#and are only gradually repairing themselves while worrying about other things like school and what to do in life

[thecindercrow]

Mob Psycho 100 3.02 | “Yokai Hunter Amakusa Haruaki Appears! ~The Thread of a Hundred Demons!~

“Incredible power like that exists in this world... ? I’m so envious.” “You’d think it’s worth being envious of, right? But to them, apparently, it’s not incredible at all.”

[decadentrpg-blog]

WELCOME CHARLES, YOU’VE BEEN ACCEPTED FOR THE ROLE OF LEON ZABINI

Admins Note: Your beautiful interpretation of Leon had me breathless. You’ve encapsulated his essence, his softness as well as his fragility. So many aspects of his kindness, his sweetness is highlighted; it made this a wonderfully joyful and tearful read. His sacrifices can be felt and the aching of his heart rings loud and clear. I can’t wait to see him in action and thank you for your wonderful submission! Congratulations on your acceptance again, please make sure to head your way to the checklist and submit your account within the next 24 hours!

Out of Character

Name / Alias: Charles

Pronouns: he/him

Age: 25

Timezone: PST

In Character Application

Full Name: Leon Ulysse Zabini

Leon — Some would say you don’t have the proper wherewithal to carry a name like this. Would you agree with them? Yes? Oh, but you have the strength of the name, don’t you? Something strong sitting the core of your chest; beating, beating. Something that aches with the strain of the world but does not shatter under the weight of it. There’s a strength in the softness of your heart, and you don’t let anyone change that. Please don’t let anyone change that.

Ulysse — It’s not a common thing to have a middle name in France, and while it could very well be in Italy where your family name originates, you knew France before you ever knew Italy. And after France you knew Scotland. And now… now you know America. Where these things are common. Where you wrote in the name of your childhood crush on an impulse when you were writing in your immigration forms. You needed this weighty reminder of the boys you’ve loved, you needed at least one of them to be with you even when there was no one but yourself in your bed. You needed this comfort. You needed it.

Zabini — It was a surname you carried with a weight you never knew; it was constant; it was inevitable. This was your birthright — this was something you would never be able to escape. Your family carried themselves as if they were as pure-blooded as those who could trace their pure-bloodedness back farther than time cared to remember, but you knew that wasn’t true from the time you were able to read. You knew there were secrets imbedded in your family history that even you knew not to pick at. But, you thought, what if I tried to heal the wounds? What if I gave them something they’d never gotten before?

You were more foolish then than you are now, but you are just as soft; wanting to give, give, give — give until you are running ragged (heart beating against your chest in a frantic, caffeine-fuelled worry of whatever or whoever you’d decided to love), until you are tired of giving but only able to give more. There’s nothing that can’t be fixed with the softness of dusting flour off the cheek of a lover — that’s what you believe. That’s what you want to believe.

Sexuality: he’s absolutely gay, my man.

There was something that settled — small, fluttering — in Leon’s chest when he was young. It was from the gentlest of kisses upon his temples, tucked into the wild curls — only for me, his mind said before his heart; possessive in a way he grew out of, only for me — and, somehow, the warmth of the lips to his skin wormed its way into his heart.

The first crush is always the most instinctual.

He was just a kid, thirteen, and it was simple innocence. Holding hands and weaving dandelion crowns — the world was not meant for this softness — shy cheek kisses, and vulnerability in its purest form.

But it didn’t last, there was no version of the story where it lasted.

Leon came back to Hogwarts at fourteen different, but somehow the same as he’d always been. It was in the summer he made it known to his family that he was trans, and that he wanted to try going back in the autumn as he felt, rather than how he’d been.

The boy whose lips had graced Leon’s temple took the change hard — remained polite, of course, family connections weren’t something to toss away at a moment’s notice — and he refused to give Leon the same softness he’d so freely given him the previous school year.

It was because of this that Leon set his mind to only seeking out girls. But still, Hogwarts years came and went, and the softness of his heart only lead him to heartbreak after heartbreak — he could not be loved in the way he wanted; he could not repair broken stems back to their former glory.

Coming out of Hogwarts, Leon found himself in an arrangement with a girl — and she was a girl, just as he was still a boy, at their fresh-faced nineteen years of age — and he found, in that arrangement, that he loved men.

Oh, how he loved them.

Now, even with his Icarian love of Darius — knowing the other is like the sun, and knowing that Leon himself is boundlessly in love with him — Leon has the deep-seated fear of not choosing the right path; of loving the wrong gender. So, he tries. He tries to give romantic love to the women in his life — and, sometimes, he does a good enough job at convincing himself that he believes it for a few months. But he always circles back to men. Like a bee to a rose. Over, and over.

Gender/Pronouns: trans man; he/him only.

Thankfully, Leon’s family was well connected enough to be able to pull strings and get the right selection of witches and wizards to help him become comfortable with himself — it wouldn’t do well for a Zabini boy to not be allowed to live his best life — and while the muggles in the world were far behind on how to allow people like Leon be comfortable, wizardkind had become prepared with a selection of spells and tonics.

The change was jarring, even though it was gradual. It had become second nature to Leon to have this deep-rooted discomfort with himself, and then, what felt like suddenly, it was getting less and less of a rootwork within him; he was weeding out the garden of himself.

He’s gotten a touch sensitive about anyone using pronouns other than masculine ones for him — regardless of when they are referring to him in his life — and even a neutral singular ‘they’ doesn’t sit well in the pit of his stomach. It feels acidic and sour.

Hogwarts House: Hufflepuff.

There’s a stutter to his heart when the sorting hat calls out Hufflepuff — there’s a moment of pure cold fear that pierces his chest — but the warmth of the welcome to from his new housemates quelled the fear; warmed it with their own joy.

This isn’t where he thought he’d be sorted. But where else would a boy with such a soft heart go? Sure, there was a thirst for knowing deep in his bones but it wasn’t what he prioritized. What he wanted most was harmony — harmony from the people in his life. He wanted to be that guiding light he was never afforded. He wanted to be the anchor to those who are lost in the storm — gathering those who may have been otherwise swallowed by the sea.

It’s a good fit for him, Leon discovers, with the mess of people making for many unique learning opportunities. There’s a certain sort of edge one gets from learning how to deal with those who are the grab-bag of Hogwarts — one gets to gain the knowledge on how to deal with all sorts. And that’s how Leon broke the news to his family that he would not be donning the silver and green like they expected; an expectation simply from seeing other pureblood families carry the Slytherin house name with such gilded pride.

“Maman,” Leon had said, his voice springy and soft with youth, “c'est le meilleur endroit pour moi.” He’d repeat that in each letter while he was away — this is the best place for me — and, eventually, his parents softened in their own way about his sorting. They simply didn’t mention it, for if a Zabini didn’t mention it, then it didn’t bother them anymore. Simply stopping at picking at a scab did wonders for healing, and that’s simply what Leon’s parents did. Stopped.

Headcanons:

1. —honey sweet;

Now, there’s one thing Leon has had since he was a child — softness. There was a distinct peach-softness to his heart before he ever found a reason to share it; ever found a reason to box it up and present it as a pretty little gift to the object of its affections. He’d gotten his first true crush at thirteen — simple childlike puppy crushes had happened before that — but this crush was the first that made him feel he could write pages of clumsy poetry and recite it to the object of his affection, with each beat of his heart as punctuation.

I love you, it’d beat, I love you.

It’s not something he ever wants to lose, but it’s something he’s learned to temper and care for. This wasn’t softness under armour — this was softness as armour. If he couldn’t be there for someone, if he couldn’t be the rock they so desperately needed, he would simply wait. He’d wait for them to come to him, if they ever wanted to, and he’d accept them with open arms.

“Welcome home,” he’d say, his voice soft and sweet as hibiscus and honey, “I missed you. How have you been?”

It was this about him that lead to his sorting into Hufflepuff. The gentleness that sat so easy on the curve of his mouth — in the core of his chest — made the sorting simple. Though he is still very much a gentle man, he doesn’t carry the same innocence as he did as a child. He’s not an overgrown child — gentleness and innocence are not the same thing — he has a gentle nature, not a naïve one.

There’s not a thought in his head of anyone being unworthy, and that is not coming from a place of childishness. It comes from a place of compassion.

People are worthy of chances; worthy of the opportunity to change.

2. —burn;

There was always a white-hot light burning in the back of his mind — he couldn’t move without it burning into his actions. This was dysphoria in its purest form. He didn’t know what to call it, not when he was telling his parents about what he wanted from them (a spell, a potion, hell— even a curse would be preferable to the fire burning him at every opportunity) and it was through sobs that he repeated: I’m burning. Help me, please. I’m burning.

All he wanted was to be able to grow himself in the dark of the earth — soft rich soil between his fingers and underneath his feet, staining his skin a ruddy brown.

But this burning wouldn’t allow him to.

There’s still flares of the fire — few and far between — even as he’s an adult; even as he feels much more comfortable in himself than he ever did as a teenager. There’s nothing that will extinguish the fire, he figures. This is just how he has to live — dousing the iron and hoping it won’t spark again.

For the last few years it’s been steadily cool. Leon hopes it will stay that way.

3. —fair isles;

While he’s just as content in the latest threads as he is in a less fashion-forward suit, something he likes to play with is colour — he will fashion the green of a carnation into the cuffs of his jacket; into the lapel. He will give the crimson necktie a trial along with a sapphire brooch. There’s so much that can be told through colour and cut; weight and wear.

There’s a subtlety in fashion, it’s a code that requires constant updating.

Leon’s favourite outfit is simple, nodding to his time at Hogwarts with that wizard-light heavy-handedness that is lost on muggles: a white or cream dress shirt underneath a Fair Isle sweater in a gold and black (a simple, thin, green line snaking through its pattern); a knit tie or a bowtie (colour entirely dependant on his mood in the morning); charcoal plus-fours; socks that matched his sweater; simple black shoes.

4. —patronus;

Leon’s patronus takes the form of a dove. Some of the traits of those with a dove patronus are that they are optimistic people with strong ambitions who can flutter from place to place giving off their energy, with an equally as strong ambition to help those they care about in any way they are able.

In the specific case of Leon… the dove represents, in addition to the above, the deep-rooted love he carries for people — always believing in the best; always hoping for it.

5. —wand & lore;

Leon’s wand is a fourteen inch, inflexible, dogwood wand with an opposing core of unicorn hair.

Having a wand made with dogwood choose him made Leon fearful of how he would turn out as an adult — dogwood is a hard, violent wood with a known mean streak in its wands — and he didn’t want to become that sort of person. Perhaps one could give credit to the wand’s nature to forcing Leon to nurture the softer parts of himself instead of giving in to the impulsivity of anger or jealousy. Embody the resilience of the wood in his person.

The inflexibility of the wand gave him grief through his Hogwarts years, but he’s a stronger spellmaster because of it — having to know spells in and out before he could even hope to cast them with any accuracy.

A core of unicorn hair soothes the dogwood’s nature — smoothing over the sharp edges with a layer of velvet. It was hearing the core’s material that soothed Leon himself when he was eleven and having been chosen by the wand. It spoke to him: if I can remain gentle with violence around me, so can you.

6. —zodiac;

Leon’s birthday is 21 February, making him a Pisces. Pisces are described as compassionate and kind individuals, but their flaws manifest as being vague, escapist, and idealistic.

When Leon is under enough pressure, he will retreat into himself — hiding away from the realities of the worst of the world in order to indulge in his fantasies. He wants to believe in the best of people — of wizardkind — but sometimes there are individuals that make it starkly obvious that, perhaps, he shouldn’t be extending a laurel to everyone. Perhaps he should be hardening himself against the cruelty of the world instead of allowing them to stab into his soft parts over, and over, and over.

7. —les langues;

Leon’s voice is soft and sweet as if it were steeped in chrysanthemum petals soaked in honey. Though his voice is by volume soft, it carries quite well. The pleasantness of his voice, in his opinion, is partly attributed to the remnants of having French as his first language. While his English is exceptionally good, he’s kept the low buzz of French in his voice — the soft Zs in the stead of harsh THs or the whisperings of Ds instead of hard Ts; the pretty raised Es to the harshness of his Rs — and it’s something he’s oddly proud of. This. This is something that connects him to his family even while they are thousands of miles away. This. This is something he can use to centre himself again. This. This is something that is his.

In Character Paragraph:

“Why don’t you wake him?” the question was quiet, whispered so as to not wake the man that was sleeping on Leon’s shoulder. The asker — Leon’s fiancée — looked to him with her warm brown eyes, trying her best to instil the curiosity she was feeling into the near-silent words.

“I won’t,” Leon whispered back, accent softening the response even more, “He’s sleeping so well.” He was ignoring that his back was screaming from sitting so straight for so long, and that his shoulder was starting to go numb from the weight of the other’s head.

The other man — a boy the same age as them with a curly mop of fiery auburn hair and freckles that looked like constellations across his face and neck (every bit of exposed skin held a handful of freckles) — was lightly snoring; sleeping deeper than he’d probably intended. But Leon didn’t mind. He truly didn’t. This was the current object of his affection — someone that had so captured his heart that the discomfort didn’t compare to the richness of the soil-dark love that was nurturing aster and red chrysanthemum blooms with each word the other man said.

“Why is he sleeping so good?” Her question had a sharpness that Leon didn’t expect. Could it be that she was feeling in some sort of way Leon wasn’t picking up on?

Leon smiled, gentle and sweet. “He’s sleeping so well because he is loved, you know,” he said the words with a softness that matched his smile. Love made even the toughest people tender, and Leon was far from that. He was rarely marigold — full of cruel intentions or jealousy — but simply dandelion — faithful; happy — in each pursuit his heart took him on.

The girl gently pushed the blonde flyaways away from her face, her cheeks full with youth — the three of them were barely twenty — and they were ruddy with a flush. “You’re not supposed to love him,” she said, the embarrassment sitting on her cheeks clear in her tight, quiet voice, “you’re supposed to love me.”

Leon choked — feeling like the air was taken out of his lungs from a single sentence. His heart skipped a beat. He was supposed to love her. “I can love more than one person,” his words were shaky and unsure. The weight on his shoulder was no longer pleasant. It was a burden. It was a reminder of everything he was trying to leave behind. “I still love you more.”

“Do you?” she asked, “Do you really?”

“I—”

“Leon, mon lapinou, you swore you’d love me; that you wouldn’t lie to me,” she sounded hurt with the fracture of a wobble in her voice, “you promised me when you gave me this ring.”

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. The heat in his cheeks painting his embarrassment on his skin. The gentle snoring pressed into his mind with a shame coloured over it — his mind at once giving him the gold-toned dream of sleeping next to the auburn-haired boy, waking up to his gentle snoring after spending a night with him where Leon was free to indulge in what he truly wanted, and the cold-wash reality that he should never be wanting that in the first place. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, eyes stuttering across her face — the stardust smatterings of freckles across the bridge of her nose sparking something in his chest. Not love, but clear affection. “I do love you, more than the stars in the sky.”

It wasn’t a lie.

She leaned into Leon, pressing a featherlight kiss to his lips before going back to her original distance away from Leon. She smiled at Leon, but her eyes were wet.

“What’s wrong?” His heart ached.

“You’re someone else,” she said, “and I’m just— I’m still just right here.” She fixed her blonde fringe again, sniffling. “You’re not who I thought you were.”

Leon could feel his heart get the hairline fractures that led to heartbreak. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. He didn’t want to have this go wrong — he didn’t want this to be a mistake. But playing into old feelings simply hurt all parties involved. “Hélène…,” his voice pittered out. After a swallow, after a wet of his lips, Leon voice his fragile voice again. “I’ve not lied to you.” It was the truth. “I love you dearly. We… we’ll have a family one day you know.” A ghost of a smile picked the corners of his mouth up. He was spinning words that he knew he should want, but weren’t what he wanted. Not with her. It wasn’t malicious, it was an attempt at soothing — at smoothing both her anxiety and his own. “It’s what we both want isn’t it? To have a family to love? To have an opportunity to give our children a play at something better than what we got?”

She dabbed at her eyes, nodding along to Leon’s gentle words.

Leon continued, “Don’t worry, mon ange, I have not changed so much to jeopardize that for you. For us.” He reached for her hand, still careful to not jostle the man asleep on his shoulder, and entwined their fingers. He could feel his own heart breaking. “I will never change so much to do that to you.”

He knew — in that moment — that he would rather live his life for the comfort of others, than for the comfort of himself. Carefully making sure their hearts did not bruise even if his was being rend from end to end.

Extras:

Playlist; https://open.spotify.com/user/intempestivus/playlist/1zbDVQJGtHxAY3Fh5G7gEg?si=uzOm4bz9Q9ivOCR2LgGbIg

Tag on blog; https://charlesecrit.tumblr.com/tagged/ch:%20leon%20zabini

[zukalations]

Farewell Takarazuka Grand Theatre: 4 Top Stars Special Talk

This interview, published in the December 1992 Kageki, features the four Top Stars of the time (Shion Yuu, Mori Keaki, Anju Mira, and Suzukaze Mayo) reminiscing as the Takarazuka Grand Theatre was about to be entirely rebuilt. There’s a lot of details about their early careers and time as fans themselves before entering the company.

Farewell Takarazuka Grand Theatre: 4 Top Stars Special Talk

Participants: Suzukaze Mayo, Shion Yuu, Mori Keaki, Anju Mira

Shion: I’ve been watching Takarazuka e~ver since I was in my mother’s womb, so I’m very sad to lose the Takarazuka Grand Theatre we have now. I love the atmosphere…getting off at Takarazuka station, walking down the road lined with souvenir shops, and going past the onsens to see a show at the Grand Theatre. And then heading back along the Hana no Michi humming the show’s theme song.

Mori: The first time I went inside the Takarazuka Grand Theatre was when I took the TMS entrance exam.

Shion: Really!?

Mori: Until then I had only seen Takarazuka on TV. When I first set foot in Takarazuka, it sort of reminded me of Sendai somehow.

Suzukaze: Ah, I think I understand what you mean.

Mori: It’s a very peaceful area, and everything’s really pretty. When did you first see Takarazuka, Kaname (Suzukaze)?

Suzukaze: I first saw Takarazuka on a field trip in my third year of middle school. I just had a seat behind a pillar, but it was a really vivid memory for me.

Shion: I love that pillar, you know. It really makes me feel like I’m in the Grand Theatre. When I was first a fan and didn’t understand how to get tickets ahead of time, I’d line up for tickets and if I got one it would always be behind that pillar. I’d watch everyone heading up to the seats in front and wonder who on earth they could be to get seats so close.

Suzukaze: When I first saw Takarazuka during the field trip, I thought anyone could meet the stars of the show whenever they liked. So I went to the place where they were renting the opera glasses, pointed to a picture in the program, and asked ‘Please, I’d like to meet this person.’

Shion, Mori, Anju: So cu~te!!

Suzukaze: The young lady there told me 'You can’t do that.’ (laughs)

Mori: When I first saw Takarazuka, I bought same-day tickets and ended up in the very back of the first floor. Watching from that far back the stage looked so far away that it seemed like something I could never reach: it felt like watching TV.

Anju: I first went to the Takarazuka Grand Theatre for Shime (Shion)-san’s TMS Culture Festival.

Mori: I was there too, in the yokasei drum and fife ensemble. (laughs)

Anju: Oh, you were there together~. I came for the entrance exam and saw the Culture Festival, and I was just in time for Snow Troupe’s Gone With The Wind, so I watched that as well, feeling like I was going to fall from the third floor the whole time. I couldn’t see faces clearly, and there was a ton of applause at the opening announcement 'This is Migiwa Natsuko of Snow Troupe,’ so I was really startled. At the Culture Festival, I even saw Shime-san leaving through the stage door.

Shion: The Culture Festival was the first time I set foot on the stage of the Grand Theatre, so I was really emotional~

Mori: You had a quick change coming through the audience, right? That was so moving.

Shion: The costumes were hanging up in the wings, and just seeing that I was like 'Real Takarazuka costumes~’ so it was really emotional for me. I knew it wasn’t like Koshien [1], but I thought 'Maybe I could just take this home after getting off stage…’ (laughs)

Anju: I don’t really remember my Culture Festival well, but when I was doing the address for my debut I was so emotional I thought I would cry.

Suzukaze: I remember being in the yokasei drum and fife ensemble better. For my Culture Festival I feel like I was just desperately trying to get through it.

Shion: And after debuting and gradually becoming a senior actress there are even more various emotions to encounter.

Anju: It’s delightful going up through the lifts, or being on the silver bridge - it’s like your dreams are coming true one by one.

Mori: While when I was started I was always way off to the side where it says 'Hankyu Department Store’ [2], gradually I moved more towards the center until before I even realized it I’d ended up here - that sort of thing is so fascinating.

Suzukaze: On the last day of the Moon Troupe show in the Grand Theatre I felt like it was the most emotional performance we’d ever done. From the start everyone was so enthusiastic and then during the last curtain call we all said 'thank you’ to the Grand Theatre together with the whole audience, which was a really happy moment. I love that theatre, it feels like it raised me…it’s really hard on me to see it go. They told us that by the time Moon Troupe gets back from the Tokyo performance, all the electricity will have been shut off, even the emergency lights, so that made closing day even more emotional.

Mori: Snow Troupe will be the very last to perform in the current Grand Theatre [3], which really is deeply moving. What I keep thinking about is how it’s not just part of my career, but that it’s connected to all the other performers who have stood on that stage for nearly 70 years - to be at the end of that is something that makes me feel happy, pressured, all sorts of emotions. When I start thinking about it I can’t help but feel that the Grand Theatre is a truly amazing place.

Anju: It’s a theatre full of so much history and so many memories.

Shion: It’s so sad~

Suzukaze: Did you take video when you were doing your last Grand Theatre performance?

Shion: I did, I did! From the dressing rooms to the baths (laughs)

Suzukaze: During the Moon Troupe performance, to commemorate it we let even the most junior actresses use the Uni Baths [4], so everyone was happy.

Anju: The stars to the dressing rooms after the shrine to Inari-san leave such an impression, right?

Suzukaze: And don’t the dressing rooms have their own unique scent?

Shion: They do, they do~

Suzukaze: It’s really calming somehow.

Shion: It’s like our home after all…

Mori: I feel like in a way an era is ending with this Grand Theatre and after this will be a fresh start.

Shion: Of course I have to be happy about a brand new Takarazuka Grand Theatre being built, but it’s actually a very complicated feeling, and I’m so sad I can hardly bear it…

Mori: I think there is going to be a bit of a dividing line between those who will only know the new Grand Theatre, and it’s going to be hardest on those like us who will experience both theatres. Which would be everyone here now…

Suzukaze: On the last day of the Moon Troupe performances, during the curtain call our kumichou said 'I feel the new Grand Theatre will inherit all the gathered memories that our current Grand Theatre has protected.’ When I heard it I thought 'That’s really it.’ The new Grand Theatre will be good in its own way, and since humans are territorial creatures we’ll surely get used to it, but emotionally, the current Grand Theatre seems to know all our joys and strengths so it’s very sad.

Mori: It’ll be really tough until we get used to the new theatre, I’m sure. When we were doing the photoshoot in the audience seats I was thinking 'this is really our home’ - it really feels like it’s full of the souls of so many different people.

Shion: it’s a living building. You can feel the life in it.

Mori: I heard that in the new Grand Theatre, the state operations will be controlled by a computer system, but I won’t be able to forget the artistic skill of all the stage staff who have supported us until now. For example, how happy a feeling it is when the spotlight operator shuts off the light, bam! at the perfect moment. It’s a really great feeling, like, 'we’re in perfect sync!’ It’s rather like a mental art so it’s very unfortunate that it will go away. There are so many stagehands doing hard, sweaty work to support us, and all sorts of other staff giving their all out of love to put these productions together. I loved that feeling of what we do being a collaborative art.

Anju: In Fancy Touch I’m on top of a pyramid in the prologue, and they got me up there backstage through human power. I think if you didn’t have a trusting relationship with the stagehands you’d surely be too scared to do that sort of thing. So it makes me wonder what will become of that in the future as well.

Suzukaze: Like Yan-san (Anju), when I was in PUCK there were mechanisms moving me through the air and such, and there wasn’t a single error through the whole production. When I’m in this current Grand Theatre I can really feel that us actresses can’t make a show all by ourselves, but it starts with all the people supporting and helping us. My strongest memory is the warmth, how people would do things like say 'good luck’ during a performance. I’m sure that won’t change even when we go to the new theatre, but I still have a lot of worries.

Mori: I’m sure everyone has a lot of doubts and concerns about starting over, but I feel that once we get started in the new theatre we’ll be able to enjoy it. But still, this theatre is filled with so many memories they can’t even be expressed in words.

Shion: I can’t forget the performance of War and Peace when the Grand Theatre stairs broke. They weren’t able to repair them in time for the last performance, so even though so many people were retiring - Shou-chan (Haruna Yuri), Rin-chan (Tajima Kumi), Pucchii-san (Azumi Reika), Maimai (Minakaze Mai), and so many others - through the whole run we had to use a staircase with only a few steps, as if it was a regional production. If we start talking about all the memories of things like that that have happened in this Grand Theatre there’ll be no end to it.

Mori: By the way, it’s quite unusual for all 4 of us to be able to talk like this. What’s really interesting is that there’s only one class year between each of us [5].

Shion: That’s right, even though I feel like some of us are together for magazine features and such regularly. I’ve had newspaper intervieews and such together with Yan often, so if I’m asked about her reason for joining the company or something I can answer easily. (laughs)

Anju: I can do the same for Shime-san! (laughs)

Mori: I’ve done events and special appearances for a while, so I feel like we’ve been well acquainted for some time. When we’re all face to face like this it ends up feeling like a school reunion.

Anju: We were able to appear together in The Rose of Versailles [6] as well.

Suzukaze: That’s right. Even though I was a yokasei when Yan was a honkasei, we didn’t have any interaction [in TMS], but we became close when we were playing Oscar in The Rose of Versailles. After that, when you saw Memories of You, you told me 'your dancing has gotten better’, and that one sentence made me so happy I felt like jumping for joy and I started crying.

Anju: No way~ (laughs)

Suzukaze: That one statement gave me energy all the way through to the end of the run. I think Takarazuka is fascinating because of all the different sorts of shows all four troupes can do.

Shion: It’s great that each troupe has its own specialty.

Anju: I could never do Puck.

Suzukaze: If you put the ears on anyone could do it! (laughs)

Anju: They’d say I was an evil spirit, not a fairy. (laughs)

Shion: But it’s really sad that even though all four of us are together, Karincho (Mori) is about to retire. I feel like I’m losing my last comrade-in-arms I’ve spent all this time with, together with the Grand Theatre, which makes it all even more painful. I have so many memories welling up, but I’ve already told the person in question (laughs) so I won’t repeat all that! But I’m really so happy we will be able to perform together in the new Grand Theatre in January [7]!

Anju: Karincho-san was already a star even when she was still in TMS. You were somehow different from everyone else, and you were amazing even then. Being in the center seemed to suit you, so you would be placed in the center naturally from the beginning, and you could change the whole atmosphere around you.

Suzukaze: When me and Mori-san played Oscar and Andre together in The Rose of Versailles [8], I was so affected I wished I couuld steal even a tiny bit of Mori-san’s unique qualities for myself… While I think it’s really appropriate that you are the last to perform in the Grand Theatre, personally I wish you could be there forever. Please don’t leave~!! I’ll be there behind you taking notes as long as you’re here.

Mori: Thank you so much, everyone. Takarazuka is such a wonderful place, and I’ve had so much fun working with everyone to put on the shows, and the Top Stars all help each other out so warmly. Gosh, I’m going to cry… (laughs) Having the opportunity to be Top for four years, I had so many different experiences as both a stage performer and a human being, and I don’t have any regrets.

Shion: I’m really happy that Karincho-san and so many others will be there in January for the opening performance of the new theatre. Star Troupe is happy to have you.

Mori: I’ll be there getting in the way from the first show~ I’m glad I’ll be able to make one more good memory. I’ll have to investigate e~verything about the new Grand Theatre. I’m looking forward to it, hahaha.

Anju: While I’m sure I’ll be a bother in a lot of ways, I think I’m very lucky to have a special appearance in Star Troupe productions in both the old and new theatres. Thank you to everyone in Star Troupe for having us.

Suzukaze: I’ll give it my all. While I don’t know yet what they’ll be having me do, I want to be myself and enjoy the show with the kind help of the Star Troupe members. My dream to do a Japanese-themed show is coming true, and while I’m sure I’ll be terribly clumsy I’m prepared to do whatever it takes. Directors, Senka members, everyone in Star Troupe, please take care of Suzukaze Mayo. I think when I’m onstage at the new Grand Theatre in the Star Troupe performance I’ll feel even more that this Grand Theatre is really gone.

Anju: Even if I wail and cry, this Grand Theatre will still be gone, so although I’ll be sad and miss it dearly, I would like to go onstage at the new theatre with fresh emotions.

Mori: I’m very grateful that Snow Troupe will be closing out the Grand Theatre. There’s only one thing remaining for me, which is to give this Grand Theatre, that has been filled with everyone’s memories, a brilliant conclusion. Every day I express my gratitude to the Grand Theatre so I feel confident it will go well.

Shion: Thank you!! After this when you appear in the new theatre’s opening production, we can begin building a new history together.

1. I think this is a reference to the special uniforms worn by teams competing in the Koshien baseball tournament.

2. In very old shows, the Grand Theatre drop curtain said ‘Hankyu Department Store’ on the side, where lower-ranking actresses would end up.

3. The Takarazuka run of The 47 Ronin was the last production to take place in the old Grand Theatre.

4. The Grand Theatre (old and new as far as I can tell) has three bathing areas separated by rank, with the Uni Baths reserved for the most senior actresses.

5. Shion Yuu, 64th class; Mori Keaki, 65th class; Anju Mira, 66th class; Suzukaze Mayo, 67th class.

6. 1990 Fersen production starring Ooura Mizuki.

7. The Star Troupe Houjushou/Parfum de Paris was the opening performance in the rebuilt Grand Theatre, featuring guests from the other troupes.

8. 1991 Oscar production starring Suzukaze Mayo.

[mirage-krp]

The guardians welcome [ SHIN, HANEUL ] to the city of Jeonseol. He is [ A VAMPIRE ] currently living in [ ZIRCON ] and working as [ OWNER ] of [ THE SECRET GARDEN ] and [ BABYSITTER ].

Welcome to Mirage! Please follow the  admin twitter  within 48 hours of your acceptance.

Faceclaim: Park Seonghwa

Name: Shin Haneul

Nickname(s): Han

Age: over 100, appears 25

Date of birth: 1900s

Species/myth/cryptid/etc:

Vampire (Darren Shan Lore)

Haneul’s clan differs from the typical vampires of myth. They’re blooded through the swapping of blood; a vampire cuts their fingertips and the fingertips of the human they wish to turn, they then press the cuts against each other and let the blood flow between them. As such, Haneul has scars on the tips of his fingers which his clan can use to identify other clan members.

They don’t kill when feeding, nor do they use or have fangs. Instead they use their strong fingernails to create a small cut and drink only what they need. Most vampires in his clan carry bottles of blood with them, although fresh is best. They also eat regular food too, to tide them over until their next feeding.

Superhuman speed & endurance: Haneul and his clan are able to cover vast distances in a short amount of time without getting tired. His skin and bones are tougher than the average human’s, too.

Superhuman Strength: He’s far stronger than the average human and could, if he wanted to, fend off or kill them with ease. His teeth and nails are also much stronger.

Superhuman Senses: Heightened senses are typical among his clan, including the ability to see relatively well in the dark.

Healing: He heals/recovers much faster than humans and he’s resistant to most illnesses and diseases. His clan also have healing spit, capable of healing small wounds and speeding up the healing process on larger ones. They usually use this to heal the wound made on a human after feeding.

Knockout Gas: On command, his breath can be infused with a type of harmless anesthetic that renders people completely unconscious.

Weaknesses:

Sunlight. He burns easily and can’t stay out during the day for longer than an hour. A tolerance can be built up very gradually but Haneul prefers not to be in a constant sunburnt hell.

He isn’t immortal. Vampires from his clan can live for a very long time, however, they still feel the effects of aging, just as humans do.

He can still get scars, die from gunshot wounds, mutilation, decapitation and piercing of the heart.

Modern projectile weapons are forbidden among his clan. If caught using one Haneul would be disgraced. They’re also encouraged to only use weapons they’ve crafted themselves.

Haneul and his clan are unable to reproduce.

Favourite song or quote: “It is too easy to say 'what if' and paint a picture of a perfect world.”

Residence: Zircon 10

Occupation: Owner of The Secret Garden

Personality:

Haneul’s longer than average life and the events leading up to the present are the reason he’s now so mellow. He was given a new perspective along with the time to dwell on, and eventually work through, the things that had such a hold on him before he was blooded. Occasionally he’ll become weighed down by memories and will find himself slipping into his old ways, during which times he questions why he’s alive, why he of all people was given a second chance and not someone more deserving.

He’s deeply ashamed of who he used to be and prefers to draw a line between his past and present self. He feels like a different person but worries he might not have grown as much as he thinks he has.

Nothing really upsets or riles him up, which some people take as a lack of interest, passion, or attachment, which is far from the truth. There are things and people he cares deeply for but finds it difficult to show it on short notice, he needs time to articulate and gather his thoughts.

He’s wise, sometimes pedantic, prone to rambling when a few sentences could express what he’s trying to say. His words are always chosen carefully which can make him seem a bit stiff, in reality he’s learned to take his time with everything he does, after all he has a lot of it to spare.

Background:

tw: alcoholism, mention of suicide

South Korea, 1900s.

From birth, throughout school, to his first job, Haneul and his family struggled to make ends meet. They lived pay check to pay check, never certain whether they’d have enough money for bills, groceries, or anything else. Treats were far and few between and the family were constantly in a state of repairing the stress induced cracks in their relationships. His father was a drunk, pissing away the family’s money whenever he could get his hands on it. Haneul’s mother hid what little she could, though it never stayed that way for long.

At 20 years old Haneul followed in his father’s footsteps. In an act he now sees as selfish, he began drinking secretly. Every time he received a pay check he’d spend a portion of it on alcohol for him and him alone, while making excuses each time as to why his wage wasn’t as much as it should be.

Drinking dulled the ache of living the way he had been, always working, never catching a break, unable to see the light at the end of the tunnel. He understood why his father had started drinking, it was easier than facing things head on without any kind of buffer. At least, with alcohol, things didn’t seem quite so bad, for a little while anyway.

While out drinking after work one night, Haneul was frantically pulled out of a bar by his neighbour, who then dragged the boy home. What met Haneul wasn’t the sight of his family’s house, but the sight of flames licking the outside walls while people around him tried desperately to put it out. All he could do was stare, suddenly feeling more sober than he had in a long time. Once the initial shock wore off, Haneul searched for his family but found no one. His parents were in bed when the fire started, and although his younger sister tried to wake them, she’d become trapped in her room, unable to get help or escape. All three perished, leaving Haneul to stand staring at the ashen remains of his life.

Days afterward Haneul found himself sitting in that same bar once again, but even drink after drink, all paid for by well wishers and neighbours, couldn’t stop the hurting. The loneliness he felt was overwhelming, like a black hole had formed around him and was trying its best to consume him whole. The guilt formed a lump in his throat that he couldn’t rid himself of regardless of how much he drank. It didn’t take long for Haneul to make up his mind; he wanted to end it all. Maybe in the afterlife he’d get to apologize for not being there, if he even ended up in the same place after what he’d done.

Abandoning a half finished drink, Haneul left the bar in search of trouble. All he needed to do was to rile up the wrong person, get them so angry they’d see red, and before he knew it his life would be over as it should be. Haneul staggered down an alleyway, spotted the silhouette of a tall man, and began following him. The other sped up, slipped in and out of side streets, but Haneul was relentless.

Finally, the man stopped dead in his tracks and turned to size up his pursuer. Haneul approached the man with his fists raised and words slurred, challenging the stranger to a fight. Called him every name under the sun in an attempt to rile the other up, but to no avail. What met him was a look of pity, as if the other understood exactly what he was going through.

Undeterred, Haneul pulled back his fist, meaning to strike the stranger, but missed by a mile when the man effortlessly dashed to the other end of the alleyway in the matter of a few seconds.

Instead of being beaten and left for dead that day, Haneul found another family. The stranger he’d followed was a vampire, though he was unlike any Haneul had ever heard about. Rather than the blood thirsty monsters of myth, this particular clan were noble warriors, wishing only to preserve their way of life. They fed only when they had to and never killed the human they drank from. They lived by a strict set of rules and laid great importance in brotherhood, all clansmen were bound by the shared blood that ran through their veins.

With nothing to lose and even less to live for, Haneul was blooded and welcomed into the clan with open arms. He began ageing much slower, which prompted him to leave his old life and home behind, instead opting to follow his mentor around for the next 15 years. The two saw many places on their travels, Haneul realized the world wasn’t as small as he thought it was. His past life, the struggles he’d faced, all seemed so significant in the grand scheme of things. Although this revelation did little to dull the sadness he felt at the loss of his family, it did help him on his way to accepting it.

After many years of travelling, Haneul decided it was time to part ways with his mentor in order to find a place to put down roots. It was easier said than done however, given he wasn’t human, but after a few months of testing a few different places, he received an envelope addressed to him. Inside was an invitation to Jeonseol, a city where his slowed ageing and other vampiric quirks wouldn’t be an issue.

Any wanted connections?: None right now!

[readbookywooks]

Wheels

"Yeah," said the red-haired girl, in the garden of the deserted casino. "We seen her, me and Paolo both seen her. She come through here days ago." Father Gomez said, "And do you remember what she looked like?" "She look hot," said the little boy. "Sweaty in the face, all right." "How old did she seem to be?" "About..." said the girl, considering, "I suppose maybe forty or fifty. We didn't see her close. She could be thirty, maybe. But she was hot, like Paolo said, and she was carrying a big rucksack, much bigger than yours, this big..." Paolo whispered something to her, screwing up his eyes to look at the priest as he did so. The sun was bright in his face. "Yeah," said the girl impatiently, "I know. The Specters," she said to Father Gomez, "she wasn' afraid of the Specters at all. She just walked through the city and never worried a bit. I ain' never seen a grownup do that before, all right. She looked like she didn' know about them, even. Same as you," she added, looking at him with a challenge in her eyes. "There's a lot I don't know," said Father Gomez mildly. The little boy plucked at her sleeve and whispered again. "Paolo says," she told the priest, "he thinks you're going to get the knife back." Father Gomez felt his skin bristle. He remembered the testimony of Fra Pavel in the inquiry at the Consistorial Court: this must be the knife he meant. "If I can," he said, "I shall. The knife comes from here, does it?" "From the Torre degli Angeli," said the girl, pointing at the square stone tower over the red-brown rooftops. It shimmered in the midday glare. "And the boy who stole it, he kill our brother, Tullio. The Specters got him, all right. You want to kill that boy, that's okay. And the girl - she was a liar, she was as bad as him." "There was a girl, too?" said the priest, trying not to seem too interested. "Lying filth," spat the red-haired child. "We nearly killed them both, but then there came some women, flying women - " "Witches," said Paolo. "Witches, and we couldn' fight them. They took them away, the girl and boy. We don' know where they went. But the woman, she came later. We thought maybe she got some kind of knife, to keep the Specters away, all right. And maybe you have, too," she added, lifting her chin to stare at him boldly. "I have no knife," said Father Gomez. "But I have a sacred task. Maybe that is protecting me against these - Specters." "Yeah," said the girl, "maybe. Anyway, you want her, she went south, toward the mountains. We don' know where. But you ask anyone, they know if she go past, because there ain' no one like her in Ci'gazze, not before and not now. She be easy to find." "Thank you, Angelica," said the priest. "Bless you, my children." He shouldered his pack, left the garden, and set off through the hot, silent streets, satisfied. After three days in the company of the wheeled creatures, Mary Malone knew rather more about them, and they knew a great deal about her. That first morning they carried her for an hour or so along the basalt highway to a settlement by a river, and the journey was uncomfortable; she had nothing to hold on to, and the creature's back was hard. They sped along at a pace that frightened her, but the thunder of their wheels on the hard road and the beat of their scudding feet made her exhilarated enough to ignore the discomfort. And in the course of the ride she became more aware of the creatures' physiology. Like the grazers' skeletons, theirs had a diamond-shaped frame, with a limb at each of the corners. Sometime in the distant past, a line of ancestral creatures must have developed this structure and found it worked, just as generations of long-ago crawling things in Mary's world had developed the central spine. The basalt highway led gradually downward, and after a while the slope increased, so the creatures could freewheel. They tucked their side legs up and steered by leaning to one side or the other, and hurtled along at a speed Mary found terrifying - though she had to admit that the creature she was riding never gave her the slightest feeling of danger. If only she'd had something to hold on to, she would have enjoyed it. At the foot of the mile-long slope, there was a stand of the great trees, and nearby a river meandered on the level grassy ground. Some way off, Mary saw a gleam that looked like a wider expanse of water, but she didn't spend long looking at that, because the creatures were making for a settlement on the riverbank, and she was burning with curiosity to see it. There were twenty or thirty huts, roughly grouped in a circle, made of - she had to shade her eyes against the sun to see - wooden beams covered with a kind of wattle-and-daub mixture on the walls and thatch on the roofs. Other wheeled creatures were working: some repairing a roof, others hauling a net out of the river, others bringing brushwood for a fire. So they had language, and they had fire, and they had society. And about then she found an adjustment being made in her mind, as the word creatures became the word people. These beings weren't human, but they were people, she told herself; it's not them, they're us. They were quite close now, and seeing what was coming, some of the villagers looked up and called to each other to look. The party from the road slowed to a halt, and Mary clambered stiffly down, knowing that she would ache later on. "Thank you," she said to her, her what? Her steed? Her cycle? Both ideas were absurdly wrong for the bright-eyed amiability that stood beside her. She settled for - friend. He raised his trunk and imitated her words: "Anku," he said, and again they laughed, in high spirits. She took her rucksack from the other creature ("Anku! Anku!") and walked with them off the basalt and on to the hard-packed earth of the village. And then her absorption truly began. In the next few days she learned so much that she felt like a child again, bewildered by school. What was more, the wheeled people seemed to be just as wonderstruck by her. Her hands, to begin with. They couldn't get enough of them: their delicate trunks felt over every joint, searching out thumbs, knuckles, and fingernails, flexing them gently, and they watched with amazement as she picked up her rucksack, conveyed food to her mouth, scratched, combed her hair, washed. In return, they let her feel their trunks. They were infinitely flexible, and about as long as her arm, thicker where they joined the head, and quite powerful enough to crush her skull, she guessed. The two finger-like projections at the tip were capable of enormous force and great gentleness; the creatures seemed to be able to vary the tone of their skin on the underside, on their equivalent of fingertips, from a soft velvet to a solidity like wood. As a result, they could use them for both a delicate task like milking a grazer and the rough business of tearing and shaping branches. Little by little, Mary realized that their trunks were playing a part in communication, too. A movement of the trunk would modify the meaning of a sound, so the word that sounded like "chuh" meant water when it was accompanied by a sweep of the trunk from left to right, rain when the trunk curled up at the tip, sadness when it curled under, and young shoots of grass when it made a quick flick to the left. As soon as she saw this, Mary imitated it, moving her arm as best she could in the same way, and when the creatures realized that she was beginning to talk to them, their delight was radiant. Once they had begun to talk (mostly in the wheeled people's language, although she managed to teach them a few words of English: they could say "anku" and "grass" and "tree" and "sky" and "river," and pronounce her name, with a little difficulty) they progressed much more quickly. Their word for themselves as a people was mulefa, but an individual was a zalif. Mary thought there was a difference between the sounds for he-zalif and she-zalif, but it was too subtle for her to imitate easily. She began to write it all down and compile a dictionary. But before she let herself become truly absorbed, she took out her battered paperback and the yarrow stalks, and asked the I Ching: Should I be here doing this, or should I go on somewhere else and keep searching? The reply came: Keeping still, so that restlessness dissolves; then, beyond the tumult, one can perceive the great laws. It went on: As a mountain keeps still within itself, thus a wise man does not permit his will to stray beyond his situation. That could hardly be clearer. She folded the stalks away and closed the book, and then realized that she'd drawn a circle of watching creatures around her. One said, Question? Permission? Curious. She said, Please. Look. Very delicately their trunks moved, sorting through the stalks in the same counting movement she'd been making, or turning the pages of the book. One thing they were astonished by was the doubleness of her hands: by the fact that she could both hold the book and turn the pages at the same time. They loved to watch her lace her fingers together, or play the childhood game of "This is the church, and this is the steeple," or make that over-and-over thumb-to-opposite forefinger movement that was what Ama was using, at exactly the same moment in Lyra's world, as a charm to keep evil spirits away. Once they had examined the yarrow stalks and the book, they folded the cloth over them carefully and put them with the book into her rucksack. She was happy and reassured by the message from ancient China, because it meant that what she wanted most to do was exactly, at that moment, what she should do. So she set herself to learning more about the mulefa, with a cheerful heart. She learned that there were two sexes, and that they lived monogamously in couples. Their offspring had long childhoods - ten years at least - growing very slowly, as far as she could interpret their explanation. There were five young ones in this settlement, one almost grown and the others somewhere in between, and being smaller than the adults, they could not manage the seedpod wheels. The children had to move as the grazers did, with all four feet on the ground, but for all their energy and adventurousness (skipping up to Mary and shying away, trying to clamber up tree trunks, floundering in the shallow water, and so on), they seemed clumsy, as if they were in the wrong element. The speed and power and grace of the adults was startling by contrast, and Mary saw how much a growing youngster must long for the day when the wheels would fit. She watched the oldest child, one day, go quietly to the storehouse where a number of seedpods were kept, and try to fit his foreclaw into the central hole; but when he tried to stand up, he fell over at once, trapping himself, and the sound attracted an adult. The child struggled to get free, squeaking with anxiety, and Mary couldn't help laughing at the sight, at the indignant parent and the guilty child, who pulled himself out at the last minute and scampered away. The seedpod wheels were clearly of the utmost importance, and soon Mary began to see just how valuable they were. The mulefa spent much of their time, to begin with, in maintaining their wheels. By deftly lifting and twisting the claw, they could slip it out of the hole, and then they used their trunks to examine the wheel all over, cleaning the rim, checking for cracks. The claw was formidably strong: a spur of horn or bone at right angles to the leg, and slightly curved so that the highest part, in the middle, bore the weight as it rested on the inside of the hole. Mary watched one day as a zalif examined the hole in her front wheel, touching here and there, lifting her trunk up in the air and back again, as if sampling the scent. Mary remembered the oil she'd found on her fingers when she had examined the first seedpod. With the zalif 's permission she looked at her claw, and found the surface more smooth and slick than anything she'd felt on her world. Her fingers simply would not stay on the surface. The whole of the claw seemed impregnated with the faintly fragrant oil, and after she had seen a number of the villagers sampling, testing, checking the state of their wheels and their claws, she began to wonder which had come first: wheel or claw? Rider or tree? Although of course there was a third element as well, and that was geology. Creatures could only use wheels on a world that provided them with natural highways. There must be some feature of the mineral content of these stone roads that made them run in ribbon-like lines over the vast savanna, and be so resistant to weathering or cracking. Little by little, Mary came to see the way everything was linked together, and all of it, seemingly, managed by the mulefa. They knew the location of every herd of grazers, every stand of wheel trees, every clump of sweet grass, and they knew every individual within the herds, and every separate tree, and they discussed their well-being and their fate. On one occasion she saw the mulefa cull a herd of grazers, selecting some individuals and herding them away from the rest, to dispatch them by breaking their necks with a wrench of a powerful trunk. Nothing was wasted. Holding flakes of razor-sharp stone in their trunks, the mulefa skinned and gutted the animals within minutes, and then began a skillful butchery, separating out the offal and the tender meat and the tougher joints, trimming the fat, removing the horns and the hooves, and working so efficiently that Mary watched with the pleasure she felt at seeing anything done well. Soon strips of meat were hanging to dry in the sun, and others were packed in salt and wrapped in leaves; the skins were scraped clear of fat, which was set by for later use, and then laid to soak in pits of water filled with oak bark to tan; and the oldest child was playing with a set of horns, pretending to be a grazer, making the other children laugh. That evening there was fresh meat to eat, and Mary feasted well. In a similar way the mulefa knew where the best fish were to be had, and exactly when and where to lay their nets. Looking for something she could do, Mary went to the net-makers and offered to help. When she saw how they worked, not on their own but two by two, working their trunks together to tie a knot, she realized why they'd been so astonished by her hands, because of course she could tie knots on her own. At first she felt that this gave her an advantage - she needed no one else - and then she realized how it cut her off from others. Perhaps all human beings were like that. And from that time on, she used one hand to knot the fibers, sharing the task with a female zalif who had become her particular friend, fingers and trunk moving in and out together. But of all the living things the wheeled people managed, it was the seedpod trees that they took most care with. There were half a dozen groves within the area looked after by this group. There were others farther away, but they were the responsibility of other groups. Each day a party went out to check on the well-being of the mighty trees, and to harvest any fallen seedpods. It was clear what the mulefa gained; but how did the trees benefit from this interchange? One day she saw. As she was riding along with the group, suddenly there was a loud crack, and everyone came to a halt, surrounding one individual whose wheel had split. Every group carried a spare or two with it, so the zalif with the broken wheel was soon remounted; but the broken wheel itself was carefully wrapped in a cloth and taken back to the settlement. There they prized it open and took out all the seeds - flat pale ovals as big as Mary's little fingernail - and examined each one carefully. They explained that the seedpods needed the constant pounding they got on the hard roads if they were to crack at all, and also that the seeds were difficult to germinate. Without the mulefa 's attention, the trees would all die. Each species depended on the other, and furthermore, it was the oil that made it possible. It was hard to understand, but they seemed to be saying that the oil was the center of their thinking and feeling; that young ones didn't have the wisdom of their elders because they couldn't use the wheels, and thus could absorb no oil through their claws. And that was when Mary began to see the connection between the mulefa and the question that had occupied the past few years of her life. But before she could examine it any further (and conversations with the mulefa were long and complex, because they loved qualifying and explaining and illustrating their arguments with dozens of examples, as if they had forgotten nothing and everything they had ever known was available immediately for reference), the settlement was attacked. Mary was the first to see the attackers coming, though she didn't know what they were. It happened in midafternoon, when she was helping repair the roof of a hut. The mulefa only built one story high, because they were not climbers; but Mary was happy to clamber above the ground, and she could lay thatch and knot it in place with her two hands, once they had shown her the technique, much more quickly than they could. So she was braced against the rafters of a house, catching the bundles of reeds thrown up to her, and enjoying the cool breeze from the water that was tempering the heat of the sun, when her eye was caught by a flash of white. It came from that distant glitter she thought was the sea. She shaded her eyes and saw one - two - more, a fleet of tall white sails, emerging out of the heat haze, some way off but making with a silent grace for the river mouth. Mary! called the zalif from below. What are you seeing? She didn't know the word for sail, or boat, so she said tall, white, many. At once the zalif gave a call of alarm, and everyone in earshot stopped work and sped to the center of the settlement, calling the young ones. Within a minute all the mulefa were ready to flee. Atal, her friend, called: Mary! Mary! Come! Tualapi! Tualapi! It had all happened so quickly that Mary had hardly moved. The white sails by this time had already entered the river, easily making headway against the current. Mary was impressed by the discipline of the sailors: they tacked so swiftly, the sails moving together like a flock of starlings, all changing direction simultaneously. And they were so beautiful, those snow white slender sails, bending and dipping and filling - There were forty of them, at least, and they were coming upriver much more swiftly than she'd thought. But she saw no crew on board, and then she realized that they weren't boats at all: they were gigantic birds, and the sails were their wings, one fore and one aft, held upright and flexed and trimmed by the power of their own muscles. There was no time to stop and study them, because they had already reached the bank, and were climbing out. They had necks like swans, and beaks as long as her forearm. Their wings were twice as tall as she was, and - she glanced back, frightened now, over her shoulder as she fled - they had powerful legs: no wonder they had moved so fast on the water. She ran hard after the mulefa, who were calling her name as they streamed out of the settlement and onto the highway. She reached them just in time: her friend Atal was waiting, and as Mary scrambled on her back, Atal beat the road with her feet, speeding away up the slope after her companions. The birds, who couldn't move as fast on land, soon gave up the chase and turned back to the settlement. They tore open the food stores, snarling and growling and tossing their great cruel beaks high as they swallowed the dried meat and all the preserved fruit and grain. Everything edible was gone in under a minute. And then the tualapi found the wheel store, and tried to smash open the great seedpods, but that was beyond them. Mary felt her friends tense with alarm all around her as they watched from the crest of the low hill and saw pod after pod hurled to the ground, kicked, rasped by the claws on the mighty legs, but of course no harm came to them from that. What worried the mulefa was that several of them were pushed and shoved and nudged toward the water, where they floated heavily downstream toward the sea. Then the great snow-white birds set about demolishing everything they could see with brutal, raking blows of their feet and stabbing, smashing, shaking, tearing movements of their beaks. The mulefa around her were murmuring, almost crooning with sorrow. I help, Mary said. We make again. But the foul creatures hadn't finished yet; holding their beautiful wings high, they squatted among the devastation and voided their bowels. The smell drifted up the slope with the breeze; heaps and pools of green-black-brown-white dung lay among the broken beams, the scattered thatch. Then, their clumsy movement on land giving them a swaggering strut, the birds went back to the water and sailed away downstream toward the sea. Only when the last white wing had vanished in the afternoon haze did the mulefa ride down the highway again. They were full of sorrow and anger, but mainly they were powerfully anxious about the seedpod store. Out of the fifteen pods that had been there, only two were left. The rest had been pushed into the water and lost. But there was a sandbank in the next bend of the river, and Mary thought she could spot a wheel that was caught there; so to the mulefa 's surprise and alarm, she took off her clothes, wound a length of cord around her waist, and swam across to it. On the sandbank she found not one but five of the precious wheels, and passing the cord through their softening centers, she swam heavily back, pulling them behind her. The mulefa were full of gratitude. They never entered the water themselves, and only fished from the bank, taking care to keep their feet and wheels dry. Mary felt she had done something useful for them at last. Later that night, after a scanty meal of sweet roots, they told her why they had been so anxious about the wheels. There had once been a time when the seedpods were plentiful, and when the world was rich and full of life, and the mulefa lived with their trees in perpetual joy. But something bad had happened many years ago - some virtue had gone out of the world - because despite every effort and all the love and attention the mulefa could give them, the wheel-pod trees were dying.