheap crackers. But he was with people that felt like family and that’s what mattered the most.

Now, garlands hung from the oversized windows, a tree larger than Cassian himself stood by the fireplace decked with shining ornaments. A range of presents piled up under the tree to the point where they spilled across his floor.

Stockings on the mantel, rugs everywhere, gingerbread houses which increased in number each time Nesta was over. Candles on every surface.

“Wine?” Cassian asked as Nesta slid the bowl onto his counter. She nodded while taking a breath in. Ham and apricot, honey, a distinct scent of rich chocolate. All the food laid out but under coverings to keep them fresh.

Her stomach stank. She’d failed him so miserably.

Her face must have painted a picture because Cassian moved beside her. “Hey, what’s up.” His fingers tucked under her chin, tilting her face to his. Those deep eyes of his, again swimming in concern.

She hoped the best Christmas present she could get him was honesty.

“I fucked it.”

He blinked. “Sorry?”

“The pie, I completely fucked it up.”

His confused blank expression immediately melted and he laughed, his head thrown back and the column of his throat on display. His face in laughter was a delight, he was young and happy and in love with life. “Well, that makes a lot more sense.”

“There is no pie. I botched it.”

He looked down at her, his expression softening, his smile gentle. “I’d be surprised if you didn’t. That pie is an art only the devil knows how to get right. Did you know Emerie’s grandmother won’t even make one and she won Illyrian baker of the year for fifteen years?”

Nesta coughed and reached for the wine poured out for her. “No, I didn’t know that.”

Cassian moved round the counter to Nesta’s dish. “So, what did you bring?”

“The only thing that didn’t involve my oven. The meringue isn’t even home-made. I’m such a sellout.”

He peeked under the covering and exhaled. “Oh, thank the Mother.” He stepped back, his hand over his heart. “I fucked it.”

Now, Nesta blinked at him. “Sorry?”

“The meringue for the Prythian Pavlova. It was the one thing I wanted to get perfect but do you know how hard meringue is to make? I couldn’t even make it to the store.”

He shook his head, grabbing his own glass of wine. “I even rang Elain to ask her for tips but Lucien answered and begged me to tell him in great detail how the filo wrapped parcels were smelling. He said, and I quote ‘go low and take your time’. I’m not sure how comfortable I am having them over for New Year.”

Nesta laughed, shaking her own head, glancing around the apartment. It had taken her long enough but something finally dawned on her. “Am I early? When are the others arriving?”

Cassian paused, swirling his glass. “Yeah, about that... I thought ‘fuck ‘em.’”

Nesta’s eyes bulged. “I think I’m missing something.”

Cassian put his glass down and leant back against the far counter.

“You know Bri’s pie wasn’t all that great. Mor was being...” he trailed off, scratching his eyebrow the way he did when he was uncomfortable. “Mor was being difficult and it was unfair. Rhys too. But I liked the idea of you and I doing our own holiday tradition so I guess I thought I’d see where we ended up.”

He gestured to his apartment and the dishes before them. “So, we ended up here. Just you and I, a bottle of wine, lots of delicious food and a very comfy rug we’re fucking on after dinner.”

“Is that right?” Nesta said, putting her glass down. She walked over to him. “Have you seen what you’ve made? We are not fucking after dinner.” She placed her hand on his chest, his heart beating a rhythm against her palm as she ignored his disappointed face. “We’re fucking before dinner.”

That wolf grin was back on his face and he leant forward to kiss her but Nesta stopped him. “I feel bad, everything here is an Archeron dish. You didn’t get your pie.”

“Oh, I’ll get to eat my pie.”

“Cassian!”

He laughed again, his broad arms wrapping around her body. “The fact that you tried means everything. I promise. This is a great start to our forever tradition.”

Nesta looked up at him; the hours of failed baking, the constant smoke alarms, the mess she had to clear up tomorrow. Worth it. All of it. “Forever you say?”

“Forever.”

[palmviolet]

okay, as promised (thank you @madsmilfelsen for the encouragement lmao) post rewatch thoughts on true detective ep2:

— the landscape becomes more prevalent in this episode, or maybe i'm just more aware of it. it feels like nearly every scene we get a long, sweeping shot of the bayou, of the oil refineries, of the tangled roads like clogged-up arteries connecting to the heartland. these shots are often panning shots, the kind that in this genre we'd expect to be revealing something. standing right there, we think, will be the next clue — we just have to wait for the camera to reach it. this is a microcosm of the detective genre as a whole, the structure of a medium that reveals and solves truth. but TD has a troubled relationship with the camera and the filmed medium (panning away from the camera screen in ep1, the fontenot tape that 'no one should have' and indeed becomes a weapon against geraci, dora's mother saying “i saw it on the television, i prayed for that woman’s family, and it’s me.”) and its own genre in general. it won't be so easy as panning to the culprit — instead, the camera remains stubbornly fixed on the emptiness of a oily, polluted landscape, and gradually we begin to accept that landscape (cancer alley, one of america's most literal expression of the slow violence of capitalism) as a culprit in itself. this is reflected in the title sequence, which uses richard misrach's photography of petrochemical america.

(a great reference for the role of oil in true detective is Byrnes, Delia. “‘I Get a Bad Taste in My Mouth Out Here’: Oil’s Intimate Ecologies in HBO’s True Detective.” The Global South 9, no. 1 (2015): 86–106. https://doi.org/10.2979/globalsouth.9.1.07.)

— this is also connected to the pollution of the body. dora's mom gets headaches like 'storms' from the chemicals she was exposed to working in dry cleaning; dora's ramblings about the yellow king in her diary lead marty to say 'fried her brain, whatever she was on'; the whole episode deals with rust's 'neural damage' and visions from his time working narco. the brain is a permeable membrane that can be polluted just like the landscape — and it is that pollution, rust's 'mainlining the secret truths of the universe', that leads him to the mural on the wall of the church, the classical climactic reveal we expect in the detective genre. but it's not good old fashioned police work or sheer brilliance that gets him there — it's the chemical damage done to him by his trauma, his environment, and his job as police.

— speaking of, this episode is where marty's good-guy persona rapidly falls away and becomes something quite sinister. already, TD is taking aim at the copaganda myths of the troubled cop who needs to come home to unwind, party to horrors beyond imagining. he presents these excuses to maggie and they cut no ice, because they're fiction, because when he's out late he's actually just drinking and cheating on his wife.

— this is made most explicit in the juxtaposition of rust buying pills from a sex worker while marty has sex with lisa. marty brings handcuffs to the encounter; he intends them to be used on lisa, but lisa uses them on him instead, cuffing him as she recites his miranda rights just the way a cop would. meanwhile, rust tells lucy that of course he's dangerous; he's police. 'i can do terrible things to people with impunity.' he doesn't hurt her, but he could. and marty does not contradict this; he lets lisa cuff him and 'arrest' him only because she can't in reality. later on, when he uses his badge against the guy she's sleeping with from the longhorn, this reversal of power is revealed to be not a reversal at all. it's the same as when the bikers dress up as cops and rust becomes a cop pretending to be a biker pretending to be a cop; at a certain point, it all collapses and reveals police authority to be not innate and integral but in fact malleable, corrupt, and invariably performed for sexual and violent gratification.

— there remains a remove, however. as with the shots of the landscape, we mainly experience the louisiana environment as scenery speeding past while rust and marty drive. we experienced this with the glimpse of the girl (sophia's ghost?) in the first episode; we see this again at the start of ep2, when a group of young girls are smoking, scantily clad, on the side of the road and marty shoots them a troubled look through the window as they go past. it encapsulates his control issues as they unfold in this episode and beyond — that he has the desire to rescue, but really control, women's 'purity' and sexuality, but he can't. either he has to drive right on past or he has to give them a 'down payment' which will result in sexual favours later down the line. there is no way of leveraging his masculine cop authority that is not corrupt.

stay tuned for tomorrow night's round of Thoughts on ep3!

[neverinadream]

~~~~ | C O W B O Y ! C H R I S T I A N A U | ~~~~

~~~~~~ | B E C O U N T R Y W I T H M E | ~~~~~~

Pairing: Christian Pulisic x Fem!Reader (Slightly OC)

Song Inspo: Thank God For Hometowns - Carrie Underwood

Warnings: cowboy!christian, ranch hand!christian, soft!christian, references to maternal loss, fractured family ties/broken relationships, fluff, some angst, a little bit nsfw, you not realising that you and christian went to high school together, very much inspired by heartland

Notes: AGAIN everyone go thank @christian-pulisic for this idea getting stuck in my head. this isn't a full fic or anything, just little snippets/teasers of ideas - thoughts?? did we like it??? all gifs were found on pinterest

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Are you lost, miss?" Grandpa Jack lifts his usual morning cup of coffee up to his lips. He had been drinking out of the same cup for nearly fifty years; it was a gift from his late wife, Lily, a muted green colour with a horseshoe painted on the front of it. A chip on the rim had been painted over in a colour that almost matched, and the handle had already been stuck back on twice. He drank every cup of coffee from it, and he would do for the rest of his life. Those were his words. "This is Middleton, full of small town, country bumpkins," he calls out, shouting over the loud thud as you close the boot of your car, "the turning off for the big city is a few miles back! You might find yourself more suited with those kinds of folks!"

Pulling the strap of your duffel bag over your shoulder and half-smiling at your grandpa's half assed attempt at goading you into giving him a reaction, you lift your hand into the air, waving it in his direction. He waves back, welcoming you with a warm smile. A smile that you hadn't expected to see.

You breathed a sigh of relief but could still feel that small bubble of nerves. It had been over four years since you had last been back to Middleton. College had been your one-way ticket out of here, and you had never looked back. No family. No old high school friends. Nothing for four years. Just a quick phone call every once in a while to say you were doing fine.

"Hi, Grandpa."

"Welcome home, Pumpkin."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"If you hate this town so much, then why'd you come back?"

"That's a good question," you reply, tapping your fingers absentmindedly against the passenger side window. It was true. You hated Middleton. It was full of people too nosy for their own good, who had nothing better to do with their time than to gossip and spread rumours about everyone else's lives. You grew up knowing more about the supposed affair the local doctor was having than you could've personally wanted to know. "It's..." You take a quick glance at the driver side; his focus was entirely on the stretch of road in front of him. "Uh, next week will mark ten years since my mom died."

"Your mom, she was amazing with horses-"

"Grandpa Jack's been telling you about her?" You interrupt him to ask. It surprised you to think about your Grandpa talking openly about your mother to someone who didn't know her. As a teenager, you could barely get him to talk about her after she had died. "Like he actually talked to you about her?"

He drums his fingers against the steering wheel, a soft chuckle dancing on his tongue. "You really don't remember me, do you?"

"Sorry?" You look across at him, catching his gaze for just a second, and then he looks back at the road again. "Am I supposed to remember you?"

"Well, now ma'am, that just hurts."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Grandpa Jack's gonna kill you if he finds out," you warn, feeling dizzy on the whiskey you could taste on his tongue.

"He ain't gonna do nothing, sweetheart," he counters, tugging on your bottom lip, before working his way down, "because with me gone, he'd finally have to do some work around here."

His beard scratches at the inside of your thigh, touching every bit of your skin with a gentle kiss. He listens to your whimpers as he nips his teeth at a hickey just barely visible from your last encounter, dragging his tongue across it to sooth the ache. "Look here, baby," he nudges the tip of his nose against the damp spot on your panties, "you're already making a mess." You bite your bottom lip as he pushes his thumb against it. He needs no compass or map to find your clit below your panties, rubbing it through the material in slow circles. The sounds you make have the corners of his lips curling into a soft smile. "Have I told you how sweet you sound? Sweet like fresh honey, baby."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~ | F O O T B A L L T A G L I S T | ~~~~~~~

@shanoontje @maseandkepa @theblxefox @blueathens  @ofxinnocence @1-800-benji-chilwell @mrschilly @geek-and-proud @in-my-body-bag @laurasstufff1 @mountchilly @spicysainz @greykitkepa @thoseboysinblue @breakablehcaven

[spacebarbarianweird]

OC Questionaire

I saw this post by @astariongf and decided to do the same!

tagging: @lumienyx @vixstarria @marcynomercy and @tragedybunny (and whoever else is interested)

NAME: TIriel

NICKNAME: None

GENDER: Female

STAR SIGN: Has no idea, since no one bothered to tell her the date of her birth

HEIGHT: 5.7

ORIENTATION: Heterosexual (but @vixstarria mentioned she is actually "Astarionsexual" since he is the only person she ever had sex with)

NATIONALITY/ETHNICITY: Half-Elf. Father was a High Elf of unknown name (just a one-night-stand), mother belonged to one of the many human clans living in the north of Western Heartlands

FAVORITE FRUIT: Flambraes

FAVORITE SEASON: Winter

FAVORITE FLOWER: Brimstone Snapdragon

FAVORITE SCENT: Wood burning

COFFEE, TEA, OR HOT CHOCOLATE: Herbal tea (tasted the real tea very late in life and got addicted to it)

AVERAGE HOURS OF SLEEP: 10. She is a heavy sleeper, rage takes a lot of energy

DOGS OR CATS: Dragons

DREAM TRIP: She dreams of seeing The Spine of the World, a mountain chain in the north of Faerun

NUMBER OF BLANKETS: two or even three, you can't be too warm in the wilderness (and she sleeps naked under fur blankets)

RANDOM FACT: She is illiterate and, probably, dyslexic since she calims "letters jump on the paper". Astarion tries to teach her but she makes puppy-eyes and tricks him to read to her by praising his voice. By the time he finishes, they are both too tired or have other things to do.

[unbidden-yidden-deactivated20240]

Honestly going to Israel kinda fucked me up in ways I'm still just beginning to unpack, because now I'm questioning the very meaning of "home."

I want to preface this by saying this is not about politics. I am not trying to make a particular political statement, nor is this commentary on or a reaction to any particular event or whatever. This is springing from a deep, primordial mental and emotional place that I can barely name or explain, let alone change or control. I honestly don't even feel like it's coming from a particularly religious place, although Judaism is the only language I have to even begin to attempt to explain it. You know how various animals just know certain migration stopping points that they've never been to or how to navigate back to the place they were born to have their own young? This feels far more like that.

I've definitely never felt anything like this before. Growing up, I felt a generalized connection to and love of nature writ large. It was very much a "the earth is a wide, wild, diverse, incredible place that must be loved and respected and cared for" rather than some deep tie to the particular land I grew up on.

In fact, the natural space I felt the most spiritual connection to and in was not where I grew up at all, but rather the Great Lakes area that my family traveled to on vacation. I grew up longing for the shoreline and woods of a place I'd only been a few times for a comparatively short period of time in my life, because I'd fallen in love with it. When I finally got to touch that water again as an adult, I greeted it like an old friend, and it lapped over my hands as if to return the favor. But I'm not actually from this area, and the way that it calls to me is one of possibility - this could be home, someday. Maybe.

It was only as I've gotten older that I've started to realize how deep the prairie lives in my subconsciousness. This was the local natural environment I grew up in and time has taught me appreciation for it. It shaped me. It left an indelible mark on me. Some part of me will always carry it with me, no matter where I go. Some part of me will always be the prairie, the flat farmlands and endless sky above, the deciduous woods, the ever-changing seasons and unpredictable weather. Some part of me will always taste the specific scent of rain on sun-ripened garden tomatoes, of sweet corn in July, will always feel the specific sun of the heartland on my face.

And yet, it does not own me. I carry it with me wherever I go and it will always be a part of me, but it does not lay claim to the very fabric of my being.

Israel, on the other hand.

I did not expect this. In fact, I was very wary going there, of it being a bit of a letdown. I fully expected that I would feel moved by seeing the sites, of going to these historical places, of finally seeing the place that so many of our prayers are about. I hoped I would enjoy the experience and find myself reconnecting with Am Yisrael and repairing some of the damage to my Jewish connections that Covid had brought on. I hoped I'd have fun, that I'd learn some things, and feel a spiritual connection. At worst, I was worried it would be extremely foreign and off-putting; that I would not be particularly moved religiously while there and/or that the kind of Judaism and Jewish community there would be so alien and unfamiliar that it would actually make me feel even more cut off from Jewish community.

Those were the possibilities I anticipated and was prepared for. All rational assumptions, based on the facts I had in front of me and my knowledge of myself.

What I was totally unprepared for was feeling like the land owned me the moment my feet touched the ground and that I would come back to the US - to the only home country I've ever known, where I was born and raised and have lived my whole life, where my family and friends live, to my house with my beloved partner and the beautiful life we've built together - incomplete, having left some essential part of my being there.

And it's not like this trip was all warm fuzzies. It was still a foreign country where I did not speak the language and where I was not acculturated. It was awkward in all of those ways. I'm not sure I would want to live there in a permanent sort of way; it would definitely make the way I prefer to practice Judaism difficult. I am quite sure that if I moved there even temporarily, I would quickly get quite homesick for being in a place where I'm not a foreigner, where I speak the language fluently and where I know lots of people. I'm certain that the culture shock would hit me like a ton of bricks and it would be very difficult to push through.

But.

Ever since returning, home has not felt the same. These places that I've lived my life in - that until this year I felt mostly comfortable in and like I was part of this culture - it's like I peeled the layers of reality back to reveal how much of a fish out of water I am here. It's still unclear to me if this is because I changed, or because I never truly belonged. I could definitely make solid arguments for both, but I'm not sure it matters much. Heartbreaking either way, to be honest.

What's frustrating is that it's not like I just felt totally at ease there. It wasn't like I entered this magical, perfect space where I suddenly made sense as a person and felt immediately comfortable and at home. It's still a foreign country, on a different continent, in the middle east. I was, and am, a ger. In every sense of the word.

But it's not about medinat Yisrael; it's very much an eretz Yisrael thing. Regardless of how I feel about it, something about eretz Yisrael has a claim on me that I didn't understand until I went there. The land doesn't in any sense "belong" to me, and it wouldn't even if I made aliyah and purchased a house there. I belong to it in some way that is as real and concrete as it is ephemeral and impossible to explain, no matter where I live or go.

This longing to return home, to end the diaspora, to bring about Olam HaBa - so much of our liturgy - it now makes sense. I didn't get it before, but now I do, and I really don't know how to process this information.

How do I explain this to myself, never mind anyone else? How do I explain that a Protestant-raised white-bread kid from the US who has no known Jewish ancestry and who converted as an adult on nothing but a shot-in-the-dark spiritual longing and numinous experience of the Divine, could go to a country where I am very much an outsider and a foreigner, and have it grab me by the kishkes and say hey - this, too, is part of your covenant. You will be held to your word. You belong to this place now.

Tisha b'Av hit so much harder this year for that reason, and I predict a lot sobbing in shul during the chagim.

Galus, indeed.

[haggishlyhagging]

For as long as men have been writing history, women have been making it - and it is very different from men's, argues Dora Russell: while ever men have thought about the way the world should be organised, so too have women - and their plans have been very different from men's. But the only history, the only tradition we are presented with is the male view, and all of women's different priorities and plans, visions and values have been lost; and according to Dora Russell we can no longer afford this. To her it is not just desirable but absolutely necessary that women's way of viewing the world becomes a basis for our society. This has been one of the guiding principles of her life.

She has written her autobiography (The Tamarisk Tree, volumes I and II, and volume III is currently being completed) in which she gives the detail of her life and describes and comments on the events of the twentieth century - from a woman's point of view. Seeing the century through women's eyes is in itself a remarkable experience: events look very different when a burning issue of the 1920s is that of making it legal for women to have information on birth control. But seeing the changes through Dora Russell's eyes has an added dimension.

In 1923, after having visited both Russia and America (and China), Dora Russell got a contract to write a book on the implications of industrialism. She had seen the optimism of communism and visited the heartland of capitalism, but not for her was the major male preoccupation of ‘which is better?’. It was what both systems had in common which for Dora Russell became an overriding issue, for both assumed that technology would solve human problems. It was an assumption she did not share and one that she saw as decidedly dangerous and destructive.

Her view was not understood - certainly not by Bertrand Russell (universally renowned for his powers of comprehension), and not by the intellectuals of the time. As so many women before and since have done, she lost her confidence in her explanation and lost the taste for the task. She wrote The Right To Be Happy - as a sort of substitute, she says. But in 1982 the book on industrialism was written - The Religion of the Machine Age. For sixty years she had been testing her idea that only men could have invented machines and made a god of them: only men could fail to see that the machine is not the answer to the problems of human existence. Dora Russell's autobiography contains sixty years of observations on men and their machines.

‘Ah well,’ I said to her, 'you know that I keep saying every fifty years women have to reinvent the wheel. We discover something new but after fifty vears have passed it has been lost, and has to be rediscovered again. You put forward your ideas in the 1920s and now, a bit over fifty years later you are putting them forward again.'

'You mean I've lived long enough to come full circle, to be back in fashion again?' she asked me, and then added with a touch of humour and a trace of anger, 'I don't recommend the forty-nine years in between' (1982).

-Dale Spender, There’s Always Been a Women’s Movement This Century

[kanamori-kamper-moved]

Tres Leches Cake

Written for @ygorarepairweek!

YGO Rarepair Week 1 - Prompt is Sweets/Desserts - Fathershipping

~~~ Vetrix has always had an eye for baking, it’s always been there. Even when him and Faker were cooped up in that lab, he always baked nice little tea cakes, although he never accepted them, let alone his tea. He remembered it so clearly, to see the shards of the teacup splayed all about the ground. He detested Faker for the act, but he never let it show.

But now, he kind of missed it. He was so petite that he could barely reach the top of the kitchen counter, always having to drag over a stool or ask one of his kids to hold him up so he could get something.

He’d barely had time to bake as he used to. Oh, such a shame.

It was sad, really, to be reduced to such a pitiful thing. But it was okay, because Kazuma didn’t mind. When they’d reunited he had expected him to be disgusted, to wonder where the old him had been, to never speak to him again. Maybe he was just scared, because the moment Kazuma saw him again, it seemed he’d loved him even more than before.

It was almost like nothing changed.

He’s hesitant, however. It’s a maelstrom of “Can I do this?” and “Is it wrong?”, to the point it makes his head spin. Because Kazuma is married, after all. Vetrix has met his wife multiple times, she’s a nice lady, this has to go against some type of rule.

But he doesn’t have the time to dwell on it. it’s the middle of the day, a quarter past 2 and not a second more, and their outside soaking up the sun. Kazuma went traveling with her again, bringing over a box of tres leche cake he’d picked up. Even though he never says it, it’s a gift! He assumes Vetrix would like it. It’s light and fluffy, just as Kazuma is whenever he holds him close.

His eyes are starting to wander again, noticing Kazuma's smile. "Who's got you smiling like that?" Vetrix asks, setting down his fork for a moment, "It's you, I think. You're always so cute when you eat, y'know."

"A-Am I now?" Those words alone make his cheeks flush. (Along with his galaxy eyes too, which is pleasantly pulsing with color)

"Yeah, you've got a.. what's it called?” He takes a moment to think. Oh, endearingly air-headed Kazuma, “A sweet tooth, yeah!"

“It always shows whenever you eat cake or stuff like that..”

"I suppose I do." The blonde stifles an awkward laugh, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the runaway crumbs from the side of his lip.

But he doesn’t suppose so, he knows so. It wasn’t his fault that sweet things always tasted so amazing. Kazuma always has a way of making things better, this cake included. He’s never been fond of big extravagant cakes (like the one Mr. Heartland had at that big party for the World Duel Carnival finalists, which he was sure it tasted like nothing but chalky, tasteless fondant) as it was always the small ones he loved the most, much like this tres leches cake.

He doesn’t love it, (love is too strong a word to place on an inanimate object, and love denotes attachment. Vetrix is absolutely horrible with attachment) and he’s still not 100% sure if he hates it, but he continues to eat it while not being completely sure why.

Visiting Kazuma, or just having him come over always tended to be a little draining. Most times he couldn’t find the right words to say, or just wanted his intrusive thoughts to win, to pin him down to the ground and kiss him until the both of them forgot their own names. Vetrix could barely function, like a computer running on the the first version of Windows as it slowly rotted away. But it’s always a relief, because Kazuma does most of the talking, anyways.

Vetrix has never been chatty whenever he’s alone with Kazuma. No one’s here, just Vetrix and Kazuma and over 100 colorful flowers that sit in the the flowerbeds right next to the table. Hell, Kazuma helped him plant all of them as well.

“I like the sunflowers. They remind me of you.” He’s shifted in his chair just a bit. They always point towards the sun, as if it’s their own personal spotlight. But Vetrix isn’t confident enough to do any of that. “They’re pretty, like you.”

He doesn’t quite remember the last time he heard Kazuma call him pretty, it’s been so long that the memories almost escaped him. He remembered Kazuma holding him closed running his fingers through his hair when they slept in that tent together, “The stars are pretty tonight, almost as pretty as you.” But the moment was cut short due to the most obvious.

But, out of no where, he finally has it in him to speak.

“I like spending time with you,”

It’s not an “I love you”, or an “I need you”, or “I like you”, nothing to ever suggest it. But the feelings there.

“And uhm, thank you very much for the cake, you’re very sweet.” He squeaks, feeling a little tinier than he actually is. But he doesn’t even realize what he said, having to do a double take. “I mean the CAKE is very sweet!” He babbles out, yellow eyes darting about.

Kazumas smile doesn’t go away, seemingly unbothered. Vetrixs shoulders relaxed, cheeks covered in blush.  

“That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” He chuckles as he cuts himself a slice. Almost as if he knew. “I’ve barely gotten to try this stuff, let’s see if it’s as good as you make it look!”

He takes his first bite of cake and briefly closes his eyes in contentment. It’s pleasantly sweet and moist, and Vetrix can’t help but look on as his features fill with pleasure.

“And you’re welcome, really.”

And somehow, almost magically, the tension disappears.

[wereshrew-admirer]

So, for just a minute, while it’s still just you and me and these words between us, I’d like to take a moment to relax and, instead of ruminating on the heavy things and how we got here, I’d like to just float through the Heartland. So close your eyes and find yourself an image. It can be as dark or as light as you want, but it has to be from something beautiful, here in Sangfielle. Don’t see it in your head, feel it on your fingertips, across your wrists. Taste it on the bitter back of your tongue. Then let go or find another. The train wheel jumping the track for just a beat. A sun-soaked skull lifting out of the sea. A blackbird alight in twice the meaning. A circle drawn in salt and blood. A glass of laughter and smile twice as strong. Just remember, whatever happens today, whatever’s next for Blackwick, those feelings are Sangfielle too.

[itsana004]

10, 12, and 14 for Droite for the meme!

Ahhh thank you so much for the ask 💞💞💞

10. Could you be best friends with this character?

Oh gosh definitely not, it's like asking if celebrities could be best friends with their fans and I would be that fan worshiping her and having fan pages dedicated to her so definitely not

12. What's a headcanon you have for this character?

Oh my gosh I actually have a lot hehe

1-One headcanon I have is I think she has a really cute sneeze no matter in what situation, she can't control it and the worst part is it's not expected of her since she's serious most of the time, so she tries not to sneeze in front of people whom she doesn't want to look at her differently, especially enemies, but terribly fails in front of long-term friends and people she sees and visits often like Gauche, Haruto and Kaito.

2-I personally do not believe she's from Spartan City and the idea Mr. Heartland travelled that far from Heartland City to Italy to pick up orphaned children, and Gauche himself says the city they were born in was “terrible” and did not mention Spartan City by name. Even looking at the flashback, just looking at the surroundings it feels the buildings are a bit modernised, more like the outskirts of Heartland City. Gauche and Droite probably travelled to Spartan City due to the Championships being held there and they just travel around living in hotels and don't have a permanent home yet except Heartland City, but I really like the idea of her and Gauche sharing some Italian ancestry and connections to that place I just like the idea of them being Italian since I grew up in Italy. I like to imagine Droite's innate Italian spirit being stereotypically Italian that hates food crimes such as pineapple and fruits on pizza or ruining pasta, she's very defensive of that and even more so after staying in Spartan City in those couple of months. Never show her a Hawaiian pizza ever or she’ll get crazier than how Chris is when he teaches dueling. Haruto found out the hard way and he will never ruin pasta in front of an Italian ever again.

3-Droite is good at many things, but drawing is not one of them. As an orphan who was living in the streets she never really got the practice as a child, and once she was picked up by Mr. Heartland, art wasn't really a big focus in her studies, especially during training. She's insecure about that especially in front of people like Kaito where he needs to make detailed geometry and references in order to build something, she's bad at anything that requires art, whether it is a flower or an architecture. She tries to hide that though.

4-Just as drawing, she's really bad at whistling, she can't whistle for her life, just imagine Haruto trying to teach Droite how to whistle the same he learned from his brother so adorableee 😭💞

5-Droite is incredibly good at board games like chess or Go, she's good at any game that requires and tests one’s ability to think critically and defeat the opponent completely unnoticed, it's just one of those fields where she's almost unbeatable. She's so good that it rivals Chris. She has incredible muscle memory compared to the average and can play chess while blindfolded.

14. Assign a fashion aesthetic to this character.

I think she's a Chic Modernist

with the colour scheme of Barbiecore with the pink, grey, purple and white combination 

I would absolutely love her to wear darker colours since her normal outing dress is too much pink for my taste, she would kill it in black the ones with nets, and outfits with corset!!!

She already wears a huge belt in canon which kind of acts as a corset

I can also imagine her having a light textile dress like this one

in an open field filled with flowers and butterflies near a seashore - this is not too far of as the first one is the same as her regular outing fit if you remove this

And the second photo is similar to her nightgown

I think for Droite the animators wanted to fit her dress to match the colour scheme of her hair but I think she would rock so many other colours than pink, grey, white and purple/violet combination.

[funky-rhizomes-rpgs]

It goes like this: Once, a pair of brothers wanted an ox, and so they did what they were told never to do. They made a deal with Ribbadon, the great Frog God of Wealth. “Give us a silver coin,” they said, and he did, on the condition that they return the coin that year, or else owe it and its double the next year, and so on, forever. Well, they bought the ox, and with that ox they bought a pair more, and soon they appeared quite rich.

I write “appeared” because, in fact, they were deeply indebted to old Ribbadon. As the two grew in age and worry, they sought to make good on their debt, but there was one problem: They had, of course, spent that silver coin many decades ago, so they were at a loss. Until, they realized, with all their wealth, they could forge a coin like the one they were given, and fool the old frog.

Wheelbarrows filled with silver and gold were led to Ribbadon’s court, and in a single swipe of his tongue, he swallowed years of profit in an instant, and then bellowed his judgment. “You have paid me back one more coin than you owe me, yet one less than you took.” The brothers knew instantly that their deception had been for naught, but before they could object, a curse descended. “There is no fortune too rich in taste for my tongue, and until I have my coin, on your tongues will be the only way to hold your fortune.”

When the brothers, their kin, their descendents, and even their servants returned home, they found that anything they’d carried with them had been turned into something else of the same weight. Gold coins turned lead. Prayer books transformed into straw. A rock to a diamond.

This is why you see those caravans now, hauling mysterious cargo across the grasslands and deserts of the heartland. They’re trading whatever it is they can, forever, in doomed worship of Ribbadon. Paying down interest. And looking for that old coin. They’ll tell you that the lesson is that you cannot stop change, and so you must lean in to the chaos. Let yourself and everything you have be changed by curse of the heartland. And they’ll demonstrate their new mastery over magics alchemical, illusionary, and alterative as proof of their philosophy’s power.

And yet… sometimes they’ll tell you nothing at all, the hypocrites, because in their mouths they carry cargo they are desperate to keep. It is as old Ribbadon implied: Whatever they hold on their tongues is kept from the curse.

- Sangfielle, Ep.1 The Curse of Eastern Folly, Friends at the Table

Read by Jack de Quidt on the podcast, just listened to it and had to post it.

[cyberdragoninfinity]

🔥 For Zexal?

🔥 alongside the fact it's so so cool that Zexal deliberately hearkens back to a lot of character archetypes and storybeats and concepts from Duel Monsters, I think it actually does a lot of those themes and archetypes a bit better than DM did. 🥴 (DM anime wise especially, anyway) (not to say DM did them poorly, it's just like...seeing a different, more fine tuned version of them. a new flavor that tastes even better.) I talked before about how I feel like the spinoff rivals are more engaging characters to me than kaiba is, and I think Shark and Kite especially are just such a mastercraft set of 'em. Kite's story arc and how he grows and evolves as a character over the course of the series feels a lot more palpable and impactful than Kaiba's does imo (especially since, as i talked about in my kaiba ask, Kaiba is a character marked with way more stagnant personal growth over time)

tl;dr also i love pegasus but he kind of wishes he had what vetrix and mr. heartland have. my god.

[shefanispeculator]

A Brief History of Smithworks Vodka

Smithworks Vodka was launched in 2016 as a collaboration between Pernod Ricard and American country singer Blake Shelton. The mission was to create a genuine and smooth American vodka using locally sourced ingredients. Smithworks was distilled three times and charcoal-filtered, resulting in its signature smoothness.

Rooted in heartland values, Smithworks sourced its corn from Kansas, Missouri, and Oklahoma, and used water from Lake Fort Smith in Arkansas. This connection to the Midwestern United States earned the brand a loyal following and garnered positive reviews for its quality and taste.

The Mysterious Disappearance

Despite its solid fanbase and positive reception, Smithworks Vodka suddenly vanished from stores and bars in late 2019, leaving fans wondering: what happened?

Although there has been no official statement released by either Pernod Ricard or Blake Shelton, one reason for Smithworks' departure could be due to changes in ownership or strategic direction within the parent company, Pernod Ricard. The firm is known for its portfolio of diverse spirit brands, which include favorites like Absolut Vodka, Jameson Irish Whiskey, and Malibu Rum. An internal decision may have led to Smithworks being discontinued in favor of focusing on other brands within their extensive lineup.

Another possible reason could be related to the current market for vodka itself. The vodka industry has become increasingly competitive in recent years, with a myriad of new brands and flavors constantly emerging. Smithworks may have had a difficult time finding its place in a market saturated with innovation. The vodka industry’s growth and evolution could have pushed Smithworks out of the limelight.

What We Can Learn from Smithworks Vodka

A Celebration of Local Ingredients

Despite its short run, Smithworks Vodka reminded us of the importance of using locally sourced ingredients and embracing regional character. The brand was a great representation of Midwestern values and tastes, using heartland resources in crafting their all-American spirit.

Staying Relevant in a Competitive Industry

The vodka market is ever-evolving, with new brands, flavors, and techniques emerging regularly. For up-and-coming and even well-established spirit brands, it's essential to stay relevant, innovative, and adapt to industry changes. Smithworks' story is a poignant reminder of the challenges any vodka brand can face in today's competitive landscape.

What Happened To Smithworks Vodka Example:

Imagine hosting a tasting party with friends to sample some of the best vodkas on the market. The lineup includes tried-and-true favorites, as well as locally produced offerings with unique stories. As you pour a round of Smithworks Vodka, you share its fascinating tale of a local heartland spirit made using corn from Kansas, Missouri, and Oklahoma, as well as water from Lake Fort Smith in Arkansas. Despite its mysterious disappearance from the market, the spirit remains a fan favorite in the Midwest. Your friends and fellow vodka enthusiasts raise a toast to Smithworks Vodka, appreciating its journey and its smooth taste that remains in your memories.

There you have it, vodka lovers - the mysterious tale of Smithworks Vodka. While we may never know the complete story of why this beloved brand vanished, its legacy lives on through its fans and those who cherish its smooth, locally influenced taste. If you enjoyed this deep dive into vodka history and are thirsty for more, feel free to share this article with your friends and fellow vodka enthusiasts. Remember, Vodka Doctors is your ultimate resource for everything vodka - from brands to cocktails, we have it all. Happy tasting!

[bananaofswifts]

5 STARS

By Alexis Petridis

It’s one of the weirder aspects of 21st century pop that every major new album feels like a puzzle to be solved. Nothing is ever just announced, promoted, then released. Instead, breadcrumbs of mysterious hints and visual clues are very gradually dropped via the artist’s social media channels. Fans pore over them and formulate excitable theories as to what’s about to happen. Articles are written collating said fans’ theories and weighing up their potential veracity. Sometimes, it goes on longer than the actual album’s stay in the charts. It has certainly happened with Taylor Swift’s 10th studio album, Midnights. Everything has been pored over for potential information about its contents, up to and including the kind of eye shadow she wears on the album cover. Conspiracy theories have abounded. Space precludes exploring them here, as does concern for your welfare: reading about them makes one’s head hurt a bit.

Still, perhaps it’s inevitable that people are intrigued as to Swift’s next move. There has been a lot of talk in recent years about the willingness of big stars to service their fans with more of the same: building an immediately recognisable brand in a world where tens of thousands of new tracks are added to streaming services every day. It’s an approach that Midnights’ one marquee-name guest, Lana Del Rey, knows a lot about, but not one to which Swift has adhered. Instead, she has continually pivoted: from Nashville to New York, pedal steel guitars to fizzing synthesisers, Springsteen-like heartland rock to dubstep-infused pop. Last time she broke cover with new material, she released Folklore and Evermore, two pandemic-fuelled albums of tasteful folk-rock produced by the National’s Aaron Dessner. But that’s no guarantee of her future direction.

In fact, Midnights delivers her firmly from what she called the “folklorian woods” of her last two albums back to electronic pop. There are filtered synth tones, swoops of dubstep-influenced bass, trap and house-inspired beats and effects that warp her voice to a point of androgyny on Midnight Rain and Labyrinth, the latter a leading choice given the preponderance of lyrics that protest gender stereotyping, or “that 1950s shit they want from me”, as Lavender Haze puts it. Equally, something of Folklore and Evermore’s understated nature hangs around Midnights. It’s an album that steadfastly declines to deal in the kind of neon-hued bangers that pop stars usually return with, music brash enough to cut through the hubbub. The sound is misty, atmospheric and tastefully subdued.

On the superb Maroon, Swift’s voice is backed by ambient electronics and droning shoegazey guitars: it’s one of several songs that you feel could suddenly surge into an epic chorus or coda, but never does. The Del Rey collaboration Snow on the Beach is beautifully done – a perfect gene-splice between their two musical styles with a gorgeous melody – but it’s a long way from a grandstanding summit between two pop icons: there’s a striking lightness of touch about it, a restrained melding of their voices. Meanwhile, Anti-Hero offers a litany of small-hours self-loathing set to music that feels not unlike the glossy 80s rock found on Swift’s 1989, but with the brightness turned down. There’s an appealing confidence about this approach, a sense that Swift no longer feels she has to compete on the same terms as her peers.

Elsewhere, if the Swift you love is Swift in vengeful mode, settling scores with a side-order of You’re So Vain-esque who’s-this-about? intrigue, you’re advised to fast-forward to Vigilante Shit and Karma: the former features verses that could be directed at her old foes Kanye West or Scooter Braun; the latter excoriates someone referred to as “spiderboy” and notes how they “weave your little webs of opacity, my pennies made your crown”. But Vigilante Shit’s sound is minimal and unflappable – a beat with thin slivers of bass and electronic tones sliding in and out of the mix, not too distant from something Billie Eilish might have devised on her debut album, while Karma is kaleidoscopically tuneful, another track that harks back to 1989: there’s none of the distorted electronic fury that characterised 2017’s supremely pissed-off Reputation. The effect makes Swift’s anger feel less brittle, lending it a dish-served-cold poise.

That confidence is the thing that binds Midnights together. There’s a sure-footedness about Swift’s songwriting, filled with subtle, brilliant touches: the moment on Question…?, where, as they describe a drunken conversation, the lyrics simultaneously speed up their rhythm and stop rhyming; You’re on Your Own, Kid’s fantastic description of a now-famous Swift returning to her home town and feeling like a prom queen, albeit a very specific prom queen: “I looked around in a blood-soaked gown,” she sings, invoking the image of Sissy Spacek about to go postal in Carrie. It’s an album that’s cool, collected and mature. It’s also packed with fantastic songs and at a slight remove from everything else currently happening in pop’s upper echelons. As ever, you wouldn’t like to predict what Taylor Swift will do next, but what she’s doing at the moment is very good indeed.