#bee fearless n create

[blu-writes]

Ooooh, so many options! In that case, can I request an adult human reader for Prime that is trying to get info out of the bots for romantic gifts and gestures for their culture so they can try to do something for Optimus on Valentine's day to showcase their romantic interest and respect for the Autobot leader? I'll let you decide if the story ends in a PG rating or something higher~

A Gift from the Spark

TFP! Optimus Prime x Human!Reader

A/N: Soooo I lost my entire first draft of this story when it was 98% done.. 🥲 This will HOPEFULLY be out before Valentine’s Day, but I’m trying not to rush it too much. While you’re here, you should go follow me on twitter @ gloopyVT !! My VTuber Debut is in the works and I’m super excited to get the ball rolling on that!

Warnings: Cursing, NSFW ending, 18+ only!

A sigh escaped your lips as you scrolled on your phone. People all over town were posting pictures and videos of themselves out on dates and romantic trips with their significant others. Normally this time of year excited you, not because of all the dates, no, you liked it because the candy is half price for like a week afterwards!!

But this year, a certain bot had your eye. The two of you had multiple nights in each other’s company, talking about the things that troubled you both and about Cybertron, his home planet. Optimus Prime was the strong, and fearless leader of the Autobots, never backing down from a fight. But on long restless nights, he confided in you, explaining how much he wants to go home, how tired he was of this endless war. And you letting him ramble and vent had created a special friendship between you two, one that had began to make you have butterflies every time you looked at him, one that made your core heat up with no warning.

You would do anything to show him you cared. No more hiding the feelings you had for him, no more avoiding eye contact because you were scared he could tell how much you enjoyed his company. This year you wanted to do something that would show him just how much you appreciated him and how you really felt about him.

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

You got into your car and raced towards the Autobot base, hoping that Optimus was away either on a mission or a patrol so that you could get a chance to talk with the bots. You had no idea what Optimus would enjoy or appreciate, and you wanted to make sure you did something special for him so that he’d understand the full extent of your feelings.

As you pulled into the base, your heart raced with nerves. If he was here, your whole plan to talk to the other Autobots would be tossed out the window, and then you might as well just tell him how you feel anyways and leave to save yourself the embarrassment of his rejection.

‘Solid escape plan y/n. If all else fails, just run away and move to another state! He’ll never find me if I do that!’

Walking into the base, you kept an ear out for the familiar, deep voice of the fearless Prime, breathing a sigh of relief when you realized he wasn’t there. “Hey guys! Whatcha up to?” Bulkhead and Bumblebee sat behind Miko and Raf, watching them play some racing game against each other.

Bumblebee waved at you, chirping his hellos and Bulkhead got up to greet you, carrying you down into the main area where they all sat. “Hey y/n! How’s it hanging?” Miko paused the game and turned on the couch to look back at you, Raf following her actions. “Not much honestly, but I need to borrow you two-“ you pointed at Bee and Bulkhead “I need to ask you guys’ opinion on something.”

They got up and walked towards one of the hallways where you all could talk privately, leaving Miko and Raf to play their games once more as you followed them. “Alright. Do you two know what Valentine’s Day is?” They both nodded, “Yeah we’ve heard about it from the kids. Why?” You took a deep breath, were you really about to tell these two that you had feelings for their leader? Bumblebee's eye's lit up, he started buzzing and chirping happily at Bulkhead before calming down and letting Bulkhead take in what he was saying. "Hold on y/n, you're gonna ask Prime to be your Valentine?!" Your cheeks heated as you nodded, looking down at your feet. "Y-Yeah, I am. We've created a.. bond. He's someone I would consider closer than a best friend." The two bots smile at each other, letting your embarrassment calm before you continued. "I just want to do something for him that shows I really do care. Is there any customs on Cybertron that you would do to show someone you're interested in them romantically?" They thought for a second before a third voice chimed in. "Why not just tell him how you feel?" Bee and Bulkhead stepped aside as Ratchet walked up to you three. "I've known him the longest out of everyone here, and he would appreciate the honesty, especially since you two already have the kind of bond that's built on trust. I haven't seen him care for anyone like this since before the war."

Your face heated again and you took another deep breath. "I just want to show him that I care about his culture, if I do something that would mean a lot to him back on Cybertron then wouldn't that be best?" Ratchet shook his head "As much as I wish that were a good idea, Optimus misses hi- our home desperately. You may end up making him feel more sad than happy about your confession."

You nodded, sad that your original plan wouldn't work, but happy that Ratchet helped you before you made a mistake. "So you really think I should just tell him how I feel? No special gesture or anything?" He nodded as Optimus and Arcee drove down the hallway you all were standing in, transforming when they saw you. "Y/n? Is everything okay? You look stressed out." Optimus was the first to speak, him noticing your stressed expression right away making your heart flutter. "Y-Yeah! I'm okay! But I kinda have something I wanna talk to you about, preferably in private if possible." He nodded, picking you up and placing you on his shoulder, walking towards his quarters. "So what's on your mind? You seem really nervous." You sighed, being alone with him actually calming your nerves some. "Well, do you know what Valentine's Day is?" He hummed in response. "I have heard of it, it's a romantic holiday correct? Do you have someone in mind to take out?" You nodded, "Yeah I do have someone in mind, but I think he's way too good for me. He's strong and Kind, and he never leaves anyone behind. Hell, he'd probably save the life of his enemies without a second thought." Optimus entered his quarters, setting you down on a balcony he had Ratchet build so that he could be eye level with you on the long nights you would spend talking with each other. “I see, well I wish you the best of luck with asking him, Any man would be a fool not to accept your hand.”

You blushed, looking at him nervously. “You really haven’t picked up on what I’m saying?” He looked back at you, confusion all over his face. “Optimus, will you go on a Valentine’s Day date with me? Tonight?” His face of confusion turned to one of shock as he stared for a few seconds, just long enough for your face to drop.

“N-Nevermind. I knew it was stupid to ask. I’m sorry for wasting your time.” You started to climb down a ladder connected to the balcony before his hand wrapped around you, stopping you from climbing farther down. “Of course I will Y/n. I’m just shocked you had the nerve to say something before me.”

You grinned happily, relief and excitement filling your body. “I’ll see you tonight then Optimus. Pick me up at my place around 10 tonight and we’ll go out into the middle of nowhere. Somewhere we can be alone.” He nodded, smiling back at you before setting you on the ground.

“I’ll see you then, goodbye y/n.” You waved excitedly before running as fast as you could towards your car, ignoring the other bots calling your name. You couldn’t believe that he agreed to go out on a date with you. And that he felt the same way!!

~~~~~Timeskip~~~~~

You checked yourself in the mirror for the 100th time, making sure your red button down shirt was tucked perfectly into your black skirt/pants, and you fixed your hair up making sure everything looked perfect. You saw two bright headlights shine through the curtains of your home and you ran out of the bathroom, taking a deep breath before going outside and climbing into Optimus’s cab.

“You look stunning, Y/n. You shine brighter than all of the stars in the sky.” You gripped the steering wheel slightly, blushing at his compliments, making him chuckle softly. “T-Thank you. I still can’t believe you agreed to come out tonight.”

“I would’ve been a fool not to. Like I said, any man or bot would be a fool to turn you down.” His constant compliments rang through your head, sending tingles down your spine that made you close your legs together to try and calm yourself.

“We don’t have too far of a drive, I already set up something special for us.” You hummed with curiosity. “What did you set up? I figured we would just talk and see where the night took us.”

“You’ll see, we’re only a few minutes away.” You looked out of the windows excitedly, trying to spot whatever he may have set up for the two of you. The stars shining down on the desert sand making everything look like a sea of glitter.

After a few long minutes you saw a small patch of light in the distance, and Optimus veered off into the sand, transforming and carrying you over to a lit up picnic area after he was far enough from the road that he blended in with the night.

“Oh Optimus, this is perfect.” He chuckled again as he set you down onto the blanket. “I’m glad you like it, I brought you some wine.” He sat down in the sand and handed you the bottle and a glass, the cork already popped for you.

You poured yourself a glass and moved to sit next to him, leaning against his leg and gazing up at him. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited for us to be able to do something like this?” You asked him, taking a sip of your wine. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted this?” He replied, making your heart melt.

“Why didn’t you say something to me then?” He moved you into his lap, leaning back against a large rock. “Well, I’m from a whole different planet. And I’m a leader of a war fighting for that planet. I never wanted to put you in harm’s way.” You could understand that, your reasons were practically the same, except instead of worrying about yourself getting hurt you worried about him.

“I really thought you were going to turn down my advances. I thought you’d think I was weird for wanting to be with you since we’re different in so many ways.” He shook his head, looking up at the stars and placing his hand gently on your thighs. “That’s where we disagree. I think we’re the same, and it made it hard for me to keep our relationship friendly, especially when you’d visit me so late at night.” Your face blazed and you finished your glass of wine in one gulp before taking another swig from the bottle.

“Maybe my plan the whole time was to try and get your attention. I wouldn’t mind being your distraction for a night.” He rubbed the outside of your thigh, letting his thumb graze dangerously close to your core. “I wouldn’t have minded that either, my spark.” Your legs opened slightly, and his thumb grazed even closer towards where you wanted him most. “I would’ve loved a distraction from you.” Finally. The tip of the cold metal of his thumb brushed against your mound, making a gasp leave your lips, a chuckle leaving his in response.

“You are so perfect, y/n. Let me show you how perfect I think you are.” You nodded and he lifted you up, setting you down on the blanket as he pulled your bottoms off carefully. “O-Optimus-“ he leaned over, pressing his cold metal lips against yours, a deep groan leaving his lips. “You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted this.” He kissed you again, moving his hand to rub your core, smiling into the kiss as you moaned, your back arching against his touch.

He pulled away after a few minutes, making you whine as the knot that was forming in your stomach faded away, making you feel cold in the nighttime desert air. “Fuck Optimus, why’d yo-Woah!” You gasped in shock as he picked you up and laid back, moving you up to his face. He huffed, and reached down towards his own crotch, grabbing his metallic shaft and pumping slowly.

“Just let me make you feel good my spark.” He sat you down against his lips, a harsh moan leaving you as his thick tongue entered your folds, filling you more than you’d ever been filled before. “F-Fuck!” You held the hand he had around your waist tightly as his tongue pumped in and out of your folds, and you watched as he pumped himself, his hips bucking up into his hand.

“You’re gonna make me cum! Oh don’t stop!!~” you rolled your hips against his lips, your clit touching the metal of his face making you shiver as the knot in your stomach became tighter. “Y-Y/n, I’m going to cum.” He took you off of his lips and made you straddle the length of his shaft.

“I’m close Optimus, please make me cum.” He nodded and thrusted his cock back and forth between your folds, the ridges and chill of his cock making your legs shake. “F-Fuck.. I’m c-cumming y/n.” You moaned loudly, gripping onto him for dear life as you squirted on his cock, his own cum shooting out of him as you shook against his member.

“W-Why didn’t we do this before?” You asked, huffing as you came down from your high. He chuckled, his cock retracting back inside of him and he set you down, helping you put your bottoms back on.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, My love.”

[balyssatrofort]

Quarantine Life Podcast Feature

Quarantine Life Podcast Feature

I had the opportunity to be on Episode 7 of The Pulse Series Podcast presents Quarantine Life with Michael “Maestro” Turner, Jas-0, and Timone Brown to share my journey.

The interview can be found on Apple Podcasts, Youtube, and Anchor.⠀

[art-now-india]

WALL OF EXOTIC FLOWERS, Baljit Chadha

FLOWERMAN CREATED A WORLD RECORD http://baljitchadha.blogspot.in The exhibition with the most paintings of flowers in the world This certificate is given by WORLD RECORD ASSOCIATION / LIMCA BOOK OF RECORDS-INDIA -2014 Baljit-chadha.artistwebsites.com http://www.youtube.com/edit?ns=1&videoid=fCTt1B51fJA http://www.1wra.org/index.php/Worldrecord/detail/id/1241 MY NEW SERIES ZEN MOKSHA FLOWERS/ MANN FLOWERS/MIYOKO FLOWERS /BALJIT’S IKEBANA A PURE HEAVENLY GIFT FOR YOU FRIENDS N RELATIVES • THESE ZEN-MOKSH FLOWERS ARE CREATED WITH A SENSE OF GIVING INNER PEACE,TRANQUILITY, HAPPINESS, SOLACE AND A SENSE OF FULFILMENT, ONENESS WITH THE SUPREME. • I HAVE TRIED TO BRING THEASE ELEMENTS IN MY PAINTINGS,THE FLOWERS YOU SEE DON’T EXISTS, THE MOVMENTS OF MY HANDS,FLOW OF COLORS ARE THE GIFT OF ALMIGHTY GOD. • ZEN-JAPANEASE ZEN IS A SPIRTUAL INSPIRATION; THEY ARE PURE EXPRESSION OF ARTIST’S SPIRITUAL AWARENESS. JAPANEASE ZEN ART HAS ALWAYS BEEN MEANT TO TOUCH PEOPLE FAR AND WIDE. ZEN PAINTINGS ARE OF GREAT POWER, PURE, AND TOUCHING DEEP IN THE HEART, MIND AND SOUL. • MOKSHA- Freedom from life circle. Moksha is attained by dis identification with the body and mind, which are temporary and subject to change, and realization of our true identity Moksh is positive concept in two important ways. First it stands for the realization of the ultimate Reality, a real enlightenment. The mukta is not just free from this or that, It is the master of sense and self, fearless and devoid of rancor, upright yet humble, treating all creatures as if they were he himself, wanting nothing, clinging to nothing. In Sikhism one rises from the life of do’s and don'ts to that of perfection — a state of "at-one-ment" with the All-self. Secondly, the mukta is not just a friend for all, he even strives for their freedom as well. He no longer lives for himself, he lives for others. • APPRICIATIONS • Very interesting work Baljit, the spontaneity, the original technique and the spiritual journey! • i hear music from your flower paintings. What a happy movement! • Baljit! I appreciate that! You have a grand body of work here that shows me some Van Gogh, Miro and Monet and countless others within your style and creativeness. A magnificent talent to behold and appreciate! Keep it up! • I like the original exposition of your beautiful artwork. • Beautiful, cheerful, great colors! • Very fine expressive all Your floral art, not usual • Simply beautiful .It is with great pride and pleasure that I am FEATURING your artwork this week on our special edition of our TOP FEATURES on the Wisconsin Flowers and Scenery Homepage. Your work shows expertise and love in the presentation of this fine art piece. Thanks much for sharing your works with us and being a member of our family of friends and fine artists in our WFS group. Aboard. Liked, Forever .This series is enchanting Baljit, all wonderful visions. Masterful use of your colors creating serene energy. .Baljit, I love these stalks of beauty is a true honor and privilege to FEATURE this creative and wondrous piece of art work on the WFS site, from one of our honored and prestigious members. This awesome piece of beauty is what we are looking for to promote and let others see, including other artists and potential customers, as your works are some of the Best of the Best in my Book! Thanks much for sharing this beauty with us. Liked Forever, Elvisty and love the colors of the floral stems. • • PROFILE • Baljit Singh Chadha • • I grew up as a curious, investigative child helped by my parents’ encouragement to explore and to learn without fear and hesitation. The wonder and awe in God’s creation always held me spell bound. I ploughed my curiosity through love of creation and creativity. At a young age of nineteen years I sailed to a land called Japan that has for long centuries been spiritually bound with India. Like a sleepy rose the petals of my creativity opened as I drank like a honey-bee the nectar of ancient and highly evolved culture of Japan. Japanese art of painting is high meditation in feel and in expression. My Japanese godmother Ms Otha Miyoko a great Japanese artist was my first teacher. She affected my style and expression early on. My journey in art continued and I evolved a style of art that has minimal gap in feeling and expression. Rapidity and quickness of expression in my art comes from the well of inner spirituality. My art is not planned, thought-out and cerebral it is based on spontaneity. Abstract Expressionism is a wider term and my art follows it in variegated dimensions. In my art I experiment with different painting instruments and techniques. My dependence on brushwork is rather limited. I frequently and freely use spatulas, wooden sticks, masking, and sand-mix, push bottles and what comes handy in the moment. I use acrylic with mix media. I have developed acrylic based glazes that were possible earlier only with oil paints. The glazes impart a charm similar to enamel glazes. I created a new technique called ( FLOAT ON COLORS). My art journey finds depth and width in continuous experimentation, forays into the unknown and choosing challenging metaphors of expression. I did an installation (Wall of Divine flowers) with 12000 painting on 12-12-12-12hrs-12mnts-12sec at Zorba in New Delhi and donated entire collection to Smile Foundation New Delhi, for a girl child education. Where my art journey will take me next I leave to higher forces. Presently I offer you ZEN MOKSHA FLOWERS /MANN FLOWERS/MIYOKO FLOWERS AND WALL OF HEAVENLY FLOWERS as my next creations. Group Shows;- Newyork, Singapore, • Canvas Art Gallery , Nehru Place, Delhi 2006 • Studio Vasant, Vasant Vihar New Delhi, 2006, 2007 • Prabhat NGO, New Delhi, 2007 • Nithari, Canvas Art Gallery, 2007 • Sahaj Sankalp, Habitat Centre, New Delhi , 2008 • Aspiration, Charity show at Epicenter Gurgaon, 2008 • New Finds, Singapore, 2008 • Group Show at World Fine Art Gallery, New York, 2008 • Reverberation Habitat Centre, New Delhi, 2008 • Art for Prabhat Presents 'The Eternal Circle' MAY-2009 • Art Ponixs Mumbai-2013 Solo Show • Studio Vasant, New Delhi, 2006,2007 • Studio Vasant, New Delhi 2008 • DLF Mall, Saket, New Delhi 2009 • STUDIOVASANT,NEWDELHI • STUDIOVASANT,NEWDELHI-2011 • STUDIOVASANT,NEWDELHI-2012 • WALL OF DEVINE FLOWERS-ZORBA,NEWDELHI 2012(world record) • WALL OF EXOTIC FLOWERS-EPI CENTRE GURGAON-2013 • HOME& interior expo, EPI centor.GURGAON-2013 • Independence day Celebration-EPI CENTRE-2013 • Art-Phonix-NEHRU CENTRE MUMBAI-2014 Artist friend Baljit S. Chadha has a lasting honeymoon with flowers in his artistic expression. He paints sometimes with frugality of a Zen master. I can understand that as he had his early training in painting in Japan where he lived and studied as a teenager and had the benefit of the tutelage of great Japanese masters. But his present series on flowers nonplussed me with wonder and joy. He has in the present works a new dimension and a new personality of flowers that I have not seen before. This is because he has distilled the expression from his inner joy and happiness that is the essence of flowers per se and not from their forms. His flowers have a nearly expressionistic, abstract persona. He uses a watercolour like free flow of colour and tonalities to invest his work with a sensual poetry. His works are acrylic on paper and therefore amenable to idiosyncratic overflows that lends a fresh charm to his oeuvre. Another landmark quality of Baljit’s new works is that they are rendered in fiery shiny glazes. As we know glazes are traditionally done in oil paint medium. But Baljit has worked them with acrylic colour and without the use of pure impasto. The colours diluted with water float and embrace each other and still have lustrous intensity. Baljit Chadha has created a fresh stylistic edifice and his creative expression jumps from the visible-familiar to spiritually felt flowers in a divine Eden. Viktor Vijay Kumar Director Curator European Artists’ Association Germany • ART IS IMAGINATION/ART IS DREAMING/ART IS INOVATION/ART IS THINKING/ART IS CRAETIVITY/ART IS EMOTIONS/ART IS SUPPORT/ART IS COMBINATION OF MATERIALS/ART IS CONCEPT/ART IS TO DO SOME THING DIFFERENT/ART IS TO EXPLORE AND ART IS FOR EVERYONE TO DO AND ENJOY All images © Baljit Chadha All rights reserved. Copying and/or distributing without my permission is strictly prohibited.

https://www.saatchiart.com/art/Painting-WALL-OF-EXOTIC-FLOWERS/392880/2559933/view

[ebaeschnbliah]

M O N S T E R S   I N C

________________________________________________________________

... and it’s stunning similarities with Sherlock BBC

MONSTERS, INC  is a computer-animated comedy from 2001, produced by Pixar Animation Studios and distributed by Walt Disney Pictures. A modern fairytale, so to speak. I stumbled across this movie by accident while researching the ‘221b door’ tag on my blog and found an old tweet from Arwel Wyn Jones (x) posted during the filming of Series Four.  Watching the movie turned out to be quite the eye-opener.  :)

It’s not so much the plot of that movie but rather certain images which remind me strongly of Sherlock BBC. A lot of images, to be precise, but also some dialogues and one distinct voice. Watching MONSTERS, INC really left me speechless at times.

Related posts:  The Monsters are loose  (initially I’d chosen to name this post ‘Monsters Inc’ but that was before I watched the movie)   Overlaps    Playing with skulls (soon)   Laughs or Screams, additional informations

The ‘monster post’  is waiting below the cut for the fearless  ….  :))))

For anyone who hasn’t seen the movie:  MONSTERS, INC mostly plays in Monstropolis, a city in a parallel universe. The only places where the monster- and the human-world can connect, are the closet doors in children’s beedrooms. Here skilled monsters - the ‘scarers’ - appear at night to harvest the screams of terrified kids. Just like in the human world, the majority of the monsters aren’t evil, nor mean they any harm to the children. Monsters are actually more scared of human kids than the kids are of them. The harvested screams are badly needed because they provide the energy which is necessary to power the monster’s world. And because children are constantly becoming less easily scared, the screams decrase more and more, which means that an energie krisis threatens.

Initially the storyline for MONSTERS, INC  had been a different one though:

Pete Docter's (director and writer) original idea revolved around a 30-year old man dealing with monsters, which he drew in a book as a child, coming back to bother him as an adult. Each monster represented a fear he had and conquering those fears caused the monsters to eventually disappear.  (X) 

The logo of MONSTERS, INC,  the powerstation where screams are harvested to light the Monster’s world, combines the symbol of the eye and the letter M. I simply can’t help unsee a certain similarity with the logo for TheGameIsNow. That’s quite thought provoking, to say the least. 

The two leading characters in the monster world are scarer James P. "Sulley" Sullivan and his best friend and roommate Mike Wazowski, who is also his assistant at work. A big blue, fluffy guy wearing horns and a short, one-eyed, green guy who prefers to sit in a green egg-chair …. a bit similar to the one from the stagnight scene inTSOT.

Sulley holds the top position among all the scarers of Monstropolis. With military-like training Mike takes care that his friend stays in best form. 

Hey! Less talk, more pain, marshmallow boy! Feel the burn! You call yourself a monster?

The most successful scarers are celebrated like stars. Everyone knows them. They can’t go anywhere without being recognized and asked for autographs. And when they enter their company it looks like a hero parade. 

Future scarers have to undergo a special training in a high-tec simulation room. Here they are taught everything of importance, including the art of scaring children most efficiently in order to get the perfect scream. 

Listen to the lady in front of the surveillance screens who teaches screaming (at 01.40) …. but beware … she sounds an awful lot like Eurus Holmes ….

And this is the big boss, the chairman of MONSTERS, INC … Mr. Waternoose. He is very proud of his job, which has been passed down through his family for three generations. He acts as Sulley’s mentor and holds great faith in him as a scarer. Additionally …. he reminds me very much of Mycroft in TAB.

The monsters believe that harvesting screams is enormously dangerous, because children are deemed to be toxic, that their touch could kill them. Agents of a special task force - the Child Detection Agency - are on constant alert to neutralize any contamination with objects belonging to the human world. 

As soon as anything suspicious has been detected, the ‘big bad bouncy red alert’  goes off, cameras zoom in and then CDA agents enter right through the skylights to take care of the problem. Like AGRA in Tiblisi , really! I couldn’t help a yelp watching this little scene below ….

And then ..... shaved by AGRA … sorry, by CDA, of course ….  :))))

The day comes, however, when the unimaginable happens and a human child enters the monster world. And Sulley, the most famous scarer of all, is almost scared to death. I’m really tempted to call this an ‘Eurus-efffect’ ...

Thankfully, Sulley also has a heart of pure gold. He overcomes his fear - a little bit - and takes the human child home. His partner Mike is definitely not amused but helps anyway. Courageously, the friends prepare for the worst case scenario ...

Sulley, the Viking, with shield and horned helm and Mike, who seems to have ransacked the kitchen Cabinet instead. The little ‘killer-girl’ though is completely unimpressed ...

The evening starts rather chaotic, which results in some remarkable accidents …   I guess I know now where the idea of shoving a big pack of cigarettes into Sherlock’s mouth comes from …. and maybe Sherlock’s spraying attack on the CIA agent in ASIB as well.

Finally the situation calms down. Sulley beginns to supect that human kids might not be toxic after all. The little girl has a real crush on the fluffy, blue monster. She believes Sulley is a big cat and starts calling him ‘Kitty’. Looks like ‘killer girl’ is a cat lover. :)  Against Mike’s advice, Sulley decides to give the girl a name as well. He settles for ‘Boo’ because she likes nothing more than to scare him.

And Boo likes to draw …. Spoiler: Boo doesn’t burn down the house.

Eventually Boo gets tired. A trace of goodies (not breadcrumbs) leads the little girl to bed.

By the way: The book based on the film gives Boo's "real" name as Mary Gibbs, the name of her voice actress. (x)

The architecture of Mike’s and Sulley’s flat … the wide arch in the living room and in Sulley’s bedroom (Mike’s bedroom is never shown) … instantly reminded me of the very similar structure chosen for the 221b Baker Street livingroom set in PILOT.

What would any fairytale be without a good old-fashioned villain. In this case it’s a villain who looks suspiciously like a Chinese dragon. And naturally, where there is a dragon there needs to be a dragon slayer as well.   

Randall, the dragon-like monster is one of the most wicked characters in Monstropolis. He works as scarer but holds only the second place on the company’s success-list behind Sulley. Randall’s envy is huge. He is driven by his desire to displace his opponent from the top of the list. One can safely say that ‘murderous jealousy’ is a good description of Randall’s motivation. But his plan to capture the all-time scare record, only scratches the surface of his sinister agenda. 

But before it comes to the ‘slaying’, the nasty reptile tries to torture Mike, to find out where the missing human child is hiding. 

Randall:  SAY HELLO TO THE SCREAM EXTRACTOR!   (Jim in TAB:  Well, say hello to the virus.)

This is what Randall has created in a secret lab to prevent the looming energy crisis of his world … a machine to harvest the screams of children by force and not through the acting skills of trained scarers. Mike’s unimpressed answer to this realisation: 

Mike:  WELL, SOMEBODY'S CERTAINLY BEEN A BUSY BEE    (Mycroft in TEH:  You have been busy, haven’t you? Quite the busy little bee.) 

That’s not a joke … and the way down to the secret lab looks strikingly familiar as well ...

Needless to say that Sulley arrives just in time to rescue his friend … but that’s not the end of the story and also not the end of similarities with Sherlock BBC. 

Some nice little images in-between:  a fish mobile from Boo’s bedroom in which Sulley gets tangled up in, a toy train, a toy ship and a toy plane from the high-tech simulation room. Rater similar items can be detected in Sherlock BBC as well (TST, MHR and TFP). Especially the plane reminds me of the one Eurus’ plays with near the brook.

More familiar images:  

the prominent display of the letter M - often in combination with an eye 

a precious littel thing ... Boo, who wears pink underneath her disguise as monster, hides in a bin

a rather ‘big G’ painted on a wall

And there are eyes wherever one looks ...

Even contact lenses can be found ...

Mike’s love interest is a lady with hissing snakes for hairs, who works as receptionist in their company …. 

At one point the hero’s life is threatened by a deep fall, caused by his opponent, Randall, the nasty ‘dragon’. 

Seeing Sulley’s life threatened, Boo overcomes her fear of the reptile-like monster. She attacks him violently. This gives Sulley the time he needs to get out of the critical situation. 

And WOW!!! What changeable creature this villain is ……. even Jim ‘I’m so changeable’ Moriarty would be inmpressed. 

Randall’s exceptional talent for any kind of masquerade is also demonstrated in a little scene involving a portrait of the company’s chairman, Mr. Waternoose.   

The face of a chairman, covered by something related to a dragon … this reminds me instantly of TBB and Sir William, the former chairman of the bank, whose face had been covered with the yellow spray-paint, applied by a member of the Yellow Dragon Circus. 

To their dismay, Sulley and Mike discover that Randall isn’t just a jealous colleague. What is far worse, the changeable villain doesn’t work alone. His partner in cirme turns out to be none other than Mr. Waternoose, the big boss of the company. The two of them intend to use Boo for their experiments with the scream extractor, while Sulley and Mike get banished from Monstropolis and are sent into exile .. to the Himalayas. No return expected. 

There is no plane involved as in Sherlock’s case, but strictly speaking, the way in which the ‘sending into exile’ happens, can indeed be seen as a variation of ‘flyihg’ … 

Snow falls at the place where they land, somewhere in the Himalayan mountains.

While the Himalayas, more precisely Tibet, is closely connected to Sherlock’s hiatus after Reichenbach, the falling snow can also be found in TAB, the place Sherlock finds himself in, as a result of his ‘going into exile’ at the end of HLV … London in the winter 1895. 

And it doesn’t take long before the dark shadow of a scary creature falls over them … a seemingly monstrous creature which is covered all over in ‘bridal white’ fur  ….

May I introduce you to ….  Yeti, the ABOMINABLE snowman!

"ABOMINABLE"!  CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT?  DO I LOOK ABOMINABLE TO YOU?  WHY CAN'T THEY CALL ME THE ADORABLE SNOWMAN OR...OR THE AGREEABLE SNOWMAN, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD?  I'M A NICE GUY. 

He is really a very nice guy and helps Sulley and Mike to get back where they came from and where they are badly needed by Boo. Randall is not amused but this time it is him who looses the game.

Yeti’s nickname was inspired by the Abominable Snowman from the 1964 animated special Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (X).  Knowing this, one could view that bridal-white character also as a sort of Christmas connection. :))))

And have I mentioned those horns?

Some more lovely images:  a shot from the inside out of a small box (without a severed head in it though), no fire-extinguisher but it looks like one, silhouettes behind glass, safety helmets (X) and ... flickering screens ….

At the story’s finale, the simulation room from the beginning - a bedroom on a stage with a ‘fake’ victim lying in it and with a moving wall - I’m not kidding - becomes the ‘confession room’ for the main culprit. And of course, every word of his confession gets recorded. Somehow this reminds me strongly of another scene … another film … what was it again? It’s on the tip of my tongue ….

It turns out that chairman Waternoose had already been under close observation by CDA undercover agent 001 - code name Roz (not AMO). An elderly, quite steely lady, who turns out to be his superior. Waternoose gets arrested and Sulley becomes the new chairman of MONSTERS, INC.

Now the time has come for Boo to return to the human world. Sulley takes the little girl back through the closet door into her room, where they part after a big good-bye hug. 

Then the closet door which leads to her bedroom gets shredded, to prevent any future contact. But Boo’s short visit to the monster world had a huge impact. It proved that a child's laugh has ten times the power of a child's scream. The energy crisis of Monstropolis is solved. From now on laughter is harvested instead of screams and the power generated this way, is enormous. Mike turns out to be best harvester for laughs ever. 

Because Mike knows how much Sulley misses the little human girl, he collects and secretly reassembles the pieces of Boo's shredded door so that it can be activated again. 

The End

The song "If I Didn't Have You" won the Academy Award for Best Original Song.

Mike: ♪ But I must admit it. Big guy, you always come through. I wouldn't have nothin' if I didn't have you. ♪ Mike and Sulley: ♪ You and me together. That's how it always should be. One without the other don't mean nothin' to me. Nothin' to me. ♪

Sulley: ♪ I don't have to say it. 'Cause we both know it's true.♪ Both: ♪ I wouldn't have nothin' if I didn't have... I wouldn't have nothin' if I didn't have... I wouldn't have nothin' if I didn't have you. ♪ Mike: ♪ You! You! A-E-I-O... That means you. Yeah. ♪

And doesn’t this almost sound like …. ‘just the two of us against the rest of the world’? 

Hopefully you enjoyed the rather long ride. I can highly recommend this movie to anyone. It’s so much more fun watching it with ones own eyes than just reading a summary. This said, I leave you now to your own deductions. Thanks for reading that far. :)

August, 2019

[lauraswiftie24]

We found each other on tumblr and TSL. Our end game is to be Taylor’s A-Team at rep tour Denver!!!

@taylorswift @taylornation

Created by:

Laura: @abqgirl2020 🐍 section 105 ~ row 6 ~ seat 1-2

Featuring:

Abbey: @13wildest-dreams 🐍section 120 ~ row 6 ~ seat 1

Alyssa: @fearlys97 🐍 section P ~ row 35 ~ seat 11-12

Ash: @bornin1993 🐍 section 120 ~ row 32 ~ seat 22-23

Bri: @ohheeeyitsbri 🐍section N ~ row 24 ~ seat 17

Bee: @heyitsmebee 🐍 section 106 ~ row 24 ~ seat 8-9

Caley: @tsandcal13 🐍 section 108 ~ row 1 ~ seat 4-9

Elizabeth: @rudely-barging-in 🐍 section 121 ~ row 14 ~ seat 23

Emily: @emilyswiftie1997 🐍 section 120~ row 33 ~ seats 17-19

Gray: @gray-rose13 🐍 section L ~ row 21 ~ seat 13-16

Hannah: @tea-at-noonxx 🐍 center pit

Jackie: @hopeinflowers 🐍 section D ~ row 8 ~ seat 11-12

Jessa: @andinwonderlandwebothwentmad 🐍 section 103 ~ row 12 ~ seat 16-17

Josie: @whoisjosefinanyways 🐍 section L ~ row 21 ~ seat 13-16

Julia: @queen-ofmyheart13 🐍 center pit

Katie: @nowcanwebabes 🐍 section 102 ~ row 30 ~ seat 27

Kaity: @tswizzaf 🐍 section 108 ~ row 7 ~ seat 1-2

Keela: @heavybreathingswift 🐍 section 121 ~ row 4 ~ seat 21-22

Kylee: @kyleelavee 🐍 section H ~ row 15 ~ seat 26

Laura: @abqgirl2020 🐍 section 105 ~ row 6 ~ seat 1-2

Maddie: @swiftie-inwonderland 🐍 section 120 ~ row 3 ~ seat 21-22

Maggie: @lightmeupgoahead 🐍 section 102 ~ row 1 ~ seat 1-5

Nicole: @fearless-swiftiee 🐍 section 107 ~ row 2 ~ seat 21-22

Paula: @thebitchoftheliving 🐍 section L ~ row 33 ~ seat 5

Rain: @thebestdaystan 🐍section 102 ~ row 1 ~ seat 7-10

Roxann: @dreams-dont-have-deadlines 🐍 section K ~ row 35 ~ seat 5

Sam: @ssrider22 🐍 section 123 ~ row 4 ~ seat 6

Samantha: 🐍 section H ~ row 15 ~ seat 25

Sarah: @ssrider22 🐍 section 123 ~ row 4 ~ seat 5

Selena: @pininganticipations 🐍 section M ~row 21~seat 18

Shivonne: @shivonnesworld 🐍 section 103 ~ row 31 ~ seats 1-3

Sophie: @swiftlylovely 🐍section 508 ~row 6~ seats 1-3

[czhang11ubio-blog]

References

Andrews, B. (2018, October 18). Why Dandelion Seeds Are So Good At Floating. Retrieved from http://blogs.discovermagazine.com/d-brief/2018/10/18/dandelion-seeds-fly/

Angier, N. (2018, September 11). How Teeth Became Tusks, and Tusks Became Liabilities. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes.com/2018/09/11/science/tusks-teeth-elephants-genes.html?rref=collection/timestopic/Evolution&action=click&contentCollection=science®ion=stream&module=stream_unit&version=latest&contentPlacement=21&pgtype=collection

Campanella, E. (2017, February 09). Can this breath test tell if you have cancer or one of 16 other diseases? Retrieved from https://globalnews.ca/news/3238263/can-this-breath-test-tell-if-you-have-cancer-or-one-of-16-other-diseases/

Chapman, R. (2018, May 27). Are We Really Prepared for the Genetic Revolution? Retrieved from https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/are-we-really-prepared-for-the-genetic-revolution/

Crane, B. (2018, November 27). Trump Administration Policies Could Threaten Cuban Biosecurity. Retrieved January 4, 2019, from https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/trump-administration-policies-could-threaten-cuban-biosecurity/

Geggel, L. (2017, September 12). How Do Palm Trees Withstand Hurricanes? Retrieved from https://www.livescience.com/60393-why-palm-trees-are-so-flexible.html

Geggel, L. (2018, July 28). 23andMe Is Sharing Genetic Data with Drug Giant. Retrieved from https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/23andme-is-sharing-genetic-data-with-drug-giant/

Goode, L. (2018, December 06). Here's How to Take an ECG Reading With Your Apple Watch. Retrieved from https://www.wired.com/story/how-to-take-an-ecg-reading-on-apple-watch/

Mcneil, D. G. (2018, December 17). An Island Nation's Health Experiment: Vaccines Delivered by Drone. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes.com/2018/12/17/health/vanuatu-vaccines-drones.html

Normile, D. (2018, November 27). CRISPR bombshell: Chinese researcher claims to have created gene-edited twins. Retrieved from http://www.sciencemag.org/news/2018/11/crispr-bombshell-chinese-researcher-claims-have-created-gene-edited-twins

Offord, C. (2018, December 1). Diverse Forests Are Better at Accumulating Carbon. Retrieved from https://www.the-scientist.com/the-literature/diverse-forests-are-better-at-accumulating-carbon-65109

Rogers, N. (2018, November 15). Why 'Vampire Deer' Have Fangs, While Other Hoofed Mammals Have Horns. Retrieved from http://blogs.discovermagazine.com/d-brief/2018/11/15/isns-why-vampire-deer-have-fangs-teeth-while-other-hoofed-mammals-have-horns/

Stokstad, E. (2017, December 08). Controversial pesticides can decimate honey bees, large study finds. Retrieved October 27, 2018, from https://www.sciencemag.org/news/2017/06/controversial-pesticides-can-decimate-honey-bees-large-study-finds

Wilcox, C. (2018, June 27). Becoming Fearless: Study Finds Major Changes to Domesticated Bunny Brains. Retrieved January 6, 2019, from http://blogs.discovermagazine.com/science-sushi/2018/06/27/domestication-changes-bunny-brains/

Wood, C. (2018, September 12). World's Simplest Animal Reveals Hidden Diversity. Retrieved from https://www.quantamagazine.org/worlds-simplest-animal-reveals-hidden-diversity-20180912

[prabbling-blog]

Feel the Fear and Do it Anyway (Bill Skarsgard X Reader)

Requested: Hello!! :) hope you're having a great day! I was wondering if you could make an imagine where you are watching 'IT' for the first time with Bill but you hate clowns. Kept up the good work!

Warnings: none

Word Count: 1665

A/N: Thanks for requesting hopefully this is what you wanted - I know it is a bit different, but I really enjoyed writing this!

All her life, Y/N saw herself as a coward. She was a coward during the first grade spelling bee, during every exam or test, during her first date, during college tours, during everything. During every somewhat challenging situation her heart would begin to race, her hands would become clammy, and her mouth would become ickily dry. No matter how much she recited ‘this too shall pass’ to herself, the mantra never seemed to stick.

A few years back, Y/N decided to make peace with her cowardice and therefore come to terms that she was just destined to lead a boring, dull life. No airplanes (it could crash!), no public-speaking (what would everyone think of her?!), no walking atop the space needle (heights!). Which was fine. It was fine with her.

This epiphany (as it was just her luck) took place a year before Bill entered her life. A daring and fearless character, hell, the man was a regular Nik Wallenda. While she spent her days alone answering phones in a cubicle, he was out pursing his dream in one of the most difficult industries out there. If she ever asked him about it, she knew he’d laugh. He’d clutch his stomach and laugh aloud and say, “Yes how courageous of me to go to forty auditions a week and get none of them”. She wouldn’t reply, but in her head she would think, that is exactly my point.

Her cowardice was even the root of most of their arguments. Even though the majority of their disagreements dealt with silly things like forgetting to buy Bill’s peach smelling soap or printer ink, some, however, were very much real. Those debates could be so loud it rattled the ceiling above them and quaked the floor beneath them.

When Bill got the role of Pennywise the argument they had was earth shattering.

“I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU’RE TELLING ME NOT TO TAKE THIS! I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR SOMETHING LIKE THIS FOR MY ENTIRE CAREER!” Bill yelled, he was blue in the face already from screaming and he had stretched to his full height of 6’4. He was still dressed in his plaid yellow pajama pants and an old t-shirt from Y/N’s cousin’s wedding (‘Laura and Tom Forever’ was hardly visible now that he had worn it and washed it countless times). He reached over Y/N’s shoulder and roughly poured coffee into his mug. The hot coffee splashed all over the floor, burning the tips of Y/N’s toes.

“I’M NOT SAYING THAT YOU SHOULDN’T TAKE IT, BILL!” Y/N countered, ignoring the dull pain in her toes. “I’M SAYING THAT MAYBE YOU SHOULD THINK TWICE ABOUT HOW GREAT THIS IS! HOW OFTEN DO YOU THINK WE’LL SEE EACH OTHER ONCE FILMING STARTS HM? ONCE A WEEK? THAT - IS - NOT - GOOD - ENOUGH!” The thing about Y/N (and most cowards for that matter) was that she could never let an argument go. Once she started she was like a ball rolling down a hill. She couldn’t ever walk away for fear of what might happen if she did; would he walk away too?

“I THINK WE’LL WORK IT OUT! HONESTLY YOU’RE JUST BEING SELFISH AS ALWAYS!” Bill screeched back, but as he used his arms to gesture the rest of the coffee in the mug spilt onto the floor. Y/N jumped and retreated but, if she were to be honest, she wasn’t quite sure if it was because of the coffee or because of the vile in Bill’s words. Selfish as always, he had said. Though they had made up eventually, after cleaning the coffee and apologizing to one another profusely, she couldn’t get those words out of the back of her mind. Like a ghost they followed her, when Bill came home for the first time since filming started, Selfish as always, when she met the cast of the Loser’s Club, Selfish as always, when Y/N went to set to see Bill, Selfish as always. Perhaps it was in the nature of the cowards, to be selfish, always fearing the ultimate thing as they watched their own backs.

So Y/N tried to make peace with that development too.

“Hey honey,” Bill murmured as he leant down to peck Y/N’s buttery lips. She had just gotten off the plane, her pillow still hanging around her neck and headphones spilling from her ears, she lugged a heavy carry on bag. “Let me get that for you,” Bill said, still just as quiet as he attempted to grab the handle of the case but Y/N immediately used her right hand to pull it away from his helpful grasp.

“I got it babe,” Y/N replied, rubbing her boyfriend’s shoulder comfortingly with her free hand. He looked at her, eyebrows furrowed, lips apart for only a moment, before shaking it off and telling her all about his day (“I told you about how I was nervous for that scene but Andy said to just…”). Y/N listened carefully, trying to hang onto every word to ask him about later. As Bill spoke on and on and on, Y/N nodded, laughed, smiled at what she hoped were all appropriate times. She dragged her suitcase along the cold floor of the airport, finally reaching the sliding glass entrance doors which revealed a cloudy scene. There were plenty of places she would’ve rather been then cloudy and rainy Vancouver (take for example sunny California), but Bill had wanted her here to experience the full screening of IT with the rest of the cast and crew. Therefore here she was.

Once they reached Bill’s car, Bill, helpful bugger that he was, took Y/N’s suitcase, opened the car door for her, and buckled her seatbelt. Selfish as al-. She stopped herself from thinking the rest, breath in, breath out. Breath in, breath out. She had been concentrating so much so on her breathing that, before she could realize it, she was sitting in front of a big blank movie screen in a small, freezing theater. She could slightly remember going to bed the night before, being pulled by the waist into Bill’s long and strong arms. She could slightly remember getting dressed this morning, being prepped on what she could and could not reveal to the public about the movie (like she’d be able to talk to any sort of media).

As the introduction music played and the screen blinked to life, Bill wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into him like he had done last night. He looked at her, smile wider than Y/N had ever seen before and whispered in her ear (as to not to disturb anyone else in the theater), “Are you excited?” Y/N quickly nodded back, smiling just as wide (but not nearly as genuine), before motioning for him to hush.

As the movie rolled on, the happiness from the cast and crew was palpable, which was ironic considering the dark subject of the film. Bill kept on leaning in to whisper things in her ear and nudge her to let her know to pay attention at certain bits. Y/N was so proud of him. It was truly beautiful to know how talented the person one loves is, but as the scenes played on she couldn’t help herself but tear a bit. She was not necessarily afraid of the movie. Pennywise, for all intents and purposes was her boyfriend, she had seen him in and out of costume a number of times. Regardless, by the time Bill was on screen climbing out from a refrigerator, Y/N couldn’t help but silently sob. Wet, full, heavy tears rolled down her cheeks and pooled into her lap. Selfish as always, Y/N remembered as she rubbed her nose with the back of her sweater, creating a pitiful sniffle that alerted Bill to look at her.

“Y/N, ar-are you crying?” Bill asked, reaching up to touch her cheek with pads of his fingertips. She looked away from him, causing his arm to fall from her face. “Y/N?” He repeated, and she could feel his looming figure ghost over her shoulder. She took a shaky breath in, letting it rattle her rib cage, before grabbing her coat and leaving the small cinema entirely. She pushed her way out of the double doors, and covered her face with her hands, as tears after tears pour from her ducts.

“Y/N! Y/N WHAT THE HELL!” She could hear her boyfriend shout from in the theater, but she ignored it. She simply leant against the wall and sank. Sank to the floor.

“Y/N WHAT - WHAT - oh.” He stopped as he saw her state. Sunken. “What happened? What - is- is it movie?” He didn’t crouch on his knees to comfort her like she had expected him to, rather he just stood aloof.

She wiped tears from her soft cheek and laughed sardonically. “No n-.”

“Then what is it? Why are you -?” Bill asked, Y/N could sense the strain and panic rising in his voice. He waited for a few moments shuffling back and forth on his heels awkwardly as he awaited a response.

“BECAUSE!” She finally yelled, cutting the tension, causing more wet hot drops to squeeze out. “I’m TRYING NOT to be ‘selfish as always’ and I’m TRYING to brave, because I can see how much you love this but - but..” She trailed off, to have the things she have been thinking about over the course of the last year finally vocalize was a relief but she couldn’t help but to stop once she saw Bill crestfallen.

“But what?” Bill whimpered so quietly Y/N wasn’t sure she had actually heard it.

“But I can’t.” She said, pushing herself off the wall and standing up. Tears still streamed down her face and she could tell that her eyes were red and puffy, but she got up anyhow and left.

[archiveddvrpg]

Congratulations, STASS! You’ve been accepted for the role of OBERON. Admin Rosey: G o d. God help me this application has taken my breath away and left my very bones bare. Oberon has always been a favorite of mine, quite different from a lot of other biographies I have written. His very force is nature, unbridled and uninhibited. Stass, with this application you have captured all of that and more. You have given us everything we could have ever asked for and then some. With Oberon you played our heartstrings, plucked away at them and made us fall in love with him in a very real way. His voice makes us catch our breath, his mannerisms has us trembling out of equal parts fear and respect. We cannot wait to have Oberon ruling his dark underground in Verona! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Stass.

Age | 21.

Preferred Pronouns | She/her.

Activity Level | 7/10. I’m currently on summer holidays, so I’m free most days and evenings. I’m starting university again in October, so will probably only be able to come on in the evenings or early mornings, but my weekends are usually completely free as I’m generally quite good at managing my time and workload.

Timezone | GMT.

Current/Past RP Accounts | x (Orpheus), x (Sirius Black in a Marauders RP), x (a criminal mastermind in the RP Thick as Thieves), x (James Bond in an MI6 RP).  There are others, but these are the important ones.

In Character

Character | O B E R O N .

O R P H E U S . Some struggle to believe that this is truly the name he was born with, assume that he must have changed it from something altogether more pedestrian as soon as he was old enough, think that it’s all part of some great act. Although the last of those assumptions is patently, clearly, undeniably true, the first two are not. When Orpheus Ahulani was born his parents looked into their eldest son’s forest-coloured eyes and knew what image they wanted the heir to their kingdom to be moulded into. He will be the Pied Piper, they agreed, the siren call that will lead the errant souls of Verona towards oblivion, the boatman who will entice them down to the gates of Hell and ferry them across the Styx towards their certain doom. Most children would crumble under the weight of such expectation, fold like a tower of cards and retreat into the recesses where the shadows of their invented legacy could not touch them, but Orpheus was not most children, and so where he might have been expected to capitulate, he flourished. He was performing confidence tricks before he could walk, drawing in oblivious passers-by with his winning smile and the glimmer of mystery in his eyes and stripping them of anything they had that he could take. His parents, his grandparents, they all claimed that the criminal path was one they had taken to stay afloat in the mire and the chaos of petty civilian life, that it was necessary to maintain the lifestyle they had become accustomed to, but to Orpheus crime quickly became less about obligation and more about pure enjoyment, about the thrill of enticing people to their certain doom. He had not adopted the darkness, like his forefathers; no, he was born in it, shaped by it, and the Black Prince came to wear that darkness like a mantle. He was not blessed with fortunes and titles and palaces like the rulers of the Capulet and Montague clans, but he had the same power they did, the same ability, the same influence, and when he ascended to the throne that he was born to sit on, aided by Cosimo, his dark star expanded a thousandfold. He had been powerful before, but now when Orpheus reaches out a hand, the shadow it casts darkens Verona’s every street, and when he opens his mouth to utter even a mere syllable, the whole of the city’s underbelly flock to his side, answering their master’s call. Just as the Orpheus of myth was able to charm even the rocks and the trees with the sweet melodies of his lyre, so the Orpheus of Verona is able to make the city dance to his tune if he so desires. There is not a soul he cannot touch, no fool he cannot deceive, and when he calls, fear not, for they will come. They will all come.

A H U L A N I . They were islanders once upon a time, his relatives, before his grandparents picked up their empire of swindling and trickery and brought it eastwards. The sun-kissed paradise they left in their wake was too serene for them, the spray of the sea and the caresses of the wind against the beachside palms were just too celestial to be sullied by crime, no matter how gracefully it was committed. They came to Italy seeking a refuge that was altogether more low, already dirtied by the indelible stain of wrongdoing, where the criminal life they sought to lead would blend into a colourful tapestry that had already been woven. It was there, on the dusty streets of Verona, that his father met his mother and her family of misfits, and as the two lineages merged a new dynasty commenced in the Underworld. Orpheus has lost most of his physical connection to his Hawaiian roots, has only seen the white-gold sands of Honolulu in photographs and paintings, but nonetheless there is a part of him that will always be tethered to the sun, the salt spray and the wind, and the sea that rolls in his veins gives him that easy, breezy confidence, a lightness of being and of touch that seems almost deceptively out of place for a man of such formidable stature. He has all the charm of someone who has been blessed by the island life from the moment he was born, the kind of easy smile that seems to have sprung from people’s fantasies of what it means to be Hawaiian. Little do they know, of course, those fools who look upon him and are entranced, that behind the sunny brilliance lurks a filth that runs bone-deep, a black scourge that could not be erased by even the brightest star. This grime comes from the Irish in him, the visceral, corporeal criminality his mother’s heritage brought to the Ahulani crime clan, the part of him that isn’t afraid to spill blood and break bone, that revels in crunches and grunts and cries of pain. Joseph Ahulani and Katherine O’Leary were formidable criminals on their own terms, but when they came together their vastly differing styles of con created the perfect mixture in Orpheus, merged to forge the master ruler of Verona’s seedy underbelly. Verona’s instigator is as alluring as they come when he needs to be, flashing pearly white teeth and twinkling eyes, using his Hawaiian radiance to promise the world. But beneath the dazzle and the beauty lies something altogether darker, more nefarious, befitting of the dark corners and muddy ditches in which he chooses to perform some of his darkest acts.

What drew you to this character? | Where can I start with this? I missed Orpheus so much, too much. I love playing characters with a dark side, and the idea of someone who was not only aware of the blackness of his heart, but who revelled in it with so much glee, was captivating and immensely intriguing. Rarely, if never, have I seen a character as multi-faceted, as darkly multi-faceted, as Orpheus. I love that his soul shines with gloom, like that colour scientists discovered that was ‘blacker than black’, a sponge to soak up all light that glances off it. I love the fire in him, the fire around him, that it spurts from his fingertips and his heels and flares up in his eyes when he laughs, when he lies and when he roars. I love how you’ve made Orpheus so completely, almost painfully self-aware, so completely in touch with the filth that coats Verona’s streets that he not only plunges his hands into it, but dives in and bathes in the muck. I like that he has a clear sense not of right and wrong, but justice and injustice, and that his governing maxim is very much ‘an eye for an eye’, that he’s fearless and heartless but somehow has become a beacon to the downtrodden and the low, and that he has built an empire of sorts without the inherited wealth and the pomp and circumstance of Verona’s two warring families. Essentially, I’m utterly, hopelessly in love with this minstrel of destruction, and I’d like to congratulate you once again on dreaming up this instigator. It sounds overblown, I know, but I really do love him with all my heart and soul.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

YOU CAN BE THE KING; The Capulets and Montagues might rule the streets and seek to fill them with the blood of their enemies, but Orpheus knows that the real power lies not in how many guns you have or how many bullets you spend, but how many bodies you have on your side, how many empty vessels you can whip up and fill with the pulsing beat of your agenda. His kingdom was handed to him by Cosimo on a silver tray, and, just like Hades took to his Underworld with perfect ease, Orpheus has found that he’s exactly where he belongs. I’d like to explore how Orpheus rules his kingdom, how he goes about raising his own empire with the backing of the Capulets. He’s always turned his nose up at an excess of money, but I’d like to see how he uses the protection and financial backing Cosimo threw his way, how he sets about positioning his dominion in the wake of the coming war, how he protects what is his from the long arm of Verona’s moneyed classes, and how he uses Measure by Measure to spread little rumours of evil here and there, how he uses his fighting pit to breed fear and respect in equal measure. He is on the Capulet side for now, because that is the side that currently brings him the most opportunity, but everything could change at the drop of a hat, should the tide of war swing a different way…

BUT WATCH THE QUEEN CONQUER; I want to explore Orpheus’ relationship with Theodora, to develop the toxic, intoxicating back-and-forth between them. They were never exclusive, neither of them belonged to the other, because they’re not bound by such earthly pettiness, and so Orpheus has, over the time they’ve been together, roamed as freely as he pleases, bedding anyone that took his fancy, as though it was his mission to cover the whole of the gender spectrum with his conquests. Orpheus knows that Theodora is sometimes jealous of his wandering eyes and hands and limbs, that they resent him bitterly, that they would gladly douse him in gasoline and strike a match, and I’d love to explore how he plays on this side of them, how he tries to goad them into lashing out, how they both stick knives in each other’s backs and then help each other bandage the wounds, knowing that no matter how much they hurt one another there will always be something cosmic and irrevocable that binds them together.

LET ME WHISPER IN YOUR EAR; His relationship to Halcyon. I want to see how Orpheus walks the tightrope between informant and deceiver, how he manages to sustain the balance between feeding her the information the Capulets need, enough to keep the war interesting, and obscuring those facts which should never come to light. I believe that Orpheus wants a war, has wanted one for some time, because there is nothing that burns as fiercely within him as his hatred for the wealthy, and although he would actively intercede in the battle against them, obliterating them like he did that family of idiots who dared to rob him of his loved ones, the opportunity to see the elite tear themselves apart is just too good to be missed. I think he will take to his role as informant eagerly, recognising the opportunity it brings to light the touch-paper and give the conflict the spark he feels it needs, although I imagine that if Halcyon tries to exercise control too fiercely Orpheus won’t hesitate to remind her just which side of the war he’s currently pretending to be on, and the damage he can cause if he chose to switch his allegiances.

THE PIED PIPER; Although he never intended it to be this way, Orpheus has inadvertently found himself wearing the cap of Robin Hood, scourge of the elite and folk hero of the poor. He’s not a kind soul, by any means, but over the years he has found himself becoming strangely proud of this unofficial title, even though he’d never admit this to anyone, even on pain of death. Something changed in him after seeing his brother struck down so carelessly by those who had more money than sense, and Orpheus decided after he’d wrought his terrible revenge that the best way of conquering the upper class was raising the lower classes to fantastic heights, to elevate them in any way he could, so that they could topple the wealthy of Verona from above and from below, rising from the underworld like magma and raining down like hellfire from their plane of moral superiority. Building on this, I’d like to develop how Orpheus relates to and interacts with those members of the Capulet mob who are not from the same privileged background as its leader, and although he’d never do this overtly I envision him attempting to convert some of them to his side of the ‘cause’, enticing them with the odd throwaway comment or lingering glance, reminding them where they came from and where they could go once freed from the yoke imposed on them by Cosimo’s money.

WATCH YOUR BACKS; Superficially, he’s a soldier, and his role within the hierarchy of the Capulet family is supposed to consist of him following orders blindly, obediently, to put his life on the line for the family he’s supposedly loyal to. But Orpheus has never been one for following orders, no; this Piper dances only to his own tune. He was already a king when Cosimo gilded his throne and gave him official protection, and I’d like to explore how these two sides war within him - the thrill of rule mixed with the expected subjugation and loyalty. I can’t imagine Orpheus actively following a single order, save for when Halcyon requests information from him, and would like to see what happens when he confronts and is confronted with the well-oiled, powerful machine of the Capulet army, such a dramatic contrast to the wildness and the chaos that Orpheus so proudly rules over. The Capulets may once have been friends to the working class, but they have become blinded by wealth and greed, and I want to develop how Orpheus interacts with the elite that he so hates, and how he attempts to undermine them from within.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Am I allowed to say undecided? Is that terrible? Part of me wants to say absolutely not, because I think there would be something beautiful in watching Orpheus rise from beneath the ground, clawing his way out of the dirt with his army trailing behind him like the hordes of the undead, to watch him turn around and not just bite the hand that feeds, but tear off the whole arm and throw it to the wolves for them to feast on. I’m a sucker for the traitor/saboteur plot, and I think watching Cosimo be destroyed by a monster of his own making would be entertaining as hell. But then again, even titans can fall, so maybe, if the circumstances were right (or wrong, as the case may be), Orpheus might not survive this war. I’m leaning towards no, at the moment, but my opinion may change depending on how things play out…

In Depth

In-Character Interview:

What is your favourite place in Verona?

He took a deep drag from the cigar pressed between his lips (stolen, of course, Orpheus Ahulani would never do something as ordinary as spend his own money on luxuries), enjoying the way the glowing end of the Cuban briefly illuminated his eyes in the half-light. Ash sprinkled onto the sticky surface of the table, clinging to the rings and mottled stains left by the drinks of countless previous patrons, and he allowed his hand to drop to the wooden tabletop, tracing idle patterns in the grime with practised fingers. Orpheus may have started rubbing shoulders with the elite, but this was his natural habitat, and like a king sat amongst his subjects he filled the space to the brim, so that the essence of the underworld’s prince seemed to seep out of every flat surface, to lurk in every dark corner. He leaned forward, removing the cigar from between full lips to blow a perfect ring of smoke, trapping his interlocutor completely in that tractor beam of a gaze, predator hypnotising prey.

Had the question been a test? He didn’t know, but as with almost every conversation he ever had, he would turn the answer into one, would make sure to pitch his words just right. His song would hit all the optimum notes, and the imbecile who thought that they could divine the inner workings of his mind would suddenly find themselves dancing to Orpheus’ tune and not their own, would see themselves laid bare in a matter of minutes. No matter whom he spoke to, he was both snake-charmer and snake, dictating everything he touched with a few choice tunes from his pipe, but ready to turn around and unleash the venom in his fangs if it was necessary, to wreak a long, slow and painful death on anyone who came too close. It would have been easy to miss Orpheus’ half-smile in the muted light of the underground bar, to lose the serpentine grin amidst the bustle and the murmur of customers on their way to being blind drunk well before midday. “My favourite place in Verona?” And there it was again, that smile, imbued with all the opulence of a thousand precious stones, so entrancing that no one ever saw the sting in the scorpion’s tail, the blood that lurked behind such charming eyes. “So many to choose from…”

A contemplative puff of smokey air, then, as his features shifted into a thoughtful expression, as though truly exerting himself to come up with an answer. “The library, for instance, or perhaps the charming florist’s by the corner of the Castelvecchio.” A pause, a knowing half-smirk. “But if you’re forcing me to choose…” Again, that tone, that fine line between jest and threat, deliberately pitched to make it clear that no one was forcing him to do a damn thing, that this question was being answered solely and completely because he had decided to deign it with a response. “It would have to be my dear Measure by Measure.”

Even at the mere mention of his precious establishment, of the den of violence and broken bones he treasured so dearly, his whole complexion changed, set ablaze by a fire stoked at the thought of the endless litany of brawls that he had presided over in his own personal hell-pit. “If you don’t know it, save whatever dignity you have left and don’t ask. Not all those who live… above ground can stomach knowing what goes on in the darkest corners of their precious Verona.”

What does your typical day look like?

“Why do you want to know?” An eyebrow was raised at the inquiry, and the expression that twisted his features was half something that looked like surprise (although anyone who knew Orpheus even in passing knew that surprise wasn’t an emotion he would ever deem worthy of feeling), half lazy amusement, a mirth to match the haziness of Verona’s late summer afternoons: sticky-hot like whisky, the kind of burn that felt pleasant on your skin and tongue. “Are you trying to keep tabs on me?” The amusement was still there, unfurling across his broad features like a ship’s sails in the wind, but there was a darker emotion behind it that was plain for all to see, an implicit threat that would not go unnoticed. Do not play with fire, it said, do not come too close, or I will burn you. Orpheus was a private person, his life was very much his own, and although he knew that many of the people he was supposed to be working for salivated at the opportunity of finding out exactly how he operated, he’d become adept at keeping his cards very close to his chest. It was the kind of threat that didn’t need articulating, one that seemed so out of place amidst the charm and the mysterious geniality that seemed to roll off him in waves that you could almost miss it if you blinked at the wrong time; an ember still glowing red in a mountain of black coal that had long since cooled.

Orpheus kept this tempestuousness, this fiery quality, firmly under wraps for the most part, because he knew the value of preserving a poker face, of biding his time and letting the sleeping giant lie, of waiting for the right moment to unleash the fires of chaos that he’d been slowly stoking since he was old enough to realise that life wasn’t fair. But there was a time and a place for anger, and this was not it, so he let his mask slide just far enough to reveal a glimpse of the danger that lay within, a reminder not to overstep the boundaries he had so clearly set, before returning to his customary insouciance.

“My typical day is just the same as any law abiding citizen of Verona.” (How enjoyable such blatant lying was, especially when he knew that he could get away with it every time.) “I eat, I drink, I make merry, I go about my business just like any regular guy.”

(Hah. As if Orpheus could be or had ever been regular.)

What has been your biggest mistake thus far?

Momentarily, his hand stilled where it had been tracing patterns in the sticky sheen that coated the table, that curious mixture of alcohol, sweat and ash so often found in seedy bars, and his eyebrows pulled together in something resembling a frown. To anyone who didn’t know him, truly know him (to most everyone, then, since Orpheus Ahulani had made it his life’s mission to make himself an enigma to everyone but himself), it looked like an expression of derision, as though the great shadow-king was baffled by the mere notion of having ever made a mistake, as though the idea of him being fallible, somehow, was beyond human conception. But appearances are so often deceiving, to even the sharpest of minds.

Your biggest mistake.

(November 29th, 2003. A fight in a quiet piazza. The murder of a brother, and the other brother’s failure to react in time.)

It haunted him still, that day, when he let it. In the dark, still, stifling night air that blew over the city in the summertime, left alone with only memories for company, Orpheus would let the strongbox he’d pushed into the furthest corners of his mind unlock itself and spew out its poisonous secrets, would let himself be overwhelmed, for the briefest of instances, by the memory of his failure, of his complacency, and of the loss that had followed. It was a fitting punishment, he supposed, for all the wrong and the harm that he had done, and would yet do. Even the devil was punished for the kingdom he earned, had to sacrifice his angel’s wings for the fiery reward that awaited him beneath the earth. It had been his one great weakness, and he had been punished for it. He opened the armour-plates that encased his heart like a vice just wide enough to allow one soul to slip through, and it was through that crack that fate plunged its dagger, through that crack that fate reached in and dragged the love he had for his brother, still warm and beating, out through his chest, only to throw it in his face and laugh, mocking him for ever having thought that the only person Orpheus Ahulani had ever loved could have walked through the hellfire that surrounded him unscathed.

But no matter. The past was done. Gone. Erased.

(Fool me once…)

“My biggest mistake was letting you sit at this table.“

What has been the most difficult task asked of you?

“Honestly?”

Of course not; it wasn’t possible, wasn’t even fathomable. Truth and honest words were few and far between in a city so steeped in backstabbing and deceit, a city whose heart thrummed so resoundingly with lies and secrets and cruel words whispered from behind gilded lips, and the tide of truth reached its lowest ebb in this corner of Verona, in the heart and eyes of its very own prince of shadows. And it was part of the act, of course, carefully considered - he lied so wantonly and with such joy that if he were ever to tell the truth it would be disbelieved in an instant, cast aside to the realm of uncertainty and doubt. It was a game he enjoyed playing, when the mood struck him, dropping little pearls of veracity into his web of lies, waiting to see if any unsuspecting prey would pull on the thread he’d proffered. But they never did, of course, his mask was far too firmly attached to his face to ever let anything real slip, and so instead he let the word hang in the air, heavy and thick with the connotation of so many truths that went untold, of so many truths that were lost in the miasma that was Verona beneath the sheen of falsehoods that painted the city silver in the moonlight.

Honestly.

As if.

“All these questions of yours are proving to be quite the task. Why don’t you move along before I get bored?“ A beat, a silence that echoes with the cymbal crash of thunder.

“You don’t want me to get bored.“

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

“War?” Orpheus shook his head and laughed, the sound not sweet and sugary but dark and brittle, crackling in the still air like the snap of burnt caramel, any mirth undercut by an aftertaste of bitterness. “This isn’t a war yet, just a playground fight between two spoiled brats.”

The remark sounded facile, just another one of his many quips, a tongue-twisting barb designed to vex and shock and entangle, but there was truth to it, as far as he saw. Orpheus had spent the past few months watching, listening, waiting, sizing up the magnitude of the problem as the Capulets and the Montagues gestured and postured at one another, like angry teenagers who shake their fists at each other across the classroom, too afraid of teacher for physical confrontation.

Things had been tepid, so far, at least in Orpheus’ estimation of what a feud should look like (and he knew, of course, knew better than most what vindictiveness and vengeance tasted like). He had watched tensions bubble and brew and never quite spill over, as both patriarchs observed the situation and hand and decided that all-out battle wasn’t worth the loss of life it would inevitably carry with it.

(Cowards, they were, too afraid of their own shadows to relish in the chaos they could create, too timid and precious to realise that ‘there will be blood’ was not just a pretty phrase but a motto every man, woman and child should follow.)

For the most part, both sides had favoured inaction, whispered words in darkened alleyways, secret meetings and hushed threats. Until very recently, Orpheus had feared that this ‘war’ that everyone kept crowing about would turn out to be woefully boring, that the mutually assured destruction he yearned for from the wealthy elite would never come to pass. But slowly, things were changing. Changing for the better.

“But then someone went and killed poor Alvise Vernon.” A shrug, and he leaned back in a chair that was too small for his frame, but somehow, perversely, seemed made for him. “Now the Montagues are out for blood, and they won’t stop until they find the evil individual who put their dear departed underboss in the ground.” It was funny, almost, how incensed the privileged got when the mire of the real world threatened to stain their ivory towers, when they were all so eager to turn a blind eye when someone actually deserving of their pity was felled, when someone from the lower classes was mercilessly hacked down. How easy they found it not to care when the victim was not one of them and theirs. But such things were not worth wasting angry thoughts on. They would all know pain, soon enough. “Now, who knows what’ll happen?” Orpheus smiled, then, flashing all his teeth, the expression utterly devoid of warmth. It was a crocodile’s grin, one that said there will be blood, and I’ll be there to watch it spill.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m excited.”

In-Character Para Sample:

. PARA SAMPLE ONE .

[[TW: BLOOD, MURDER, VIOLENCE, FIRE]]

[one] - O R I G I N ;;

He wailed when he came into the world.

Howled and howled until his lungs should have given out, until his throat should have been scraped raw and hoarse from the effort of so much crying. He drowned out the other infants in the ward, filled the ears of all the parents and nurses with the ringing sound of a baby’s squeals. He cried until it drove the paediatrician a little insane, until the man snapped and ordered the dark-haired terror moved away from the other children and into his mother’s room, and then, suddenly, there was silence. Suddenly, the babe that had spent the past two nights caterwauling so loudly that it almost cracked the hospital windows lay serene, peaceful, content. Suddenly, the nurses, stepping closer in perplexed relief, realised just how angelic this little cherub was, how beautiful his forest-coloured eyes were. Suddenly, Katherine’s hospital bed was constantly surrounded by a teeming crowd of well-wishers, passers-by with wide eyes and enraptured faces who cooed at the little boy clutched in her arms, who complimented her and her husband on having made something so perfect. They were not intelligent enough to understand him, these fools entranced by pretty eyes and an oddly magnetic aura, but as they looked into that tiny face, his parents comprehended the truth of their son’s existence, knew exactly what to name him to best capture this infallible gift that the gods had blessed him with. He would captivate the world over, they knew, could lead all the citizens of Earth to a watery grave if he only asked them nicely, and so they gave him a name befitting of such power, named him after the greatest, most captivating soul the mythological world had ever produced. Katherine and Joseph knew precisely who their son was, and what he could one day grow to become.

He wailed when he came into the world, but it was not wailing borne out of hunger, or fear, or absence, like most infant crying is. When he was born, Orpheus Ahulani cried because even then he knew that he didn’t want to be surrounded by other children, that the place he would receive the most adoration was in the arms of his dear parents. Even then, he knew precisely what he wanted.

This is the story of how a monster is born.

(Or rather, how a monster birthed itself.)

[two] - F O R T I F I C A T I O N ;;

He wasn’t given anything as a child.

It wasn’t for lack of love, because his parents reminded him constantly that they were impressed with the man he was becoming, and even if this wasn’t always made explicit Orpheus learned early on how to read the signs. No, he wasn’t given anything because such an upbringing formed an essential part of his tuition, because his parents wanted to form him into their master thief, their ideal conman, as early as they could, because they believed firmly in legacy and knew that their first son would be the one who carried that torch forward.

As soon as Orpheus was old enough to comprehend what stealing was, his father sat him down in a sunlit room and told him that this was his life, now, that he had to learn that if he wanted something, he had only to reach out and take it, and that the only thing to remember in this new life he was entering was don’t get caught. If he wanted a toy, his father pointed him in the direction of a rich little boy or girl who wouldn’t miss it. If he fancied a new item of clothing, his mother ushered him into a clothes shop without any money or a credit card on hand and made it clear that they wouldn’t leave until he’d lifted exactly what it was he desired. It was in no way a conventional childhood, but it was the perfect one for the kind of little boy Orpheus was, and the kind of man he hoped to be, because ever since he was young enough to really think for himself Orpheus knew that this was the life he wanted, knew that even if his ancestors had not been thieves he would have sought out a life of illicit activity for himself.

Orpheus was five years old and already he didn’t believe in excess, believed in taking exactly what you wanted so that you had enough to get by, that surrounding yourself with trinkets and empty vanities would not make you feel as alive as the rush of taking something that should never have been yours. He stole the toys or books he wanted, and when he was finished with them they were gifted to those he saw as being in need, those who made his otherwise static heart throb with a beat of compassion, and once the charitable deed was done that compassion evaporated, replaced with a burning desire to seek out the rush of theft again. His parents, his grandparents, stole and conned for that rush alone, but as he grew Orpheus felt a new sensation coursing through his blood when he stole, a sense of indomitable power, of control. He learned that he could dictate the emotions of others by doing something as simple as slipping his little hands into their bags or pockets, could make even the most arrogant man crumple and weep for what he had lost. Orpheus was six years old when he realised that, whilst his relatives saw themselves as something akin to demons when they stole, that some distant part of them regretted that they had not been granted the wherewithal to be more honest, when he stole he felt like GOD. He was only a little boy, and already he saw himself as a divinity, possessed that unique, self-affirming grace that obliged people to love him so much and blinded them to the truth of the power in his heart.

He was nine years old when his brother was brought home to him, when his parents pulled open the door to his room and presented the bundle of limbs and baby hair to him with beatific smiles and luminous eyes, and Orpheus breathed a sigh of relief because Joseph and Katherine finally had the child they needed to fill the hole that had been present in their hearts. He looked at his infant brother and knew that they would both be perfect sons, in their own way. Hermes was the son to love and be loved by, who would fill their home with laughter and warmth and shower their parents with gratitude and appreciation for their efforts in building a family. Orpheus had never been that son to them, it was made clear from the moment of his birth that he was not the child who would inspire happiness, no. Orpheus was the son to be proud of, the son who would pick up the Ahulani mantle and fortify the legacy his parents endeavoured to build, and such a momentous destiny could not be hindered by something as banal as love. Katherine and Joseph looked at the two boys sat by each other one day and knew in their hearts that Hermes was the son who would inspire love, but Orpheus, Orpheus was the son who would move MOUNTAINS.

This cavernous expanse of difference between the two brothers was made abundantly clear at every turn. “What do you want for your birthday, my boy?” Katherine asked her sons in July and November.

“To go to the zoo!” a three year old Hermes giggled, stretching out chubby little arms towards his mother’s neck, knowing that even though he was too old for her to carry him around in her arms she’d lift him into the air anyway, laughing in the way that only a child of the sunlight can as he pressed his face into her auburn curls.

“A better mark,” mused a twelve year old Orpheus, gaze sharp as a laser and expression almost defiant, focussed, seeking bigger and better challenges wherever he could get them. His last task had been to rob some elderly lady; hardly a challenge. He was twelve and fired up and knew exactly what he should be doing with his life. His mother looked distant but proud and he was rewarded suitably for his enterprise, and when he walked away from the jewellery store on his birthday, pockets full and alarm blazing uselessly behind him, Orpheus knew that he had finally been gifted the freedom to go about his business unhindered, that the time had finally come for the phoenix to rise from ash and cover the world in fire.

He tried his best to teach his brother the life of a con artist, to instil in Hermes the same fervour that hurtled through his veins at the speed of a freight train, but knew from the very beginning of his tutelage that his little brother was ruled more by his heart than by his head, that he was too passionate, too flighty, to ever truly excel. He did his best to celebrate the difference between them, to look at his brother as the light that was lacking in his life, the lone rays of sunshine that he would allow to glance across his face. For the most part, he did, but a callous part of Orpheus looked at his brother and saw only a problem, a weak point, the tremor that could cause the entire house of cards to come tumbling down. He looked, and he listened, and he evaluated, and like any good problem solver he came to an uncompromising solution.

He was sixteen now, freshly tattooed and even more independent than he had once been (if such a thing were possible), and knew that his family could all let him down, with their emotions and their happiness and the familial bliss they seemed content to wallow in. There was potential to build a kingdom from their enterprise, to raise up palaces of iron and stone out of the dirt and to make themselves indomitable, but the Ahulanis had grown stagnant and lazy. For them, the things they had stolen until now had been enough, but Orpheus was never one to settle for sufficiency. He recognised that his family were resources, that if put to good use they could help him in his quest for immortality, and so like any chess grand master confronted with a board of uncooperative pieces Orpheus set about manoeuvring his nearest and dearest into position. He became prince and general to them all at once, an emperor to lead his troops into battle, to make ten men and women feel like ten thousand. If his relatives were shocked they did not know how to express it, and instead merely allowed this boy-king to manipulate them, knowing in their heart of hearts that he had already surpassed them both physically (he towered over everyone he met, and the breadth of his shoulders inspired both awe and apprehension) and metaphorically, intangibly, that his ambition and his drive were unparalleled and would likely never be seen again in any of their lifetimes.

”Why do you steal things?” Hermes asked him one day, nine years old and completely devoted to his older brother, ready to obey his every command without fail, overexcitable and unflinchingly loyal, firmly convinced that Orpheus was the most magnificent person in the entire universe.

Orpheus was eighteen now, officially a man (although he hadn’t been a boy for some time now) and didn’t care much about his younger brother’s devotion, saw it only as a useful weapon to be wielded, the perfect way of exercising control.

“Because it’s what I was born to do.”

[three] - P E R D I T I O N ;;

He should have known that it couldn’t last, that no kingdom could be erected from nothingness without a few complications, without the inevitable pitfalls and setbacks, but Orpheus saw his success and revelled in it, and in his revelry he allowed his eyes to fall blind to the dangers that lurked at the fringes of his accomplishments. But all fortresses have their weak spots, and weak spots are only discovered through the most bitter of tragedies, so that the castle can be redesigned, made ten times stronger.

He was out drinking when it happened, celebrating the latest in a long line of successful cons (everyone had told him that the Mary Jane couldn’t be pulled off by only one person, but as ever he’d proved his detractors bitterly wrong, and the look on that pompous dickhead’s face as he’d realised that he’d frittered away his ill-gotten life savings had been priceless), was enjoying his customary mix of expensive whisky and cheap cigarettes when his world shifted slightly on its axis, when its orbit fell out of sync for the briefest of moments.

His brother was seventeen and stupid like Orpheus had never been, and the latest in a long line of petty fights he’d gotten himself into (over a girl, no less) had taken a darker turn than usual. No one bothered to call the paramedics (rich people were too paralysed by centuries of inherited inaction, and too closely bound by a desire to protect their own), but even if they had there was nothing that anyone could have done.

Hermes Ahulani died ignominiously in the middle of one of Verona’s piazzas, hands, face and neck cut to pieces by shards of glass from the bottle he’d been attacked with, choking slowly, grotesquely to death in a pool of his own blood while his family looked on in horror, eviscerated by the sensation of their own utter helplessness.It had all happened in a matter of mere seconds, too fast for anyone to process it, too fast for Orpheus, normally so perceptive, so quick to react, to leap out of his seat and intervene as he had done countless times before. They had all ignored the conflict brewing between the two youths, had passed it off as nothing more than adolescent males trying to burn off some excess testosterone. None of them had anticipated the rich brat’s cowardice, had foreseen him using that damned bottle of wine too expensive for its own good to cut Hermes down. One moment he was standing tall, buoyed up by surging adrenaline and the cockiness of teenage boys, and the next he was on the ground, crushed underfoot like the flower he had been, so much vitality spent in no more than five minutes. Orpheus had tried to stop the bleeding, had fallen to his knees on the cobblestones and clasped his hands around his brother’s throat, a futile effort to plug the seemingly endless leaks, and watched in what he dimly recognised as horror as his brother’s life-force leaked out between his fingers, staining his hands and the pavement below a tragic crimson.

As they watched the rich boy run away, face contorted into an expression of disgustingly entitled horror, no doubt seeking the protection of his parents and their wealth, Orpheus felt the walls of his heart close up completely, so that no feeling could ever again be let through. He shouldn’t have cried, for rulers never wept at the demise of their subjects, merely strode out amongst the common people and found new followers to take the place of the fallen, but the eldest and now only Ahulani brother allowed himself to shed a single tear that day. He hadn’t loved his brother in the conventional way, in the way that families are supposed to adore one another, but he had felt something akin to his own brand of love.

Hermes had never been much of a thief, had always been impulsive, loud-mouthed, capricious, all qualities that Orpheus manifestly disliked and had eradicated from his own personality. He laughed too much and stopped far too little, never waited to check what was around the corner, told his deepest secrets to just about any stranger with a kind enough face, and couldn’t hold his drink. They were polar opposites, these brothers, and Orpheus should have disdained his younger brother utterly, should have shown him nothing but contempt - after all, that was how he treated others whom he deemed unworthy. But the bonds of family are a strange thing, and whilst Orpheus cared little for his parents and grandparents, seeing them only as tools to help him build the world he craved, Hermes had always represented the people for whom he was trying to build this better world. Orpheus had never exhibited much kindness or goodness but he recognised its abundance in his younger brother, and despite himself he felt the need to see that goodness preserved, felt an obligation to create a realm in which his brother could lead the life that he deserved. Of all the people that he knew, and of all the people he would ever meet, Hermes was the only one Orpheus Ahulani had loved, and he didn’t deserve to have met his end before he’d even become a man, at the hands of a coward who had nothing to show for his life but money.

Before that fateful fay he’d been happy to let the elite lead their own gilded lives, as long as they didn’t get in his way, but as he watched his brother die Orpheus realised that the wealthy didn’t deserve to be ignored. They deserved to be BURNED, and he’d be damned if he didn’t see it happen.

But the path to vengeance is never smooth, and for the first (and only) time in his life Orpheus was careless enough to let his rage cloud his better judgement.

It played out like a scene from an Oscar-winning film about the callousness of the wealthy, and the Ahulanis were all too crippled by their mourning to look up and see it coming. First the coroner ruled young Hermes’ death as accidental, having the gall to call the brat’s selfish action self-defence. Then witnesses began to fall curiously silent, saying that they hadn’t seen a thing, that all they had seen was the young poor boy picking a needless fight, that perhaps he deserved what he got, each of them singing to the rich family’s tune. The police were similarly uncooperative, muttering about the prevalence of crime in poorer neighbourhoods, the victim’s prior pattern of behaviour, the fact that he was known for being violent. One by one, each piece of the puzzle slid into place, until Hermes’ case was encircled by an impenetrable wall of bodies itching to exonerate Raffaello Brazzi at the behest of his parents. Outrage spread through the Ahulani ranks like wildfire, fuelled by a desire to see their son’s memory preserved, and when an emissary from Giuseppe Brazzi came knocking, offering the family their weight in gold if they were willing to chalk their son’s death up to a tragic accident, if they would just let bygones be bygones, Joseph Ahulani told the man exactly where he could shove his bribe. Orpheus had wanted to raze the Brazzi family to the ground from the beginning, to make sure that none of them ever drew breath again, but his mother, still on a perverse quest to reform her once criminal life, begged him to let them do things the right way, to try and build a legal case, and against his better judgement Orpheus ceded to her demands.

They must have banked on them all being home that day, must not have foreseen the possibility of Orpheus going out every day to search for new evidence. The fire was already out of control by the time he returned home, and he watched amber flames as tall as trees surge through the old building, a deathly cavalry tearing everything to pieces, a ravenous monster leaving no life in its wake. Had Hermes still been alive, had his brother been in the burning structure, Orpheus might have thrown caution to the wind and run inside to save him, but now he stood rooted to his spot, watching mutely as firefighters attempted to combat the unconquerable blaze, watching and watching and feeling nothing in his heart but anger.

Orpheus Ahulani was twenty-six years old and in the space of three weeks had lost all the family he’d ever known, and knew as he watched his childhood home, his ancestry, go up in flames, that he had been right all along, that his mother’s utopian desire for justice was untenable in a world such as this one, where the wealthy elite did nothing but take, smashing up people and things in their way without a second thought.

He wasn’t a religious man but in that moment he thanked whatever deity it was that had kept him alive, that had given him this purpose, and knew that no matter how far they ran or how well they tried to hide, the Brazzi family had signed away their lives the minute his brother had drawn his final breath. The wealthy were not afraid of anything except damaging their reputations, but Orpheus knew that his destiny was to make them experience real fear.

Orpheus was twenty-six years old, and he was coming for them.

[four] - R E T R I B U T I O N ;;

They didn’t run. It wasn’t a surprise, in the end, given that they thought their secret had been burnt to a crisp with the Ahulani home. A more patient man would have plotted his line of attack, would have ensured that there was no way for them to harm him, but Orpheus knew that he was indomitable, that the fact that he was the last Ahulani left alive made him untouchable by human hands. Ever one for boldness and grand gestures, he strode through the front doors of the Brazzi mansion with a machine gun slung over his shoulder and seated himself at the head of their dining table, and let the members of the family he hated most in the world crawl to his side, quivering like frightened sewer rats. He made no verbal or physical threats, didn’t utter a single word, in fact, merely sat there with his assault rifle lying on the table for all to see and cleaned his nails with a pocket knife.

The implication was clear.

Giuseppe Brazzi hid behind his wife’s skirts and shook with fear, and after what felt like a century of petrified silence his voice, cracked and weedy, echoed across the empty room.

“We’ll give you money,” he stammered, “more money that you could ever dream of.”

(He was wrong, because Orpheus had never been a dreamer but he could dream up quite a lot.)

“How much do you want?”

The silence as they awaited his reply was deafening, the response even more so.

“All of it.”

“All of it? You must be joking. Who the fuck do you think I am?”

Orpheus didn’t even deign to look at the old man, merely laid his knife on the table. His terms were simple.

“You took everything from me, I shouldn’t have to remind you of that.” Expression as blank and unfeeling as slate, he picked up the gun, caressing the trigger with a macabre kind of reverence. “All I have to do is squeeze.” Finally, he made eye contact with the Brazzi patriarch, and the fire burning in his green eyes made the man visibly wilt. “Who the fuck do you think I am?”

They should never have underestimated him. He was Orpheus, the last Ahulani, he walked in shadow and in flame, the prince who would one day rule the criminal underworld which had shaped him. He was the Devil’s advocate, his messenger, his brother, the same blood pulsed in his veins as had once flowed through the body of the first fallen angel. Marianna Brazzi hurled a litany of curses at him as he stripped her husband of his entire fortune, damned him a thousand times to the fiery pits of hell, and as Orpheus walked away from that house with all the money in the world he smiled Satan’s smile because he knew that her words had no power over him, that if there was damnation to come he would welcome it with open arms and an open heart. The Brazzis hoped fervently that it would be enough, that their riches would be enough to pacify the beast, to fill the void and guarantee his distance from them (his silence had been guaranteed long ago, the minute they chose to set his family ablaze). They should never have underestimated him.

It was not enough, Orpheus knew that from the moment they offered him the money. It would never be enough. He was not the kind man that so many of Verona’s poor made him out to be, he was not their saviour, their symbol, their martyr. The only pyre he would ever throw himself on was his own, and only when he was ready to leave the world that he had barely had the chance to make his mark on yet. It would never be enough. There was only one punishment that befit this crime, only one way to repay the bastards that had taken everything from him. He was good at stripping people of everything they held dear, of everything they loved, and this would be his magnum opus, his greatest theft. The Brazzi family had played with fire, and it was FIRE that would let them know the magnitude of their mistake.

Orpheus wouldn’t just fiddle whilst Rome burnt. He would conduct a whole fucking orchestra.

He came with darkness as his cloak, ensuring that the whole family was in one place before he acted, making sure that he didn’t make the same mistake they had. Once again, he strode in through the front door, but this time he had no gun on him, only a box of matches and a knife and the Devil’s hellfire in his heart. There were nine of them in the house - parents and seven children, and they all paid the price, because the question of their innocence had been rendered utterly void when they did everything they could to sweep his brother’s life under the carpet.

He made them bleed that night, stained the walls and the floors and the priceless antiques with vermillion and crimson and every other shade of red imaginable. He was an artist, like Jackson Pollock splashing the surface of the world, with the Brazzi home as his canvas and their blood as his paint. He took his sweet time with each family member, carving his rage and his revenge into their bodies, making sure that they were all awake to see the look in his eyes as he killed them, so that his face was the last thing they saw on this earth. Almost poetic, in a way; the most lyrical Orpheus had ever been in his life.

Raffaello was the last to die, a fate he had sealed for himself the minute he chose to raise his hand and end Hermes’ life. Orpheus let him crawl from his bedroom into the corridor, watched him leave a trail of blood behind him as he tried to drag his body away, and felt nothing more for the teenager than he would feel for a slug that had crawled into his path. The last thing Raffaello ever saw was the slow approach of Orpheus’ black boots and the twisted expression of cruelty on his blood-flecked face. Lying there, surrounded by his own blood and the blood of his relatives, Raffaello Brazzi, murderer and coward, started to cry, and amidst his sobs he looked up at Orpheus and begged.

“Please, please, please, God, have mercy!”

“Mercy?” All Orpheus could do was laugh, the sound bitter and piercing in the mansion’s cavernous halls, lips contorting into an expression of pure disgust. “My brother might have shown you mercy. No, the only thing I can give you, the only thing you deserve, is my name. I am ORPHEUS AHULANI,” he proclaimed, raising the knife one last time. “Never forget it.”

[five] - E N D U R A N C E ;;

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, one fire for another. Orpheus torched their mansion to the ground, obliterating their family from the face of the Earth and making sure that no one by the name of Brazzi would ever darken the streets of his city again. He walked away from the burning wreckage with his head held high, proud frame silhouetted against a background of embers and flame, knowing that he would never face judgement for the crime he had committed (although he didn’t see it as such - to him, his actions were entirely justified, completely necessary, for there had been filth in his life and it had been successfully purged). Anyone who knew anything about Hermes Ahulani’s murder and the subsequent cover-up believed that he was dead, thought his whole family had been erased in order to let a killer go free simply because of his wealth. Orpheus knew that he was untouchable, and that finally the stage had been cleared for his life’s greatest work to begin.

He began slowly but confidently, disseminating news of his survival throughout the streets on which he had grown up. The paupers of Verona had been mourning their fallen prince, had feared the demise of their Robin Hood at the hands of the wealthy he stole from, and they were overjoyed to hear that their hero had been preserved, claimed that it was his virtue that had rescued him from the deadly inferno that had stolen his beloved family from them. Orpheus could have laughed at the irony of being presumed to be virtuous, but he let the rumour spread, let the streets ripple with rejoicing and relief, knowing that this jubilation would raise up a horde of soldiers for him. He whispered in all the right ears, smiled at all the right people, and used the outrage that had spread through the community upon the death of his family to galvanise the loyalty of every woman, man and child he laid his eyes on. The fortune he’d acquired wasn’t spent on himself, instead he began to dip into the pot of the vast wealth he’d suddenly accumulated to further magnify the people’s adoration, making sure that his charity was never too overt, that nothing more was ever said about his power than the odd whispered phrase. Even the fight club he established went unnoticed by all but the most hardened of Verona’s citizens, its most masochistic residents, coasting through the city’s underworld under the unassuming name of Measure by Measure, but to those who moved in the right circles the violence Orpheus’ snake-pit harboured was legendary. It was better this way, to be king from the shadows. It made him stronger.

He was only twenty-six and already more powerful than most men could become in five lifetimes, let alone one, and the whispers about him grew louder and louder, sparks that eventually ignited a forest fire of speculation, of mystery. Fires demand to be seen, to be heard, and one by one the influential figures in Verona began to take notice. Many approached him with offers of treaties and alliances, hoping that by taming Hades they could make his Underworld dance to their tune, but Orpheus knew the value of the kingdom he was poised to rule and the music that he wanted it to play, and so he turned each of them away, these men and women who claimed to be powerful, seeing through their charades of lies and always wanting something more.

It was a rainy day in October when Cosimo Capulet requested a meeting, and as he strode into the Cathedral, hair damp from the deluge outside, Orpheus knew that the right offer had finally come knocking on his door.

It was the first time he’d been into church to do anything other than steal, although equally illicit deeds were about to be performed under the Lord’s watchful gaze, bargains between the dark and the even darker, a treaty between two black kings who had each removed the white knights who threatened to stand in their way. Cosimo was shorter than Orpheus had expected, and with something of a wry smile he imagined that his brother would have informed the Capulet boss of that fact before he’d even sat down.

“Mister Ahulani, good of you to come.”

Orpheus acknowledged the pleasantry with a brief cant of the head, but didn’t bother to respond.

“Let’s make one thing very clear: if you’re here to offer me some hollow alliance, a way to take what I’ve built and sweep me to one side as soon as you get the chance, I’m walking out of here. The streets are no place for a man from your background, and you will never be able to control them like I can, no matter how much money or how many guns you have. We both know that you need me a lot more than I need you, Mr. Capulet, so go ahead, make your offer. I know you’re a smart man.”

Cosimo had to smile at that, knowing that his instinct about this young man had been correct. “My offer is simple, Orpheus, if I may call you that…” he trailed off, then, pausing to savour his triumph. “A good name you’ve got there. I like it.” Suddenly, he remembered himself, still smiling. “Yes, my offer is very simple: I want to give you the keys to a kingdom. Your kingdom. You can rule the underworld of Verona,” he intoned, sounding every inch the emperor he was, “you can rule it — with my hand to guide you.”

Outside, he could see the city lights sparkling through the stained glass. The rain had all but stopped, and Orpheus felt like he was flying.

“So what do you say?”

They’d both known the answer to the question the minute they’d laid eyes on one another, but Orpheus felt triumphant enough to say it anyway.

“Yes.”

[six] - C O M P L E T I O N ;;

And so Cosimo Capulet opened the gates that Orpheus had been longing to see open for as long as he could remember. With the might of the Capulet name behind him, he acceded to the throne that he was always born to sit on, knowing that Cosimo was intelligent enough to keep his distance, that he would never interfere. But even the king of kings could not know the extent of the ambition that lurked in Orpheus’ heart, a volcano of energy and zeal that was lying safely dormant, waiting for the perfect opportunity to erupt. For all the bullets in the world, he had weapons that were just as powerful - passion, emotion, the kind of burning fanaticism that only those who have nothing can muster. He accepted backing from the Capulets, played their game when they wanted him to, all the while conducting his own ruthless chess match in the shadows their eyes could not reach.

One day, he knew, he would build up the force to throw off the shackles of Verona’s elite, and so he bided his time, content to play the long game until such a time as it felt right to act.

But can a king ever really rule without someone by his side, without an ally of sorts, another half? Orpheus had had many lovers and companions throughout the course of his life, but none had captured his fancy for more than a fleeting instant, none of them could ever be considered worthy, and then he met Theodora Moreau in a hotel bar one night and the final piece of the puzzle seemed to have fallen into place.

It was not love that drew them together across a crowded room - love was for children, and idiots - but necessity, a flame that danced and sparked and seemed to hypnotise them both. He had heard them spoken of throughout the underworld and indeed above ground, had been privy to many whispers of the street kid who had risen beyond the stars, and the rumours had piqued his interest. He was in a corner booth at the bar in the Hotel Emelia, enjoying the low lighting and the whispered secrets that floated over to his ears from neighbouring tables, when he felt eyes on him and saw that they was standing directly in front of him. “You want to have sex with me,” they informed him curtly, lips pursed and head tilted contemplatively to one side, and Orpheus had to allow himself a laugh at their brashness. They were even more perceptive than he’d imagined. He had been watching them for most of the evening, out of the corner of his eye, allowing his gaze to drift with pleasure over their perfect form and that face, those eyes that were far more intelligent than he suspected many gave them credit for, finding himself drawn like moth to flame.

“Yes,” he answered, responding to openness with openness, quite enjoying this game to which they both seemed to know all the rules, “but a name would be nice, first. We are civilised people, after all.”

They looked him up and down with a hint of disdain (and damn, he was sold already), clearly thinking ‘well I, at least, am civilised, whether you are or not remains to be seen’, but seemed to deem him worthy of more than just an anonymous fuck in the hotel bathroom and sat down at his table instead. “Theodora Moreau.” They didn’t offer him their hand but he took it anyway, enjoying the way they shivered slightly as he brushed a kiss against their knuckles.

“Orpheus Ahulani.”

“It’s a pleasure,” they responded, withdrawing their hand back to their side, and for the life of him Orpheus couldn’t figure out why they were doing him the courtesy of such trivial pleasantries, but was mightily, mightily glad that they were.

“No,” he responded, taking a sip of his red wine and grinning, cat-like, in the half-light. “The pleasure is all mine.”

. PARA SAMPLE TWO .

[[TW: VIOLENCE, BLOOD, MINOR GORE]]

He doesn’t fight often.

It’s not for lack of wanting (oh, how the desire sings in his blood, how his veins thrum with it, that urge that pulses just beneath the surface of his skin, always threatening to tip, tip, tip over into actual violence, a beast that waits impatiently within its cage and scratches at the bars to find release), but rather simple practicality – in any conflict to be settled upon the edge of a fist, he will walk away the victor every time, he knows, and Orpheus enjoys the thrill of winning but there’s a limit to how many predictable victories he can stomach before they come to bore him.

So for the most part he keeps his fists down, lets his stature and the glint of savagery in his eyes halt even the most foolhardy of opponents in their tracks.He doesn’t fight often, but when he does, there’s something almost Biblical about it, something perversely, crudely elegant.

This is no different.

Measure by Measure isn’t the usual place he chooses to hold his court, but there’s a certain urgent matter that demands to be dealt with by means other than simple, verbal intimidation, and the dramatist in Orpheus can’t think of a more fitting place.

There’s a fool stood snivelling before him, with bloodshot eyes fixed firmly on the ground, and Orpheus looks up at him from the armchair he’s sat in with just the faintest hint of cruel amusement. A spy, from a neighbouring city, sent to size up Orpheus’ kingdom and see if there’s room for a hostile takeover, no doubt sent to see if, in his association with Cosimo Capulet, the King beneath Verona’s streets has grown at all soft.

He hasn’t.

(His doubters will come to rue the day they ever had such thoughts.)

“You made a mistake, coming here,” Orpheus says, and although his voice isn’t raised it somehow booms in the small space between them. “You might just live to regret it.”

Once the warning has hung in the air for long enough he stands from his throne, rolls his shoulders and smiles almost cordially, then curls his hand into a fist and lets it fly at the man’s face. Predictably, his opponent crumples to the ground from the sheer force of the blow, and Orpheus chuckles darkly at the sight.

“Is that it?” he queries, looking at the other man down his nose, amusement lacing every syllable of the challenge. “I thought they made you tougher in Padua.”

They’re exactly the right words to say, he knows, because the man scrambles instantly to his feet, jaw set and shoulders squared, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles begin to widen, and Orpheus can feel the familiar sense of ecstasy begin to pool at the tips of his fingers as he takes in the full sight of the opponent opposite him, sees the other man’s wounded pride and blind fury fuel him, and lets it fill him to the brim with purpose.

This man is big (six foot two, perhaps more), but as always Orpheus is bigger, broader, and when the first fist comes swinging his way he takes half a step back and catches the hand in his own broad palm, trapping it in a cage of fingers, and panic flares up in the other man’s eyes because he knows, because he can sense full well what punishment is coming his way. There’s a wild, wicked grin that slashes across Orpheus’ face, carving up his visage into fragments of splintered cruelty, and with a frenzied look in his eyes he begins to apply pressure slowly, squeezing, squeezing until he hears the click-pop-crunch of bones shattering into a myriad of tiny shards, until he feels the hand trapped in his own disintegrate beneath his iron grip, and the howls of pain that accompany the vicelike movement of his hand sound like a victory fanfare.

His eyes are set ablaze in gleeful satisfaction, burning with all the intensity of a forest fire, and Orpheus releases the mewling man’s hand with a hum of joy, reaching out instead to grab him by the collar of his shirt. “You asked for this,” is the reminder that drops from his lips before he whips his head back and brings it crashing forward, and the fleshy crunching sound he hears is indication enough that he’s hit his mark. The blow leaves him feeling dazed as well, but somehow that only makes the experience more pleasurable, and as he leans back to admire the damage done Orpheus feels a familiar euphoria coursing through his veins. One hand drops to his side, then, a feigned show of reprieve, and he waits until a hint of relief begins to cloud the other man’s gaze before snapping his fist up again, ensuring that it connects squarely with the centre of his victim’s face.

After the third, fourth, fifth punch he stops counting, and it’s only when the blood begins to trickle in scarlet rivulets down the back of his hand that the king decides he’s had his fill, only then that he deigns to release his prisoner and sends him dropping to the ground below as though he were nothing more than feather-light.

(The only sound still audible in the gloom of the basement is the muted rise and fall of the Devil’s breathing.)

There’s something beautiful about this, he thinks, looking down at his handiwork from above, something picturesque about the mottled flecks of blood, the blue-black bruises that trace the outline of fractured bones and crumpled cartilage, and as he kneels down in the dust beside his victim Orpheus thinks he understands how the Old Masters felt when they stood back and knew that they’d produced a masterpiece.

“Tell your friends what happened here today,” he intones, lips forming around the words in a way that’s almost tender, as though he were addressing a protege or an accomplice rather than the broken bag of bones that lies spreadeagled before him, and lifts up a hand to pat the man ever so gently on a cheekbone he knows is shattered. “Tell them that the underworld of Verona is not for sale, tell them from me that next time any of you come back here,” his voice is low, now, hissing, eyes so dark they’re almost obsidian, “I will end you. All of you. You think the Capulets, the Montagues, they’re the ones to be afraid of in this city?” A laugh, then, that rasps like a knife being unsheathed, “Tell your pathetic little friends they’re WRONG.”

. PARA SAMPLE THREE .

[[TW: VIOLENCE, MENTIONS OF DEATH, BLOOD]]

– THE PAST IS A FOREIGN COUNTRY; THEY DO THINGS DIFFERENTLY THERE

One day there will be an argument in a quiet town square.

There will be two men present, two brothers. They will be completely different. They will be the best of friends.

One of them will be involved in the argument. The other will drink beer nearby, not watching because he will think that it is safe. He will have made the same assumption before, and on most days he will have been right. This time, he will be wrong. This will cost him dearly.

One of them will fall to the ground, and the well of red in his throat will gurgle every time he takes a breath. The other will be on his knees beside him, palms wrapped around the deluge. His hands are big, but they will seem too small.

Eventually, the well will dry.

The other one, the one who is not drained of crimson, the one who is a great thief with a cold heart and a fondness for shadow, will go into chrysalis, will burn. Out of his husk will rise a beast with a gaping maw and claws that will always slice at the jugular. Out of the flame will walk a demon whose greatest talent is tearing out hearts and stamping on them till they burst. As he rises to his feet in the piazza, reborn, he will smear his bloodied hands across his face and know what it means to taste failure.He will not taste it again.

But this is not that story, not yet. This is the story of everything that comes before, and some things that come after.

*  *  *

Two little boys play on a dirty street. The big one leads, the little one follows. Everything the first does is mirrored in perfect miniature. This is idolatry at is most pure.

“Can there be a good guy, this time?” The little voice tinkles like a jingle bell. “There are never any good guys.”

In the distance, thunder rumbles. The bigger voice has dropped already to the crash of cymbals. Green eyes are kinder now than when strangers see them. Fat drops of rain begin to fall. A big hand cups a small wet cheek. Two sets of feet are bare, beginning to turn sticky grey with dust.

“You can be the good guy, if you like.” Somewhere, a lightning flash. It seems to cast the world in black and white. “But you won’t win.”

*  *  *

A child is left alone with a baby. He is trusted to keep watch.In the next room, the bed creaks, and his mother mumbles his father’s name. Other children might be confused by the strange sounds, but he has heard them enough times to understand. That is what adults do when they are happy. Or angry, or sad, or lonely.

(Sometimes, he will learn later, when they feel nothing at all.)

He looks at the bundle of blankets next to him. The Thing in there is pink and wrinkled and its little mouth is curled into a perfect circle. The boy is happy, because he knows that this perfection will keep his parents satisfied, will give them the loving son that he never wanted to be.

“What is this?” he asks when they bring the infant in to show him, dark eyebrows pulled down into a knot. He knows the answer, he is a clever boy, but some part of him still does not quite understand.

“His name is Hermes,” his mother gushes, eyes awash with a hollow innocence. “Your little brother.”

The boy blinks. His mouth charts the line of the horizon. “And what is he for?”

When the creaking gets too loud he stands up to close the door, and rolls his eyes because he is always the one who has to close it. He stands over the little bundle, holds his pointer finger out.

Five little fingers, fat and pink like worms, reach out and trap it in a rosy vice. Suddenly, the boy feels something warm spread inside him, to the left of his body where he knows his heart is. Suddenly, he understands.

He will keep the baby safe. And in return, the baby will make his heart warm. No one else has managed to do that yet.

It seems a fair exchange, and the boy is satisfied. He does not move his finger until he has counted to ten thousand. Even then it does not seem like long enough.

He does not tell anyone about this silent bargain, and when they come to take the baby to his nursery the boy glares at them until they back away. His parents do not understand why, but they let him move the cradle into his own bedroom. Their son is nine years old but there is not much they can do to resist. His will is iron, a hardness openly defiant of the fact he has not yet lost all his milk teeth. The boy does not explain himself.

His parents are not important enough to know such things.

*  *  *

Mother and Father are fighting again. Throats hoarse from screaming, curses no longer muffled for the sake of the children. Hot, angry tears stain cold, angry faces.

“Why are they arguing?” the younger one asks, eyes big like saucers, round with not understanding.

The older one watches, stony-faced. In the doorway of the kitchen, lit only from above, he is carved from granite.“Because love is not real.”

*  *  *

The little boy runs everywhere after his brother, wings on his sandals. He does not stop even when he falls and skins his knee. He does cry, little face overcast and squeezed with pain, but he gets up and keeps running. It is a resilience that his protector has taught him.

“‘Feus, ‘Feus.” He could talk a stranger’s ear off, but the three syllables of his brother’s name are still out of his reach. “Wait for me.”

But he does not wait. Today, he is impatient.

“I thought you were big enough to keep up.”

Behind him, a sob. He stops. The pastries they have stolen warm his hands through the paper bag. They do not go hungry, though. They steal because they can.

(He will give half of them to the beggar-man with the black cat who sits in the market, and the money they did not spend will be dropped into the hands of the blind woman who is bad at telling fortunes. Charity is not something he enjoys, but neither is suffering. And loyalty comes cheaply in places of such poverty.)

He sighs. In the cafe, a waitress spills a jug of milk.“You promised to tell me. What was it like?”

Someone tries to clean up the spill. The wind steals away their napkins, carries them into the street. Two pigeons are disturbed, and they stop fighting to take wing, leaving messy, torn out feathers in a little pile.

He sighs again. He had sex for the first time yesterday.

His brother still plays with toy soldiers. He is too young to know what desire feels like. ‘Feus chooses the words he knows his brother wants to hear.

“I was good at it.”

*  *  *

The baby goes everywhere with a sentinel, an escort with dark, wild hair and gritted teeth. Wherever the infant squalls, watchful green eyes are not far away. The infant’s parents love their new arrival because he is innocent, and they cherish him. But his true guardian knows already that their dotage is not good enough. Already, he has drawn up battle plans.

Already, he is marshalling his family around him, pronouncing orders to make sure that he gets what he wants and that they are useful, always.

They listen, because he has the look of unfettered temptation about him, because when those eyes are turned on to their brightest they cannot say no. He is not much more than a decade old, but already he could entice them all to their doom. He knows this.

To mark the passing of ten years, his eyes acquire a fire. It is not the flaming matchstick-end there was before, but rather a pair of coals set into a cunning face. A face that already looks a little wicked in the right lighting. The first time he gives a command and it is obeyed, a boy-king is born.

Soon he is not a boy at all.

*  *  *

(Compare two things; one fruit left out in the sun to rot, and another wrapped lovingly in cellophane, hidden in the fridge to save its ripeness. Which one is good, which one bad? Who is at fault? Do you know the answer?)

The boys are older now. One of them plays in dirty streets, still. The other watches, pockets heavy with other people’s possessions. He wears the title of man, now. (He has worn it for much longer than he should.) He should be disappointed.

Today was the first time he felt someone’s bones break beneath his fists. He can still remember the sight, the sound, clear like the reflection on the surface of a pond. He wants to describe it all to the boy playing football in the dust, because he knows that he will be proud no matter what.

He pulls the cuff of his sleeve down to hide the blood on his wrist.

The younger one sees his brother. Happiness paints his face golden. “Join me?” he asks.

The football rolls towards him slowly. Green eyes are cold when they examine it. He wants to stab it with the knife at his back.

(Compare those two things. The distinction seems simple. But the thing that no one ever tells you is that the rotten fruit rolled away from the plastic wrapping of its own volition. Do you know the answer now?

Yes. The answer is clearer than before. Now you know the bad created itself.

Does that scare you?)

He kicks it back instead.He should be disappointed, but somehow all he feels is the warmth of that gold face.

This is the only soul to whom he will never be cruel.

*  *  *

The gravestone is too small.It needs to be, so that no one will know the magnitude of his outrage. He needs to seem indomitable.

With steady hands, he reaches into his chest and tears out his own heart. It is small and black and shrivelled and is not beating and the earth is cool under his fingers as he lays it beside the casket.

The gravestone is small, and that is right. Now no-one knows that one-and-a-half hearts have made this their final resting place.

He wishes the gravestone could be bigger. His grief, impossibly large for a moment, has dulled to a quiet pinprick at the back of his skull. He has suppressed it well, but it is a wound that he will carry always.

Only one other person will ever know this.

The rest of his family are buried somewhere else. He does not stop to remember where. He remembers the priest crying when he told him that he did not care.

*  *  *

One night he drinks too much. The air around him dissolves into mirage, and he is greeted by the sight of a familiar face, older than when he last saw it.

“You’re here,” he says, tongue thick and heavy with not just alcohol.

There is a small smile on the other’s face. A sad smile.

“I’m dead, brother. Can’t you see?”

“Oh.” He tastes ash in his mouth, all of a sudden, the ash of a burned-down house, and when he looks at his hands through quaking lashes there is blood on them again.

Can’t you see?

Next time he drinks too much he kills three people, and it doesn’t matter if they deserved it or not because at least now the blood on his hands does not belong to a ghost.

*  *  *

Two little boys play on a dirty street. They could not be more opposite, and yet they are the best of friends.

The curtain rises on their little game. As always, they are head and heart. One thinks and the other feels. It is a simple division of resources. Both are content.

They do not play cops and robbers, or cowboys and indians. The older one has a mind like a puzzle box, it will not allow for anything less than intricacy.

“Today you will be emperor of Rome. I will be your advisor, and I will teach you how to sack Carthage.”

“Why don’t you want to be the emperor? You are bigger than me.”

The younger one is fair, always. It is a consequence of the light that bleeds from his heart. Because of this light, he can never understand what the older one schemes about at night-time. The older one is glad of this. He remembers the fat, pink fingers and round little circle mouth and knows that this innocence must never be allowed to fade.

Because an emperor has no real power, is what he wants to say. Because influence is spread by acquiring loyalty, not by tyranny. An advisor with his ear open to secrets can rule the kingdom much better than a despot could ever hope to.

“Because you hold a sword better than me.”

The younger one smiles. It swallows his whole face. He has three big gaps where teeth should be.

The curtain falls.

Extras:

FACTFILE: [TW: VIOLENCE, SCARS, ALCOHOL, SMOKING] sexuality: pansexual. Romance has always been easy for him, for even if it weren’t for his impressive muscle mass and the sculpted shape of his face, he has enough charm to seduce even the most stoical of people. Women, men, and everything in between, flock to him in their droves, all eager to experience for themselves exactly what Verona’s Underworld king tastes like. Orpheus is gleeful in the way that he receives his lovers, welcoming each and every one with the cunning smile of a predator and the promise of sin written plainly in his eyes and across his mouth. He’s never disrespectful, although it might be expected from someone whose liaisons never last longer than a few days, instead always attentive, obliging, but always firmly in control, always in possession of all his faculties, and there’s something so entrancing about the way in which he goes about his romantic life that leaves all of his conquests unable to hate him even when they part ways, for it is clear to them from the start that this is a man whom they will never be able to tie down, that he belongs to no one but himself, and that any entanglement they have with him is fleeting at best. The rules of the game are always laid bare for all to read, and even though most people should run for the hills when faced with the proposition Orpheus puts to them, for some inexplicable, paradoxical reason it only makes the objects of his… interest want him all the more. The closest anyone’s ever come to tying him down is Theodora, of course, and even they cannot keep hold of him for longer than a few successive days, for each time the wind changes he is gone, blown away by the breeze like dust in a storm. He doesn’t love Theodora, and knows that they don’t love him back, and anyone who looks at the two of them closely would be forgiven for mistaking their relation for hatred, or at least contempt, but it’s as close as Orpheus could ever come to what the world might see as a traditional romance. He doesn’t love them but he needs them to breathe, needs them to keep his world spinning on its usual axis, and when people point out to him that that looks a lot like love, he shakes his head and rolls his eyes and says no it isn’t, that’s life, that’s something as fundamental as existence. date of birth: 19 November 1977, zodiac Scorpio. place of birth:Verona, Italy. nationality: Italian. ethnicity: Half Native Hawaiian, half a mixture of German, Irish and Native American. parents: Joseph Ahulani, father [deceased]; Katherine Ahulani (nee O’Leary), mother [deceased]. siblings: Hermes Ahulani, brother [deceased]. languages: English, Italian, some French and Spanish. height: 6′ 5″. weight: 230 lbs. hair colour: Dark brown/black. eye colour: Green. distinguishing features: The first thing you notice is his stature, all 6′5″ of him. This is a hulk of a man, more mountain than actual person, with broad shoulders and big arms and enough pectoral muscle for two men. You’d be forgiven for assuming that he was not of this earth, sculpted from some alien material and sent to Earth to show humanity just what it’s missing, and for the half-step back you take when you’re confronted with him, the air of apprehension that suddenly overtakes event he bravest and most foolhardy of souls. This is not a man to anger, not a man to insult. Then, once you’ve taken that step back, once your eyes are able to fully comprehend the titan before you, then the beauty of his features becomes apparent, the chiselled definition of his facial bones and the smooth, flowing lines of the rest of his body, so that he seems almost carved from marble, a Classical sculpture of Heracles, perhaps, or Ares, god of war, a model of virility and masculine strength. But he is not all brawn and brute force, and in fact there’s something oddly graceful about the way he moves, a grace that should not be possible for a man his size, a fluidity that speaks to years learning how to part people from their life’s possessions, years spent running and dancing through the streets of the only home he’s ever known, the only home he’ll ever need. Then there’s the hair, of course, the lion’s mane, black and brown, untameable, wavy locks stretching this way and that, somehow both impossibly tangled and immaculately sleek at the same time. This is a natural disaster of a man, some might say, hurricane and earthquake all wrapped up in one, with a frenzied wildness in his khaki eyes that cannot be contained by conventional human boundaries, and the kind of look on his face that lets you know that if he chose to conquer the world singlehandedly, he’d damn well do it, and there would be perilously few who could stand in his way. distinguishing modifications: It’s hard not to notice the tattoo when you first meet him, the thick, curling bracelet that snakes across his left forearm, a looping cuff of tribal patterns that entwine with each other, a maze of thick, black lines seemingly without a start of end point, a labyrinth of ink. When asked about it, about what it all means, Orpheus simply shrugs and turns his head away, unwilling to give up the secrets of his body to just anyone, knowing that his taciturn silence likely adds to the enigmatic, inscrutable persona he’s managed to cultivate for himself, the kind of reputation that means people will think twice about underestimating him, that will leave them always yearning for an explanation that they will never quite receive. The answer, the meaning, lies far in his past, beyond Italy’s dusty, chalky shores, in that gold-tinged time of his ancestors’ pasts when the world was still full of bright horizons, when they were bathed in love and light and sand, in that wholesome idyll the Ahulani line inhabited in a land far away from this one. The designs are tribal, Hawaiian, his father’s favourite pattern, steeped in tradition and legend. The twisting lines were Joseph’s only connection to the island he and his parents left behind, and, ever one to be intrigued by beautiful things (and seeking in his heart to see that beauty either raised to the heavens or crushed under the heel of his boot), Orpheus found himself captivated by the looping tendrils his father would sometimes draw, as though conjuring smoke out of thin air, the image staying in his mind long after the paper had been crumpled and set ablaze, Joseph’s attempt to purge the yearning he felt for his homeland. “Remember your heritage,” Orpheus’ father used to whisper to him sometimes, when the light of day had faded and the hallucinatory effect of moonlight afforded the man the opportunity to be sentimental, “remember your past.” Orpheus had never been one for sentiment, even as a boy, and would turn his head away from Joseph and his dreaming, but there was something elemental about the images his father conjured up that pressed on his imagination. As soon as he was old enough for his first ink (fourteen isn’t the usual age for a tattoo, but Orpheus wanted one and wasn’t in the habit of not getting what he wanted), the design he was to get seemed plainly obvious to him, a pointed and knowing departure from the skulls and guns that his peers spoke of in hushed and excited tones, eager to prove their virility by displaying an overt connection to violence. But Orpheus was not an insecure man, and so he avoided the trappings of boyhood machismo, instead emphatically selecting something traditional, rooted in the earth and the sun and the sky, something to ground him but also to raise him beyond the grind of everyday life and everyday people, no matter how much of a symbol he was to them. He looks at the markings not as a symbol of longing, of homesickness for a home he has never known, but instead a reminder of the reason that he’s here, of the reason his father’s family left the shores of Hawaii behind and took their illicit trade to Europe, the task that sits upon his shoulders as reigning king to expand the empire his grandparents and parents began to carve out of the stone of Verona’s houses and streets. It’s an embodiment of the fact that he is striving for something, that there is a goal in sight, that once the filth that encrusts the top of the society he lives in is washed away those relegated to the bottom of the pyramid will be able to rise up, that he is a conqueror in his own right, and that no matter how much the rich and powerful might wish it, he cannot be stopped. birthmarks: His skin, sun-browned and far smoother than you’d expect from someone who had spent his life on the streets, is almost unblemished, a rich, even shade somewhere between golden and olive, evidence of years spent out in the open in Mediterranean climes. He has one birthmark, on the back of his left knee, a small, oval blotch two shades darker than the skin surrounding it. It’s unremarkable to look at, and unnoticeable unless you’re really looking, but it’s one of the few discolourations on the canvas of Orpheus’ skin. scars: His frame is marked by scars, as you might expect, because he’s not invincible and he’s damn well not a saint, and he would never hesitate before throwing himself headfirst into the path of an oncoming fight if it could serve his own cause. But even with this in mind, his skin is relatively free of visible, arresting marks, as though in this sphere of his life too the Fates have smiled upon him, and absolved his flesh of all but a few scars. Most of the wounds he’s sustained over the course of his life have healed, most of the injuries that have befallen him have proved not to be serious, or at least, not as serious as the damage he has done to whoever dared to harm him in the first place. The few notable exceptions to this generally scar-free existence are all markings that he’s as proud of as he is his tattoo, for these are the stitches that make up the canvas of Orpheus Ahulani, brushstrokes that contribute to the formidable masterpiece he has become. There’s the long, jagged line that runs across his ribcage, about halfway down his left side, a remnant of a brawl he once got himself into in a small alleyway behind a bar, emboldened by alcohol and nicotine fumes and angry that the world didn’t seem to fall into line with his grand plan for future. He took a knife to the ribs that day but dealt out more than his fair share of punches, and it was only after he’d been pulled off his rival, knife still hanging from the hole it had made in his side, that Orpheus had realised that he was wounded. His opponent, who was older and should have known better than to antagonise an unruly eighteen year-old, was left with a smashed kneecap and two broken arms, and Orpheus got away lightly, stitched up by his mother in a matter of hours and reprimanded only for the fact that he’d failed to take the man’s wallet off him. It’s the only time, other than when he avenged his family, that Orpheus has ever truly exercised the violence that he’s obviously capable of, and he wears the scar like a badge, knowing that, should anyone choose to cross him, they’ll rue the day the thought ever crossed their minds. Most of his other scars were obtained through thieving and conning: scraped knuckles grazed on a wall whilst running away from a mark, small knife cuts to his forearms from people who try to fight back when he takes their possessions from them (if they ever notice, that is, and the percentage of people who do is so infinitesimal that Orpheus isn’t in the least concerned when it does happen), a few burns obtained through his unquenchable desire to play with fire, and a long scar that cuts through his eyebrow, obtained from cut glass, but whether the mark was made by an angry mark or a furious lover, he can’t quite recall. Perhaps Theodora left it there. It seems like the kind of thing they’re capable of doing when they’re angry with him (which is most of the time). myers-briggs: ESFP. moral alignment: Chaotic Evil. temperament: Choleric. deadly sin: Wrath. heavenly virtue: Diligence. habits: Smoking and drinking have become habits to him, at this point, drinking an integral part of his daily life since he was old enough to understand what alcohol was and the effects it could have, and smoking a childhood vice that never quite seems to leave him, even though he has the willpower to give up quite easily if he so desired. He’s often clouded by smoke, shrouded in mystery both physically and metaphorically, and usually can be seen with a hand-rolled cigarette tucked behind his ear or into the breast pocket of a shirt, always there in case his fingers feel the itch. When he can get his hands on them (never legally), he’s also partial to cigars, fat, Cuban ones that he can wedge between his teeth and puff on when the five year-old in him rears his head and he wants to remind everyone around him of exactly who he is, that he’s a big man with big power, and that they’d all best revere him, for not to do so would be a grave sin. phobias: Nothing scares him, not really. He’s seen too much, been through too much, to ever afford himself the luxury of fear, and in any case fear was stamped out of him as a young boy by his mother’s family, uncompromising folks who believed that terror made you weak and would eventually leave you dead. There’s nothing left for him to fear, anyway - his family have already been taken from him, and being as untethered as he is makes him untouchable, means that he can sit atop his throne and lock the castle gates, knowing that no one will ever breach them, that nothing is capable of scaring him: not death, not life, not the prospect of failure, because in his mind every situation he could ever find himself in is simply waiting to be turned into a success, into an opportunity.

AESTHETIC: upturned cups of wine; bare feet on cobblestones; eating fruit so that the juice runs down your chin; melting ice; wild flowers; the smell of burnt sugar and soil; the seductive quality of a whisper; singing hymns under your breath whilst you blaspheme; little braids tucked away inside your hair; unbuttoned shirts and bare chests; sweat-slicked skin; running down alleyways; the slow burn of whisky; dark corners; the smell of woodsmoke and leather; raised voices; rumpled sheets; broken glass; hair pulled back into a ponytail; no crying; spearmint chewing gum; worn, heavy boots; classic rock; lying eyes and lying smiles; charcoal and broken pencil leads; flick-knives; cigarette ash; beef steaks; cracking joints and clenched fists; screaming into the wind until your lungs are hoarse; sarcastic quips and raised eyebrows; bloody knuckles and split lips; sunlight and moonlight; cigar smoke; orchestral music; throwing open double doors; molten gold; secrets in the dark.

HEADCANONS:

1) Although he never seems to put much effort into his appearance, giving off the impression of being one of those people who just wake up beautiful and put together, in a perfectly disheveled kind of way, the aesthetic of careless casualness Orpheus exudes was in fact carefully thought through at one point or other in his life. Even as a much younger man that he now is, Orpheus knew exactly what kind of image he wanted to project to the outside world, how he wanted people to see him, knew the precise pitch at which the gasps he elicited from passers-by should ring in his ears. He most often wears white, black, or grey, and never, ever wears bright colours. The only injections of shades that aren’t monochrome into his wardrobe are dark, rich, sensuous colours like burgundy, deep emerald and copper, hues that blend easily into the darkness that he enjoys to cloak himself in. He knows precisely what looks good in him, wears his clothes as part of his armour, uses them to reinforce his status as king. He’s a fan of some more daring things, too; pinstripes and suspenders and hats that should look ridiculous on him but somehow fit seamlessly into the picture, suit trousers with combat boots, scarves and waistcoats and always, always odd socks. He owns some leather items, a rare luxury he afforded himself and paid for out of his own pocket, but generally his rule is never to spend more than thirty euros on a piece of clothing, and, if there’s something expensive that his heart truly desires, to steal it from an unsuspecting rich brat who can afford to have his pockets lightened. He may be broadly self-serving and callous, but Orpheus believes that it’d be wrong of him to adopt the mantle of king of the paupers and then to swan around in finery more befitting of an actual ruler than a prince of thieves, and so he tries to keep his possessions fairly modest, although this isn’t an active effort or something he’d admit out loud. One thing he is partial too is jewellery, and more often than not his fingers are stacked with rings of various shapes, sizes and materials, trinkets pulled from the fingers of the victims of his cons, his neck similarly draped with countless necklaces, his wrists bound with golden chains and leather ropes alike.

2) He stole a book, once. He was four years old, young enough to know that thieving and conning was to be his life’s work, but not quite old enough to figure out what it was that he wanted to steal, what was worth picking pockets and running scams for, and what was best left alone. He was four years old and he saw the businessman’s briefcase, and the opportunity was too exciting for the young boy to ignore. How disappointed he was, at first, to open the leather satchel and find little more than papers and documents, nothing more than a business proposal. But then something else slid out of the bag, a small, unassuming rectangle of paper, worn at the corners and scratched across the spine. Lord of the Flies, the cover read, and despite himself Orpheus opened it to have a look. He read, and read, and was surprised to find that he liked it. He dumped the briefcase in a nearby alley and made his way home, reading all the while, and when his family asked him where he had found the dog-eared volume Orpheus simply shrugged and told them he’d found it on the street. This event didn’t start an obsession, far from it, for he was too occupied by the desire for self-advancement and self-preservation throbbing in his head to ever devote himself completely to something as time-consuming as reading, but nonetheless it unlocked in Orpheus a desire to discover more. If he ever came across a book whilst working his favourite back streets, he would take it, provided that it was a classic and that it looked interesting (anything he stole that didn’t grip his fancy was donated to the local orphanage), and slowly but surely he built up a small library for himself, stashing books anywhere he could, and although now he’s all but forgotten the practice, if his eyes ever land on a volume that he feels his makeshift library is lacking, he’ll often go out of his way to pick it up. He likes to lift the odd book from the library, too, always replacing what he takes with trash literature, usually pulp, often pornographic, and makes sure he’s around when either the librarian or some unsuspecting budding reader comes across his substitution. His favourite novel? Why, Crime and Punishment, of course, if only because the title is so apt, and he finds it amusing to be seen reading it out in the open, especially when there is law enforcement present to witness it.

3) Orpheus can play the guitar, and isn’t half-bad at carrying a tune. As with most of the skills he’s picked up in his life, this happened entirely by accident (although to look at him you’d believe that it was all carefully engineered, like Orpheus has meant for his life to turn out exactly as it has). He stole a guitar, because his father told him it was expensive, and that it would be good practise to steal something so large, but once he had the instrument in his hands there didn’t seem to be much that it was useful for, unless he wanted to club someone on the head with it (a tempting solution to the problem). For a few weeks it sat in his corner of the room he and his brother shared, until finally Orpheus decided there was nothing left to do but try and play it, since the fence his father had contacted hadn’t come through for them and wouldn’t sell it. So he found a homeless man living in the corner of the piazza in front of the Cathedral, looked him squarely in the eye and said teach me to play, and that was that. He doesn’t play often - he isn’t a minstrel, or some sort of cheap travelling entertainer - but nonetheless it’s a skill that he keeps in his back pocket in case he should ever need it, and he enjoys the fact that he can make music as well as listen to it. Nowadays, he’ll most often play when he’s drunk, stretched out across whatever chair he’s using as his makeshift throne on that particular day, tucked away in the corner of his favourite bar, when daylight has faded and everyone’s just about tired enough not to care.

4) He has riches in his possession beyond anyone’s wildest imaginings, but he isn’t rich, and never has been. Plenty of the things he’s stolen are expensive, invaluable, priceless even, and he’s fenced or ransomed so many of them that he has a considerable amount of material wealth, most of it cash bills stuffed into vases and hollowed-out books (there’s something oddly cinematic about hiding wads of money that Orpheus enjoys), but he doesn’t ever spend enough of it for anyone who doesn’t know him to cotton onto the fact of exactly how much money he has. Despite the prolific criminality that runs in his bloodline, Orpheus is of humble stock, and to suddenly turn around after years spent living more or less on a level with Verona’s paupers and start spending the money he’s amassed frivolously, carelessly, emulating those rich families whom he hates so much, would feel deeply wrong to him. He doesn’t have much of a moral code, and what little morality he did have was utterly shot to pieces on the night his brother died, but this is a conviction that he holds and tries to adhere firmly to. He also likes to hand money out, to anyone who may need it, although these acts of charity are driven as much by the compassion he has for the poor and downtrodden (about the only people he’s capable of experiencing any sympathy for) as by his desire to keep them on his side, to sweeten the bonds between him and his disciples so that when the time comes, they will be amenable to the plans he has in store for them all, will be utterly servile, willing to fall on their swords for him a thousand times over. They’re not bribes, as such, more friendly reminders of exactly what he can do for his people, that he could be spending his ill-gotten gains on cars and expensive watches but instead chooses to safeguard his domain against the threat of Capulet or Montague influence.

5) Sometimes, in the darkened confines of the night, when he’s decided to go without a lover and sleep alone, when the only sounds he can hear are the slow rise and fall of his own breath and the distant wailing of owls, Orpheus allows himself to contemplate the facts of his existence, and his lineage. He is the final one of his kind, the last Ahulani, the last one to ever carry that fiery mixture of genes that was forged when his mother and his father came together forty years ago. It shouldn’t bother him, in fact being the last of his dynasty should help him feel even grander, increase the sense of momentous expectation and duty that he imposes upon his own shoulders, but for some reason, in these dark, quiet places, when the only thing keeping him company is the steady pulse of thoughts in his own head, it does. That’s part of the reason why he strives so hard to make the kingdom gifted to him something worthy of remembering, why he’s willing to fight tooth and nail to make his legacy a reality, to ensure that his name is inscribed in the stars as well as on stone monuments, that the four syllables of his surname are not lost to the wind and rain like so many other lineages. It’s partly why he wishes his brother was still alive - he doesn’t allow himself to miss Hermes, because to allow such emotion to intrude into the otherwise impermeable facade of his consciousness would only slow him down, and that is unacceptable - because of his value in furthering their bloodline. Hermes was exactly the kind of person Orpheus is not: warm, kind, unashamedly gleeful, and full of love, the kind of man who drew women to him not because of his beauty but because of his heart, who inspired deep romantic love in the few girlfriends he did have. Had he lived, he would have no doubt produced an impossibly, almost disgustingly large brood of children, who would have carried the Ahulani name and their fearlessness forward, would have made a new line of thieves. Orpheus knows that he can never be the person his brother could have been, and he isn’t suddenly about to start seeking ways to have a child of his own simply because of something as everyday as loss, but one of his few regrets about the loss of his family is that he will take their name to his grave with him.

EXTRA WRITING: I wrote a poem about Orpheus, once, because I’m a loser and he’s my tiny evil son:

– THE SEVEN AGES OF ORPHEUS AHULANI; told through bloodshed and darkness and a little too much pain.

i. there’s blood on your hands, infant. it’s your mother’s blood, her life and the life she gave to you. she brought you into this world, tried to bring you out of darkness and into light… except it didn’t really work, did it? because the light hardly affected you, little child, with your whirlpool eyes and that soul that was already far too dark. she could never have imagined, your mother, that her lamb’s blood would have raised a wolf. ii. there’s blood on your hands, boy. it’s your own blood, from where you’ve fallen and scraped your knee. get up, your father tells you, and his voice isn’t kind or gentle but you understand, know that big boys don’t cry. you’re only seven but you know already. you stopped crying a while ago. iii. there’s blood on your hands, young man. it’s your brother’s blood, you watch it pour between your fingers like river water stained an awful crimson, and amidst the rage that burns hot and white you can taste retribution on your tongue. (it tastes bitter-sweet, like you’d imagined, honey and vinegar.) it’s a waste, this, a life thrown away, because he was a happy boy. you don’t believe in happiness, not for a long time, but he did, and that’s important, somehow. maybe you didn’t love him properly, not like the story-books say you should, but you’ll avenge him. iv. there’s blood on your hands, phoenix. it’s a stranger’s blood, blood you’ve spilt, blood that runs down, down, down your arms and hands down past your feet down onto the too-expensive carpet you’re treading scarlet footprints into. you said you would avenge him, them, all of them, and here you are, and it isn’t really clear in the half-light which is sharper: your knife or the grin on your face. they thought fire would kill you. they were wrong, and when you rose from the flames you had been made anew. fire becomes you, now, it’s a weapon, not an enemy, and burning a mansion to the ground becomes so simple, the easiest thing in the world. you should feel some guilt, by rights, but your heart isn’t like other hearts, it’s cold and cruel and all things burn, in the end, so why waste a moment’s thought on the things you’ve razed to the ground. all things burn, in the end. (except you, perhaps; you have become the thing that burns others.) v. there’s blood on your hands, king. it’s your own blood again, but you haven’t fallen over this time. this time you’re fighting, and there’s a battered form in the dust in front of you, and you’ve proven a point to anyone who doubted you. so what if they got a lucky hit, scratched your face with the shards of a bottle? the blood you’re wiping away from your forehead is like armour, chainmail. your followers have always respected you, but now they’re afraid of you, too. you look at the cut over your eye in the mirror afterwards, and there’s blood on your lips when you smile. did that powerful man know what he was getting himself into, when he signed a pact with the devil’s right hand? no- not right hand- the devil himself. (it’s a nickname others have given you when they whisper about you in the dark and it seems fitting.) perhaps not, you think. king cap looked to buy a fighting dog, paid for a hellhound. vi. there’s blood on your hands, lover. it’s their blood, this time, the blood of someone who, despite your marble-steel exterior, means a lot to you. you’re bandaging their wounds - they don’t need you to - because, despite yourself, you have to make sure that they’re safe. you have to have them near you, always, you may go your separate ways often enough but there will always be a red thread tying your fingers together. (a passing traveller told you that myth, once. you don’t believe in fate but it seemed apt, somehow.) you find yourself looking for their face in crowded rooms, waiting, for the moment that they’ll sidle up to you and you’ll hear their voice, whispering in your ear, the slow lapping of waves on the sea shore. it’s not love, not at all, (that would be childish) but something altogether more prosaic. need, perhaps. vii. there will be blood on your hands, old man. it will be the world’s blood, when you’ve pulled its innards out and scraped all you can get from deep within, when you hold its bloodied heart beating in your hands. your parents taught you ambition but they never could have imagined the fire of hunger they lit in your soul. the best is not enough. you want it all, want the world, your world, to cower at your feet, want all those who wrote you off as nothing more than vermin to know that they were right. you are vermin, and you wear the slur with pride. more fool them, you’ll think, when the carcass of the world lies bloody at your feet. they forgot that vermin have the power to destroy.

MOODBOARDS:

1, 2, 3 & 4.

[nintendotreehouse]

Alm’ed and Dangerous

So if you’re like me and find yourself playing a certain mobile game somewhat obsessively (give me Camilla already!) while waiting for the next Fire Emblem game to come out, you might appreciate a peek at a few characters from the Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia game. All of these characters are members of one of the two armies you control (in this case, Alm’s). So without further ado, let’s jump into this roster of new heroes!

Alm

Raised in the quiet and rural Ram Village, this young warrior was trained in swordsmanship and military tactics and taught how to overcome challenging weather and terrain from a young age by his grandfather, the knight Mycen. At the start of the game, Alm is a formidable, if untested, Fighter. As the game progresses, his battle-filled journey will take him far from the village he’s called home.

Alm in action on the front lines.

Protecting his homeland, Zofia, is his goal, and Alm’s history with combat has taught him that when you stand up and fight, you have a chance to help those who are suffering.

Even from the beginning of the game, Alm is adept at close combat and (unsurprisingly) one of the best early fighters you’ll get. He’s got pretty even stats across the board, and his high Speed means he can frequently land two blows at once against slower enemies. Make sure to equip him with a good blade, like the Lightning Sword.

On a more personal note, Alm enjoyed a close friendship with Celica as a child. Separated for seven years, he still wonders what became of her and where in the world she is…

Childhood pinkie-promises are serious business, right?

Clair

A headstrong and fearless young noblewoman as well as a valuable fighter, this Pegasus Knight is not only a member of the Deliverance—a force created to counter the recent coup d’etat—but also a queen bee of Zofian high society who absolutely LOATHES being excluded from anything. Her proud, overbearing attitude can be a bit overwhelming…but it’s kind of admirable that she doesn’t give a damn about what people think of her, isn’t it?

Though she’s close with her elder brother Clive and childhood friends with fellow knight Fernand (and she has a bit of a secret crush on Alm, as well), Clair doesn’t have much of an opportunity to interact with the more common people of Zofia. As a result, she rather desperately wants to know more about cows, pigs, and other aspects of day-to-day village life.

Only if you try to tip them, Clair. Only if you try to tip them…

She has a broad range of movement due to her Pegasus Knight class, and she can work well both as a harrier and front-line attacker. She does well with a spear or shield, so experiment with what works best for your playstyle. Her highest stats are her Speed, Skill, and Luck…which makes sense when you think about it. I mean, her job is to attack moving targets from a flying horse.

Dragons and lava? This must be what they mean by “the fires of battle”!

And Classic players, take note! Clair is the ONLY Pegasus Knight in Alm’s army, with the potential exception of Faye, who can be classed that way if you so choose, so keep that in mind while you strategize.

Faye

This young woman from Ram Village grew up with Alm and has had a…not-so-subtle thing for him ever since they were kids. Faye’s affection for Alm is unfortunately (or fortunately) unrequited, but she’s intensely devoted to him and, if asked, she’ll accompany him on his journey and join up with the Deliverance.

Just one of the strong female characters in Fire Emblem

Faye starts out as a Villager but, like many other plucky young Villagers we’ve grown to love in the Fire Emblem universe, if you devote time to her training she’ll grow to be a formidable fighter whether she takes the path of Pegasus Knight, Cavalier, Cleric, or Mage.

Faye’s passion for Alm drives her to devastating effect in combat…much to Alm’s dismay. Seriously. She gets a bit scary!

Keep in mind, though, that while she’s a well-rounded character who does well in these classes, she’s not the strongest candidate you might come across for each of them, and she can be a bit squishy through her earlier levels. But give her time to grow, and she’ll be a solid member of your army.

Lukas

A loyal member of the Deliverance, Lukas grew up on the borderlands at the kingdom’s edge before becoming a Soldier whose considerable merits have caused him to rise quickly up the ranks.

Now THAT’s a knife.

He’s level-headed, quiet, cool, and collected—and certainly not lacking in either grit or determination. These qualities have made him a close advisor to Knight Captain Clive, though some of his other colleagues find Lukas to be a bit distant and detached. He has a dry sense of humor that’s easy to miss if you aren’t expecting it.

As a Soldier, Lukas is a tank who can take pretty much anything physical attackers throw at him early in the game. He’s slightly lower than the commoner Knight Forsyth stat-wise, but his earlier recruitment into your team gives him a bit of an edge that balances the two out.

We’ll take them down anyway, though, because XP…and it’s the right thing to do.

Well, I hope you enjoyed this intro to a slice of Alm’s army! Keep in mind, of course, that each character has his or her own unique set of stats in addition to the strengths and weaknesses of his or her class, so please take my observations here with a grain of salt. I know what’s worked for me, but your experiences may be quite different as you learn how best to leverage each character, from the most fragile of glass cannons to the mightiest of brick walls, to best fit your personal strategy and play style.

I’ll be giving the members of Celica’s army some love in a bit, so please be sure to check back later. And in the meantime, I hope you enjoy these pieces of concept art from the art book that’ll be included in the Limited Edition bundle of the game!

—Lindsey N.

[clementinesandstars]

HFK Series:100 letters II (Jason Todd X Reader)

A/N: The reader is a bitch in these first two chapters, but there’s a purpose to everything okay.

Description: 100 letters talk about a relationship that went bad, in this chapter we learn more about the families ,a bit about their relationship and how messed up it really is. This ain’t Romeo and Juliet kids.

Warning: Some light cursing because that’s how I work and Jason too.

Word Count:1,164

The Prologue I

Unlike other places, Gotham has 2 guardians. Those guardians started recruiting people to expand their empire in Gotham, creating these so called “families”.  There is the Animo family, which their name says it all. Animo means mind. Mind over heart, that is their code. Respect is something the value way too much. More than following the rules and just putting brief fear in the hearts of criminals instead actually ending their reign. Their leader, Bruce Wayne has a strict no killing rule, which has cost him more trouble than not having it. You can early see them from afar because they are usually wearing their blue, black and white clothing.

Then there’s my family, Cor Meum. Heart over all. The only two rules we have is family first and we are here to save people, any means necessary. We are also known as the antiheroes of this town. We are a wild loving group that only wants to protect their people. My father, Caspian, is our fearless leader. Instead of putting our recruits by making them go through test like the Animo do, we find them on the streets. We rescue them and bring them here to give them a better life.

That’s what happened with Jason Todd. Poor orphan boy from the wrong side of Gotham who stumbled upon our safe house to steal, but ended with my father taking a certain liking to the boy. Who wouldn’t? This boy had a fire in both his eyes and his heart. All that pain made him a natural born Cor Meum. But then the wicked asshole of the west showed up and took him. My best friend, gone to be with the enemy family.

“(Y/N)!” I snapped out of my daydream to see my “cousin” Jack “Creeper” Ryder.

“What’s wrong, Creep?” I asked him while putting on my Cor Meum necklace. He leaned against my door frame brushing his crazy green hair.

“Caspian wants you to be present in today’s meeting.” He says with the biggest smile in the world because he was looking at himself in the mirror on the wall.

“They are coming. Right?” I said knowing the exact answer. They are.

“They are.” He said in disgust. Jack hates the Animo more than anything. He can’t even hear their name without making a face of disgust. “Also, put on your nice clothes, this is going to be extremely too formal.” He added before leaving my room.

I groaned loudly, searching for my gold jacket. It had the family sigil on the back and red accents all around it. My jacket had gold and red roses on the sleeves, something my father asked to be made for me. I changed my sweater to my red slip on dress. I looked at myself in the mirror, preparing for the upcoming disaster.

I walked to the garage to find my father and other members there. One of the guys opened the door of one of the cars for me to enter and I did, next my father followed in pursuit. I took a long look at my dad, I saw clearly his scar that is located on top of his eye. His (y/h/c) hair had been growing longer than ever, it looked messy and like it hasn’t been washed for days. He had his red leather jacket and his shirt had a big bee on it.

“They will all be there.” He said still looking outside the window, I knew what he was referring to. The all Waynes would be there.

“Why? I thought it would only be you guys and the heirs.” I asked very puzzled. Usually these meeting you don’t involve the real family of the leaders, because there’s an emotional conflict, and the fact that there’s five Wayne kids against me doesn’t seem fair.

“I don’t know, but Bruce wanted that way.” He frowned as if he knew something was up.

“I don’t trust him Papa. He is too dangerous.”

“Don’t overthink it, everything will be okay.” He answered giving me a warm smile.

We entered the devil’s room, The Animo Mansion. We were leaded to an all-white and black room by three idiot looking guards. Everyone was there, wearing their ridiculous uniform, a black suit, white long-sleeved shirt, and a blue tie. I rolled my eyes at them. Typical Animo. Bruce took one look at us and put on the fakest smile ever. He signaled my father to go with him to the next room, my father followed him. I tried to follow them but then I heard a:

“(Y/N)! We can’t go there.” I rolled my eyes. I turned around to see who was the idiot, it was Jason of course. All these years and he still thinks he can make me do stuff.

“Uhm… Do you want something? We have almost everything here.” Dick said walking to the bar to make himself a drink.

“No” Let me clear something, Cor Meums aren’t stupid, that was just a rumor created by these assholes. Not all of us are book smart, but we are all street smart. I know that asking them for a drink could be dangerous, and -one again- I do not trust them.

“We aren’t going to poison you.” Damian, the youngest, said in a snarky tone.

“Wouldn’t be sure, you guys are always up to something sneaky.” I said sitting in a chair close to the door my father went. I started searching, without making it too obvious, through my pocket for my gun. Just in case.

“You haven’t changed a bit, you still have no respect for anyone.” Jason said laughing a bit. Like if he was thinking about happier times. When he suddenly moved to grab a drink, I saw something weird on his wrist. Something gold and red. Something Cor Meum.

“I am the most respectful person ever.” I said sarcastically.

“Maybe in your gang of troublemakers and killers.” Damian said clear enough for me to hear it. I felt myself getting mad, so mad I to went to grab my gun. Jason saw my wrist moving towards my pocket and he grabbed it.

“Damian, go to your room!” Dick said with wide eyes, like he was mad at Damian. Damian stormed out and Dick followed him. Tim kept looking at me for some reason. More specifically my wrist, which was still held by the traitor.

“Let go.” I said under my breath. But Jason heard it, because let go of it. I was done with being here, I knew this was a bad idea. I stood up and fixed my jacket and headed towards the door.

“Please don’t leave.” Jason said behind me.

“It’s too late. Don’t you agree?” I said and with that I started walking. But I still heard what Timothy said;

“Maybe you should have given her those letters before having Damian open his big mouth.”

Letters? Kinda like the ones he used to make me when we were kids.

[art-now-india]

WALL OF EXOTICS FLOWERS-TOYOU, Baljit Chadha

FLOWERMAN CREATED A WORLD RECORD http://baljitchadha.blogspot.in The exhibition with the most paintings of flowers in the world This certificate is given by WORLD RECORD ASSOCIATION / LIMCA BOOK OF RECORDS-INDIA -2014 Baljit-chadha.artistwebsites.com http://www.youtube.com/edit?ns=1&videoid=fCTt1B51fJA http://www.1wra.org/index.php/Worldrecord/detail/id/1241 MY NEW SERIES ZEN MOKSHA FLOWERS/ MANN FLOWERS/MIYOKO FLOWERS /BALJIT’S IKEBANA A PURE HEAVENLY GIFT FOR YOU FRIENDS N RELATIVES • THESE ZEN-MOKSH FLOWERS ARE CREATED WITH A SENSE OF GIVING INNER PEACE,TRANQUILITY, HAPPINESS, SOLACE AND A SENSE OF FULFILMENT, ONENESS WITH THE SUPREME. • I HAVE TRIED TO BRING THEASE ELEMENTS IN MY PAINTINGS,THE FLOWERS YOU SEE DON’T EXISTS, THE MOVMENTS OF MY HANDS,FLOW OF COLORS ARE THE GIFT OF ALMIGHTY GOD. • ZEN-JAPANEASE ZEN IS A SPIRTUAL INSPIRATION; THEY ARE PURE EXPRESSION OF ARTIST’S SPIRITUAL AWARENESS. JAPANEASE ZEN ART HAS ALWAYS BEEN MEANT TO TOUCH PEOPLE FAR AND WIDE. ZEN PAINTINGS ARE OF GREAT POWER, PURE, AND TOUCHING DEEP IN THE HEART, MIND AND SOUL. • MOKSHA- Freedom from life circle. Moksha is attained by dis identification with the body and mind, which are temporary and subject to change, and realization of our true identity Moksh is positive concept in two important ways. First it stands for the realization of the ultimate Reality, a real enlightenment. The mukta is not just free from this or that, It is the master of sense and self, fearless and devoid of rancor, upright yet humble, treating all creatures as if they were he himself, wanting nothing, clinging to nothing. In Sikhism one rises from the life of do’s and don'ts to that of perfection — a state of "at-one-ment" with the All-self. Secondly, the mukta is not just a friend for all, he even strives for their freedom as well. He no longer lives for himself, he lives for others. • APPRICIATIONS • Very interesting work Baljit, the spontaneity, the original technique and the spiritual journey! • i hear music from your flower paintings. What a happy movement! • Baljit! I appreciate that! You have a grand body of work here that shows me some Van Gogh, Miro and Monet and countless others within your style and creativeness. A magnificent talent to behold and appreciate! Keep it up! • I like the original exposition of your beautiful artwork. • Beautiful, cheerful, great colors! • Very fine expressive all Your floral art, not usual • Simply beautiful .It is with great pride and pleasure that I am FEATURING your artwork this week on our special edition of our TOP FEATURES on the Wisconsin Flowers and Scenery Homepage. Your work shows expertise and love in the presentation of this fine art piece. Thanks much for sharing your works with us and being a member of our family of friends and fine artists in our WFS group. Aboard. Liked, Forever .This series is enchanting Baljit, all wonderful visions. Masterful use of your colors creating serene energy. .Baljit, I love these stalks of beauty is a true honor and privilege to FEATURE this creative and wondrous piece of art work on the WFS site, from one of our honored and prestigious members. This awesome piece of beauty is what we are looking for to promote and let others see, including other artists and potential customers, as your works are some of the Best of the Best in my Book! Thanks much for sharing this beauty with us. Liked Forever, Elvisty and love the colors of the floral stems. • • PROFILE • Baljit Singh Chadha • • I grew up as a curious, investigative child helped by my parents’ encouragement to explore and to learn without fear and hesitation. The wonder and awe in God’s creation always held me spell bound. I ploughed my curiosity through love of creation and creativity. At a young age of nineteen years I sailed to a land called Japan that has for long centuries been spiritually bound with India. Like a sleepy rose the petals of my creativity opened as I drank like a honey-bee the nectar of ancient and highly evolved culture of Japan. Japanese art of painting is high meditation in feel and in expression. My Japanese godmother Ms Otha Miyoko a great Japanese artist was my first teacher. She affected my style and expression early on. My journey in art continued and I evolved a style of art that has minimal gap in feeling and expression. Rapidity and quickness of expression in my art comes from the well of inner spirituality. My art is not planned, thought-out and cerebral it is based on spontaneity. Abstract Expressionism is a wider term and my art follows it in variegated dimensions. In my art I experiment with different painting instruments and techniques. My dependence on brushwork is rather limited. I frequently and freely use spatulas, wooden sticks, masking, and sand-mix, push bottles and what comes handy in the moment. I use acrylic with mix media. I have developed acrylic based glazes that were possible earlier only with oil paints. The glazes impart a charm similar to enamel glazes. I created a new technique called ( FLOAT ON COLORS). My art journey finds depth and width in continuous experimentation, forays into the unknown and choosing challenging metaphors of expression. I did an installation (Wall of Divine flowers) with 12000 painting on 12-12-12-12hrs-12mnts-12sec at Zorba in New Delhi and donated entire collection to Smile Foundation New Delhi, for a girl child education. Where my art journey will take me next I leave to higher forces. Presently I offer you ZEN MOKSHA FLOWERS /MANN FLOWERS/MIYOKO FLOWERS AND WALL OF HEAVENLY FLOWERS as my next creations. Group Shows;- Newyork, Singapore, • Canvas Art Gallery , Nehru Place, Delhi 2006 • Studio Vasant, Vasant Vihar New Delhi, 2006, 2007 • Prabhat NGO, New Delhi, 2007 • Nithari, Canvas Art Gallery, 2007 • Sahaj Sankalp, Habitat Centre, New Delhi , 2008 • Aspiration, Charity show at Epicenter Gurgaon, 2008 • New Finds, Singapore, 2008 • Group Show at World Fine Art Gallery, New York, 2008 • Reverberation Habitat Centre, New Delhi, 2008 • Art for Prabhat Presents 'The Eternal Circle' MAY-2009 • Art Ponixs Mumbai-2013 Solo Show • Studio Vasant, New Delhi, 2006,2007 • Studio Vasant, New Delhi 2008 • DLF Mall, Saket, New Delhi 2009 • STUDIOVASANT,NEWDELHI • STUDIOVASANT,NEWDELHI-2011 • STUDIOVASANT,NEWDELHI-2012 • WALL OF DEVINE FLOWERS-ZORBA,NEWDELHI 2012(world record) • WALL OF EXOTIC FLOWERS-EPI CENTRE GURGAON-2013 • HOME& interior expo, EPI centor.GURGAON-2013 • Independence day Celebration-EPI CENTRE-2013 • Art-Phonix-NEHRU CENTRE MUMBAI-2014 Artist friend Baljit S. Chadha has a lasting honeymoon with flowers in his artistic expression. He paints sometimes with frugality of a Zen master. I can understand that as he had his early training in painting in Japan where he lived and studied as a teenager and had the benefit of the tutelage of great Japanese masters. But his present series on flowers nonplussed me with wonder and joy. He has in the present works a new dimension and a new personality of flowers that I have not seen before. This is because he has distilled the expression from his inner joy and happiness that is the essence of flowers per se and not from their forms. His flowers have a nearly expressionistic, abstract persona. He uses a watercolour like free flow of colour and tonalities to invest his work with a sensual poetry. His works are acrylic on paper and therefore amenable to idiosyncratic overflows that lends a fresh charm to his oeuvre. Another landmark quality of Baljit’s new works is that they are rendered in fiery shiny glazes. As we know glazes are traditionally done in oil paint medium. But Baljit has worked them with acrylic colour and without the use of pure impasto. The colours diluted with water float and embrace each other and still have lustrous intensity. Baljit Chadha has created a fresh stylistic edifice and his creative expression jumps from the visible-familiar to spiritually felt flowers in a divine Eden. Viktor Vijay Kumar Director Curator European Artists’ Association Germany • ART IS IMAGINATION/ART IS DREAMING/ART IS INOVATION/ART IS THINKING/ART IS CRAETIVITY/ART IS EMOTIONS/ART IS SUPPORT/ART IS COMBINATION OF MATERIALS/ART IS CONCEPT/ART IS TO DO SOME THING DIFFERENT/ART IS TO EXPLORE AND ART IS FOR EVERYONE TO DO AND ENJOY All images © Baljit Chadha All rights reserved. Copying and/or distributing without my permission is strictly prohibited. COLORS MAY WARY

https://www.saatchiart.com/art/Painting-WALL-OF-EXOTICS-FLOWERS-TOYOU/392880/2560341/view

[art-now-india]

WALL OF EXOTIC FLOWERS-SAKURA, Baljit Chadha

FLOWERMAN CREATED A WORLD RECORD http://baljitchadha.blogspot.in The exhibition with the most paintings of flowers in the world This certificate is given by WORLD RECORD ASSOCIATION / LIMCA BOOK OF RECORDS-INDIA -2014 Baljit-chadha.artistwebsites.com http://www.youtube.com/edit?ns=1&videoid=fCTt1B51fJA http://www.1wra.org/index.php/Worldrecord/detail/id/1241 MY NEW SERIES ZEN MOKSHA FLOWERS/ MANN FLOWERS/MIYOKO FLOWERS /BALJIT’S IKEBANA A PURE HEAVENLY GIFT FOR YOU FRIENDS N RELATIVES • THESE ZEN-MOKSH FLOWERS ARE CREATED WITH A SENSE OF GIVING INNER PEACE,TRANQUILITY, HAPPINESS, SOLACE AND A SENSE OF FULFILMENT, ONENESS WITH THE SUPREME. • I HAVE TRIED TO BRING THEASE ELEMENTS IN MY PAINTINGS,THE FLOWERS YOU SEE DON’T EXISTS, THE MOVMENTS OF MY HANDS,FLOW OF COLORS ARE THE GIFT OF ALMIGHTY GOD. • ZEN-JAPANEASE ZEN IS A SPIRTUAL INSPIRATION; THEY ARE PURE EXPRESSION OF ARTIST’S SPIRITUAL AWARENESS. JAPANEASE ZEN ART HAS ALWAYS BEEN MEANT TO TOUCH PEOPLE FAR AND WIDE. ZEN PAINTINGS ARE OF GREAT POWER, PURE, AND TOUCHING DEEP IN THE HEART, MIND AND SOUL. • MOKSHA- Freedom from life circle. Moksha is attained by dis identification with the body and mind, which are temporary and subject to change, and realization of our true identity Moksh is positive concept in two important ways. First it stands for the realization of the ultimate Reality, a real enlightenment. The mukta is not just free from this or that, It is the master of sense and self, fearless and devoid of rancor, upright yet humble, treating all creatures as if they were he himself, wanting nothing, clinging to nothing. In Sikhism one rises from the life of do’s and don'ts to that of perfection — a state of "at-one-ment" with the All-self. Secondly, the mukta is not just a friend for all, he even strives for their freedom as well. He no longer lives for himself, he lives for others. • APPRICIATIONS • Very interesting work Baljit, the spontaneity, the original technique and the spiritual journey! • i hear music from your flower paintings. What a happy movement! • Baljit! I appreciate that! You have a grand body of work here that shows me some Van Gogh, Miro and Monet and countless others within your style and creativeness. A magnificent talent to behold and appreciate! Keep it up! • I like the original exposition of your beautiful artwork. • Beautiful, cheerful, great colors! • Very fine expressive all Your floral art, not usual • Simply beautiful .It is with great pride and pleasure that I am FEATURING your artwork this week on our special edition of our TOP FEATURES on the Wisconsin Flowers and Scenery Homepage. Your work shows expertise and love in the presentation of this fine art piece. Thanks much for sharing your works with us and being a member of our family of friends and fine artists in our WFS group. Aboard. Liked, Forever .This series is enchanting Baljit, all wonderful visions. Masterful use of your colors creating serene energy. .Baljit, I love these stalks of beauty is a true honor and privilege to FEATURE this creative and wondrous piece of art work on the WFS site, from one of our honored and prestigious members. This awesome piece of beauty is what we are looking for to promote and let others see, including other artists and potential customers, as your works are some of the Best of the Best in my Book! Thanks much for sharing this beauty with us. Liked Forever, Elvisty and love the colors of the floral stems. • • PROFILE • Baljit Singh Chadha • • I grew up as a curious, investigative child helped by my parents’ encouragement to explore and to learn without fear and hesitation. The wonder and awe in God’s creation always held me spell bound. I ploughed my curiosity through love of creation and creativity. At a young age of nineteen years I sailed to a land called Japan that has for long centuries been spiritually bound with India. Like a sleepy rose the petals of my creativity opened as I drank like a honey-bee the nectar of ancient and highly evolved culture of Japan. Japanese art of painting is high meditation in feel and in expression. My Japanese godmother Ms Otha Miyoko a great Japanese artist was my first teacher. She affected my style and expression early on. My journey in art continued and I evolved a style of art that has minimal gap in feeling and expression. Rapidity and quickness of expression in my art comes from the well of inner spirituality. My art is not planned, thought-out and cerebral it is based on spontaneity. Abstract Expressionism is a wider term and my art follows it in variegated dimensions. In my art I experiment with different painting instruments and techniques. My dependence on brushwork is rather limited. I frequently and freely use spatulas, wooden sticks, masking, and sand-mix, push bottles and what comes handy in the moment. I use acrylic with mix media. I have developed acrylic based glazes that were possible earlier only with oil paints. The glazes impart a charm similar to enamel glazes. I created a new technique called ( FLOAT ON COLORS). My art journey finds depth and width in continuous experimentation, forays into the unknown and choosing challenging metaphors of expression. I did an installation (Wall of Divine flowers) with 12000 painting on 12-12-12-12hrs-12mnts-12sec at Zorba in New Delhi and donated entire collection to Smile Foundation New Delhi, for a girl child education. Where my art journey will take me next I leave to higher forces. Presently I offer you ZEN MOKSHA FLOWERS /MANN FLOWERS/MIYOKO FLOWERS AND WALL OF HEAVENLY FLOWERS as my next creations. Group Shows;- Newyork, Singapore, • Canvas Art Gallery , Nehru Place, Delhi 2006 • Studio Vasant, Vasant Vihar New Delhi, 2006, 2007 • Prabhat NGO, New Delhi, 2007 • Nithari, Canvas Art Gallery, 2007 • Sahaj Sankalp, Habitat Centre, New Delhi , 2008 • Aspiration, Charity show at Epicenter Gurgaon, 2008 • New Finds, Singapore, 2008 • Group Show at World Fine Art Gallery, New York, 2008 • Reverberation Habitat Centre, New Delhi, 2008 • Art for Prabhat Presents 'The Eternal Circle' MAY-2009 • Art Ponixs Mumbai-2013 Solo Show • Studio Vasant, New Delhi, 2006,2007 • Studio Vasant, New Delhi 2008 • DLF Mall, Saket, New Delhi 2009 • STUDIOVASANT,NEWDELHI • STUDIOVASANT,NEWDELHI-2011 • STUDIOVASANT,NEWDELHI-2012 • WALL OF DEVINE FLOWERS-ZORBA,NEWDELHI 2012(world record) • WALL OF EXOTIC FLOWERS-EPI CENTRE GURGAON-2013 • HOME& interior expo, EPI centor.GURGAON-2013 • Independence day Celebration-EPI CENTRE-2013 • Art-Phonix-NEHRU CENTRE MUMBAI-2014 Artist friend Baljit S. Chadha has a lasting honeymoon with flowers in his artistic expression. He paints sometimes with frugality of a Zen master. I can understand that as he had his early training in painting in Japan where he lived and studied as a teenager and had the benefit of the tutelage of great Japanese masters. But his present series on flowers nonplussed me with wonder and joy. He has in the present works a new dimension and a new personality of flowers that I have not seen before. This is because he has distilled the expression from his inner joy and happiness that is the essence of flowers per se and not from their forms. His flowers have a nearly expressionistic, abstract persona. He uses a watercolour like free flow of colour and tonalities to invest his work with a sensual poetry. His works are acrylic on paper and therefore amenable to idiosyncratic overflows that lends a fresh charm to his oeuvre. Another landmark quality of Baljit’s new works is that they are rendered in fiery shiny glazes. As we know glazes are traditionally done in oil paint medium. But Baljit has worked them with acrylic colour and without the use of pure impasto. The colours diluted with water float and embrace each other and still have lustrous intensity. Baljit Chadha has created a fresh stylistic edifice and his creative expression jumps from the visible-familiar to spiritually felt flowers in a divine Eden. Viktor Vijay Kumar Director Curator European Artists’ Association Germany • ART IS IMAGINATION/ART IS DREAMING/ART IS INOVATION/ART IS THINKING/ART IS CRAETIVITY/ART IS EMOTIONS/ART IS SUPPORT/ART IS COMBINATION OF MATERIALS/ART IS CONCEPT/ART IS TO DO SOME THING DIFFERENT/ART IS TO EXPLORE AND ART IS FOR EVERYONE TO DO AND ENJOY All images © Baljit Chadha All rights reserved. Copying and/or distributing without my permission is strictly prohibited. COLORS MAY WARY

https://www.saatchiart.com/art/Painting-WALL-OF-EXOTIC-FLOWERS-SAKURA/392880/2560086/view

[balyssatrofort]

💯💯💯 “Success doesn’t come from your comfort zone” – Bee Trofort⠀

I had the amazing opportunity to share my journey with Media 1099 for their Podcast Episode 88: “Bee Fearless.” 🎙 Interview and blog post can be found on media1099.com and all your favorite podcasting platforms such as Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Anchor, etc.

“🎯🎯🎯 Bee covers a ton of ground in this episode, discussing her journey through college, internships, and developing bi-coastal client work.  She dives into building her glam squad, her favorite lens and modifier, and her mood-board building process for clients and athletes.  Most importantly, she gives us a glimpse into creating a fun and successful career path.”⠀ ⠀

Media 1099 Podcast Feature 💯💯💯 “Success doesn’t come from your comfort zone” - Bee Trofort⠀ I had the amazing opportunity to share my journey with…

[art-now-india]

WALL OF EXOTIC FLOWERS-SAKURA, Baljit Chadha

FLOWERMAN CREATED A WORLD RECORD http://baljitchadha.blogspot.in The exhibition with the most paintings of flowers in the world This certificate is given by WORLD RECORD ASSOCIATION / LIMCA BOOK OF RECORDS-INDIA -2014 Baljit-chadha.artistwebsites.com http://www.youtube.com/edit?ns=1&videoid=fCTt1B51fJA http://www.1wra.org/index.php/Worldrecord/detail/id/1241 MY NEW SERIES ZEN MOKSHA FLOWERS/ MANN FLOWERS/MIYOKO FLOWERS /BALJIT’S IKEBANA A PURE HEAVENLY GIFT FOR YOU FRIENDS N RELATIVES • THESE ZEN-MOKSH FLOWERS ARE CREATED WITH A SENSE OF GIVING INNER PEACE,TRANQUILITY, HAPPINESS, SOLACE AND A SENSE OF FULFILMENT, ONENESS WITH THE SUPREME. • I HAVE TRIED TO BRING THEASE ELEMENTS IN MY PAINTINGS,THE FLOWERS YOU SEE DON’T EXISTS, THE MOVMENTS OF MY HANDS,FLOW OF COLORS ARE THE GIFT OF ALMIGHTY GOD. • ZEN-JAPANEASE ZEN IS A SPIRTUAL INSPIRATION; THEY ARE PURE EXPRESSION OF ARTIST’S SPIRITUAL AWARENESS. JAPANEASE ZEN ART HAS ALWAYS BEEN MEANT TO TOUCH PEOPLE FAR AND WIDE. ZEN PAINTINGS ARE OF GREAT POWER, PURE, AND TOUCHING DEEP IN THE HEART, MIND AND SOUL. • MOKSHA- Freedom from life circle. Moksha is attained by dis identification with the body and mind, which are temporary and subject to change, and realization of our true identity Moksh is positive concept in two important ways. First it stands for the realization of the ultimate Reality, a real enlightenment. The mukta is not just free from this or that, It is the master of sense and self, fearless and devoid of rancor, upright yet humble, treating all creatures as if they were he himself, wanting nothing, clinging to nothing. In Sikhism one rises from the life of do’s and don'ts to that of perfection — a state of "at-one-ment" with the All-self. Secondly, the mukta is not just a friend for all, he even strives for their freedom as well. He no longer lives for himself, he lives for others. • APPRICIATIONS • Very interesting work Baljit, the spontaneity, the original technique and the spiritual journey! • i hear music from your flower paintings. What a happy movement! • Baljit! I appreciate that! You have a grand body of work here that shows me some Van Gogh, Miro and Monet and countless others within your style and creativeness. A magnificent talent to behold and appreciate! Keep it up! • I like the original exposition of your beautiful artwork. • Beautiful, cheerful, great colors! • Very fine expressive all Your floral art, not usual • Simply beautiful .It is with great pride and pleasure that I am FEATURING your artwork this week on our special edition of our TOP FEATURES on the Wisconsin Flowers and Scenery Homepage. Your work shows expertise and love in the presentation of this fine art piece. Thanks much for sharing your works with us and being a member of our family of friends and fine artists in our WFS group. Aboard. Liked, Forever .This series is enchanting Baljit, all wonderful visions. Masterful use of your colors creating serene energy. .Baljit, I love these stalks of beauty is a true honor and privilege to FEATURE this creative and wondrous piece of art work on the WFS site, from one of our honored and prestigious members. This awesome piece of beauty is what we are looking for to promote and let others see, including other artists and potential customers, as your works are some of the Best of the Best in my Book! Thanks much for sharing this beauty with us. Liked Forever, Elvisty and love the colors of the floral stems. • • PROFILE • Baljit Singh Chadha • • I grew up as a curious, investigative child helped by my parents’ encouragement to explore and to learn without fear and hesitation. The wonder and awe in God’s creation always held me spell bound. I ploughed my curiosity through love of creation and creativity. At a young age of nineteen years I sailed to a land called Japan that has for long centuries been spiritually bound with India. Like a sleepy rose the petals of my creativity opened as I drank like a honey-bee the nectar of ancient and highly evolved culture of Japan. Japanese art of painting is high meditation in feel and in expression. My Japanese godmother Ms Otha Miyoko a great Japanese artist was my first teacher. She affected my style and expression early on. My journey in art continued and I evolved a style of art that has minimal gap in feeling and expression. Rapidity and quickness of expression in my art comes from the well of inner spirituality. My art is not planned, thought-out and cerebral it is based on spontaneity. Abstract Expressionism is a wider term and my art follows it in variegated dimensions. In my art I experiment with different painting instruments and techniques. My dependence on brushwork is rather limited. I frequently and freely use spatulas, wooden sticks, masking, and sand-mix, push bottles and what comes handy in the moment. I use acrylic with mix media. I have developed acrylic based glazes that were possible earlier only with oil paints. The glazes impart a charm similar to enamel glazes. I created a new technique called ( FLOAT ON COLORS). My art journey finds depth and width in continuous experimentation, forays into the unknown and choosing challenging metaphors of expression. I did an installation (Wall of Divine flowers) with 12000 painting on 12-12-12-12hrs-12mnts-12sec at Zorba in New Delhi and donated entire collection to Smile Foundation New Delhi, for a girl child education. Where my art journey will take me next I leave to higher forces. Presently I offer you ZEN MOKSHA FLOWERS /MANN FLOWERS/MIYOKO FLOWERS AND WALL OF HEAVENLY FLOWERS as my next creations. Group Shows;- Newyork, Singapore, • Canvas Art Gallery , Nehru Place, Delhi 2006 • Studio Vasant, Vasant Vihar New Delhi, 2006, 2007 • Prabhat NGO, New Delhi, 2007 • Nithari, Canvas Art Gallery, 2007 • Sahaj Sankalp, Habitat Centre, New Delhi , 2008 • Aspiration, Charity show at Epicenter Gurgaon, 2008 • New Finds, Singapore, 2008 • Group Show at World Fine Art Gallery, New York, 2008 • Reverberation Habitat Centre, New Delhi, 2008 • Art for Prabhat Presents 'The Eternal Circle' MAY-2009 • Art Ponixs Mumbai-2013 Solo Show • Studio Vasant, New Delhi, 2006,2007 • Studio Vasant, New Delhi 2008 • DLF Mall, Saket, New Delhi 2009 • STUDIOVASANT,NEWDELHI • STUDIOVASANT,NEWDELHI-2011 • STUDIOVASANT,NEWDELHI-2012 • WALL OF DEVINE FLOWERS-ZORBA,NEWDELHI 2012(world record) • WALL OF EXOTIC FLOWERS-EPI CENTRE GURGAON-2013 • HOME& interior expo, EPI centor.GURGAON-2013 • Independence day Celebration-EPI CENTRE-2013 • Art-Phonix-NEHRU CENTRE MUMBAI-2014 Artist friend Baljit S. Chadha has a lasting honeymoon with flowers in his artistic expression. He paints sometimes with frugality of a Zen master. I can understand that as he had his early training in painting in Japan where he lived and studied as a teenager and had the benefit of the tutelage of great Japanese masters. But his present series on flowers nonplussed me with wonder and joy. He has in the present works a new dimension and a new personality of flowers that I have not seen before. This is because he has distilled the expression from his inner joy and happiness that is the essence of flowers per se and not from their forms. His flowers have a nearly expressionistic, abstract persona. He uses a watercolour like free flow of colour and tonalities to invest his work with a sensual poetry. His works are acrylic on paper and therefore amenable to idiosyncratic overflows that lends a fresh charm to his oeuvre. Another landmark quality of Baljit’s new works is that they are rendered in fiery shiny glazes. As we know glazes are traditionally done in oil paint medium. But Baljit has worked them with acrylic colour and without the use of pure impasto. The colours diluted with water float and embrace each other and still have lustrous intensity. Baljit Chadha has created a fresh stylistic edifice and his creative expression jumps from the visible-familiar to spiritually felt flowers in a divine Eden. Viktor Vijay Kumar Director Curator European Artists’ Association Germany • ART IS IMAGINATION/ART IS DREAMING/ART IS INOVATION/ART IS THINKING/ART IS CRAETIVITY/ART IS EMOTIONS/ART IS SUPPORT/ART IS COMBINATION OF MATERIALS/ART IS CONCEPT/ART IS TO DO SOME THING DIFFERENT/ART IS TO EXPLORE AND ART IS FOR EVERYONE TO DO AND ENJOY All images © Baljit Chadha All rights reserved. Copying and/or distributing without my permission is strictly prohibited. COLORS MAY WARY

https://www.saatchiart.com/art/Painting-WALL-OF-EXOTIC-FLOWERS-SAKURA/392880/2560086/view

[art-now-india]

WALL OF EXOTIC FLOWERS-SAKURA, Baljit Chadha

FLOWERMAN CREATED A WORLD RECORD http://baljitchadha.blogspot.in The exhibition with the most paintings of flowers in the world This certificate is given by WORLD RECORD ASSOCIATION / LIMCA BOOK OF RECORDS-INDIA -2014 Baljit-chadha.artistwebsites.com http://www.youtube.com/edit?ns=1&videoid=fCTt1B51fJA http://www.1wra.org/index.php/Worldrecord/detail/id/1241 MY NEW SERIES ZEN MOKSHA FLOWERS/ MANN FLOWERS/MIYOKO FLOWERS /BALJIT’S IKEBANA A PURE HEAVENLY GIFT FOR YOU FRIENDS N RELATIVES • THESE ZEN-MOKSH FLOWERS ARE CREATED WITH A SENSE OF GIVING INNER PEACE,TRANQUILITY, HAPPINESS, SOLACE AND A SENSE OF FULFILMENT, ONENESS WITH THE SUPREME. • I HAVE TRIED TO BRING THEASE ELEMENTS IN MY PAINTINGS,THE FLOWERS YOU SEE DON’T EXISTS, THE MOVMENTS OF MY HANDS,FLOW OF COLORS ARE THE GIFT OF ALMIGHTY GOD. • ZEN-JAPANEASE ZEN IS A SPIRTUAL INSPIRATION; THEY ARE PURE EXPRESSION OF ARTIST’S SPIRITUAL AWARENESS. JAPANEASE ZEN ART HAS ALWAYS BEEN MEANT TO TOUCH PEOPLE FAR AND WIDE. ZEN PAINTINGS ARE OF GREAT POWER, PURE, AND TOUCHING DEEP IN THE HEART, MIND AND SOUL. • MOKSHA- Freedom from life circle. Moksha is attained by dis identification with the body and mind, which are temporary and subject to change, and realization of our true identity Moksh is positive concept in two important ways. First it stands for the realization of the ultimate Reality, a real enlightenment. The mukta is not just free from this or that, It is the master of sense and self, fearless and devoid of rancor, upright yet humble, treating all creatures as if they were he himself, wanting nothing, clinging to nothing. In Sikhism one rises from the life of do’s and don'ts to that of perfection — a state of "at-one-ment" with the All-self. Secondly, the mukta is not just a friend for all, he even strives for their freedom as well. He no longer lives for himself, he lives for others. • APPRICIATIONS • Very interesting work Baljit, the spontaneity, the original technique and the spiritual journey! • i hear music from your flower paintings. What a happy movement! • Baljit! I appreciate that! You have a grand body of work here that shows me some Van Gogh, Miro and Monet and countless others within your style and creativeness. A magnificent talent to behold and appreciate! Keep it up! • I like the original exposition of your beautiful artwork. • Beautiful, cheerful, great colors! • Very fine expressive all Your floral art, not usual • Simply beautiful .It is with great pride and pleasure that I am FEATURING your artwork this week on our special edition of our TOP FEATURES on the Wisconsin Flowers and Scenery Homepage. Your work shows expertise and love in the presentation of this fine art piece. Thanks much for sharing your works with us and being a member of our family of friends and fine artists in our WFS group. Aboard. Liked, Forever .This series is enchanting Baljit, all wonderful visions. Masterful use of your colors creating serene energy. .Baljit, I love these stalks of beauty is a true honor and privilege to FEATURE this creative and wondrous piece of art work on the WFS site, from one of our honored and prestigious members. This awesome piece of beauty is what we are looking for to promote and let others see, including other artists and potential customers, as your works are some of the Best of the Best in my Book! Thanks much for sharing this beauty with us. Liked Forever, Elvisty and love the colors of the floral stems. • • PROFILE • Baljit Singh Chadha • • I grew up as a curious, investigative child helped by my parents’ encouragement to explore and to learn without fear and hesitation. The wonder and awe in God’s creation always held me spell bound. I ploughed my curiosity through love of creation and creativity. At a young age of nineteen years I sailed to a land called Japan that has for long centuries been spiritually bound with India. Like a sleepy rose the petals of my creativity opened as I drank like a honey-bee the nectar of ancient and highly evolved culture of Japan. Japanese art of painting is high meditation in feel and in expression. My Japanese godmother Ms Otha Miyoko a great Japanese artist was my first teacher. She affected my style and expression early on. My journey in art continued and I evolved a style of art that has minimal gap in feeling and expression. Rapidity and quickness of expression in my art comes from the well of inner spirituality. My art is not planned, thought-out and cerebral it is based on spontaneity. Abstract Expressionism is a wider term and my art follows it in variegated dimensions. In my art I experiment with different painting instruments and techniques. My dependence on brushwork is rather limited. I frequently and freely use spatulas, wooden sticks, masking, and sand-mix, push bottles and what comes handy in the moment. I use acrylic with mix media. I have developed acrylic based glazes that were possible earlier only with oil paints. The glazes impart a charm similar to enamel glazes. I created a new technique called ( FLOAT ON COLORS). My art journey finds depth and width in continuous experimentation, forays into the unknown and choosing challenging metaphors of expression. I did an installation (Wall of Divine flowers) with 12000 painting on 12-12-12-12hrs-12mnts-12sec at Zorba in New Delhi and donated entire collection to Smile Foundation New Delhi, for a girl child education. Where my art journey will take me next I leave to higher forces. Presently I offer you ZEN MOKSHA FLOWERS /MANN FLOWERS/MIYOKO FLOWERS AND WALL OF HEAVENLY FLOWERS as my next creations. Group Shows;- Newyork, Singapore, • Canvas Art Gallery , Nehru Place, Delhi 2006 • Studio Vasant, Vasant Vihar New Delhi, 2006, 2007 • Prabhat NGO, New Delhi, 2007 • Nithari, Canvas Art Gallery, 2007 • Sahaj Sankalp, Habitat Centre, New Delhi , 2008 • Aspiration, Charity show at Epicenter Gurgaon, 2008 • New Finds, Singapore, 2008 • Group Show at World Fine Art Gallery, New York, 2008 • Reverberation Habitat Centre, New Delhi, 2008 • Art for Prabhat Presents 'The Eternal Circle' MAY-2009 • Art Ponixs Mumbai-2013 Solo Show • Studio Vasant, New Delhi, 2006,2007 • Studio Vasant, New Delhi 2008 • DLF Mall, Saket, New Delhi 2009 • STUDIOVASANT,NEWDELHI • STUDIOVASANT,NEWDELHI-2011 • STUDIOVASANT,NEWDELHI-2012 • WALL OF DEVINE FLOWERS-ZORBA,NEWDELHI 2012(world record) • WALL OF EXOTIC FLOWERS-EPI CENTRE GURGAON-2013 • HOME& interior expo, EPI centor.GURGAON-2013 • Independence day Celebration-EPI CENTRE-2013 • Art-Phonix-NEHRU CENTRE MUMBAI-2014 Artist friend Baljit S. Chadha has a lasting honeymoon with flowers in his artistic expression. He paints sometimes with frugality of a Zen master. I can understand that as he had his early training in painting in Japan where he lived and studied as a teenager and had the benefit of the tutelage of great Japanese masters. But his present series on flowers nonplussed me with wonder and joy. He has in the present works a new dimension and a new personality of flowers that I have not seen before. This is because he has distilled the expression from his inner joy and happiness that is the essence of flowers per se and not from their forms. His flowers have a nearly expressionistic, abstract persona. He uses a watercolour like free flow of colour and tonalities to invest his work with a sensual poetry. His works are acrylic on paper and therefore amenable to idiosyncratic overflows that lends a fresh charm to his oeuvre. Another landmark quality of Baljit’s new works is that they are rendered in fiery shiny glazes. As we know glazes are traditionally done in oil paint medium. But Baljit has worked them with acrylic colour and without the use of pure impasto. The colours diluted with water float and embrace each other and still have lustrous intensity. Baljit Chadha has created a fresh stylistic edifice and his creative expression jumps from the visible-familiar to spiritually felt flowers in a divine Eden. Viktor Vijay Kumar Director Curator European Artists’ Association Germany • ART IS IMAGINATION/ART IS DREAMING/ART IS INOVATION/ART IS THINKING/ART IS CRAETIVITY/ART IS EMOTIONS/ART IS SUPPORT/ART IS COMBINATION OF MATERIALS/ART IS CONCEPT/ART IS TO DO SOME THING DIFFERENT/ART IS TO EXPLORE AND ART IS FOR EVERYONE TO DO AND ENJOY All images © Baljit Chadha All rights reserved. Copying and/or distributing without my permission is strictly prohibited. COLORS MAY WARY

https://www.saatchiart.com/art/Painting-WALL-OF-EXOTIC-FLOWERS-SAKURA/392880/2560086/view

[art-now-india]

GOLDEN PATH - TO SUCCESS, Baljit Chadha

MY ABSTRACT ART BESIDE FLOWERS FLOWERMAN CREATED A WORLD RECORD http://baljitchadha.blogspot.in The exhibition with the most paintings of flowers in the world This certificate is given by WORLD RECORD ASSOCIATION / LIMCA BOOK OF RECORDS-INDIA -2014 Baljit-chadha.artistwebsites.com http://www.youtube.com/edit?ns=1&videoid=fCTt1B51fJA http://www.1wra.org/index.php/Worldrecord/detail/id/1241 MY NEW SERIES ZEN MOKSHA FLOWERS/ MANN FLOWERS/MIYOKO FLOWERS /BALJIT’S IKEBANA Dear BALJIT CHADHA, We were thrilled to include your work in the digital display at the Louvre on July 13th as part of the Microphotography Collection. It was magnificent to see work from photographers representing over 191 different countries displayed together at the most esteemed museum in the world. Thank you for being a part of it! SeeMe Exhibitions OFFICIAL LETTER OF RECOGNITION Dear BALJIT CHADHA, It's been an honor to show your photography as part the Fifth Annual Exposure Award. The work of this year’s project has been extraordinary, viewed by over five million photo enthusiasts from around the world. Additionally, your photograph was included in a digital display of images presented at the Exposure Award Reception at the Louvre. Your photography was included in the Microphotography Collection and was presented at a private reception at hosted at: Musee du Louvre 75058 Paris - France July 13th, 2015 See Me Exhibitions OFFICIAL LETTER OF RECOGNITION Dear BALJIT CHADHA, It's been an honor to show your photography as part the Fifth Annual Exposure Award. The work of this year’s project has been extraordinary, viewed by over five million photo enthusiasts from around the world. Additionally, your photograph was included in a digital display of images presented at the Exposure Award Reception at the Louvre. Your photography was included in the Microphotography Collection and was presented at a private reception at hosted at: Musee du Louvre 75058 Paris - France July 13th, 2015 A PURE HEAVENLY GIFT FOR YOU FRIENDS N RELATIVES • THESE ZEN-MOKSH FLOWERS ARE CREATED WITH A SENSE OF GIVING INNER PEACE,TRANQUILITY, HAPPINESS, SOLACE AND A SENSE OF FULFILMENT, ONENESS WITH THE SUPREME. • I HAVE TRIED TO BRING THEASE ELEMENTS IN MY PAINTINGS,THE FLOWERS YOU SEE DON’T EXISTS, THE MOVMENTS OF MY HANDS,FLOW OF COLORS ARE THE GIFT OF ALMIGHTY GOD. • ZEN-JAPANEASE ZEN IS A SPIRTUAL INSPIRATION; THEY ARE PURE EXPRESSION OF ARTIST’S SPIRITUAL AWARENESS. JAPANEASE ZEN ART HAS ALWAYS BEEN MEANT TO TOUCH PEOPLE FAR AND WIDE. ZEN PAINTINGS ARE OF GREAT POWER, PURE, AND TOUCHING DEEP IN THE HEART, MIND AND SOUL. • MOKSHA- Freedom from life circle. Moksha is attained by dis identification with the body and mind, which are temporary and subject to change, and realization of our true identity Moksh is positive concept in two important ways. First it stands for the realization of the ultimate Reality, a real enlightenment. The mukta is not just free from this or that, It is the master of sense and self, fearless and devoid of rancor, upright yet humble, treating all creatures as if they were he himself, wanting nothing, clinging to nothing. In Sikhism one rises from the life of do’s and don'ts to that of perfection — a state of "at-one-ment" with the All-self. Secondly, the mukta is not just a friend for all, he even strives for their freedom as well. He no longer lives for himself, he lives for others. • APPRICIATIONS • Very interesting work Baljit, the spontaneity, the original technique and the spiritual journey! • i hear music from your flower paintings. What a happy movement! • Baljit! I appreciate that! You have a grand body of work here that shows me some Van Gogh, Miro and Monet and countless others within your style and creativeness. A magnificent talent to behold and appreciate! Keep it up! • I like the original exposition of your beautiful artwork. • Beautiful, cheerful, great colors! • Very fine expressive all Your floral art, not usual • Simply beautiful .It is with great pride and pleasure that I am FEATURING your artwork this week on our special edition of our TOP FEATURES on the Wisconsin Flowers and Scenery Homepage. Your work shows expertise and love in the presentation of this fine art piece. Thanks much for sharing your works with us and being a member of our family of friends and fine artists in our WFS group. Aboard. Liked, Forever .This series is enchanting Baljit, all wonderful visions. Masterful use of your colors creating serene energy. .Baljit, I love these stalks of beauty is a true honor and privilege to FEATURE this creative and wondrous piece of art work on the WFS site, from one of our honored and prestigious members. This awesome piece of beauty is what we are looking for to promote and let others see, including other artists and potential customers, as your works are some of the Best of the Best in my Book! Thanks much for sharing this beauty with us. Liked Forever, Elvisty and love the colors of the floral stems. • • PROFILE • Baljit Singh Chadha- LOVES PHOTOGRAPHY AND PAINTING • • I grew up as a curious, investigative child helped by my parents’ encouragement to explore and to learn without fear and hesitation. The wonder and awe in God’s creation always held me spell bound. I ploughed my curiosity through love of creation and creativity. At a young age of nineteen years I sailed to a land called Japan that has for long centuries been spiritually bound with India. Like a sleepy rose the petals of my creativity opened as I drank like a honey-bee the nectar of ancient and highly evolved culture of Japan. Japanese art of painting is high meditation in feel and in expression. My Japanese godmother Ms Otha Miyoko a great Japanese artist was my first teacher. She affected my style and expression early on. My journey in art continued and I evolved a style of art that has minimal gap in feeling and expression. Rapidity and quickness of expression in my art comes from the well of inner spirituality. My art is not planned, thought-out and cerebral it is based on spontaneity. Abstract Expressionism is a wider term and my art follows it in variegated dimensions. In my art I experiment with different painting instruments and techniques. My dependence on brushwork is rather limited. I frequently and freely use spatulas, wooden sticks, masking, and sand-mix, push bottles and what comes handy in the moment. I use acrylic with mix media. I have developed acrylic based glazes that were possible earlier only with oil paints. The glazes impart a charm similar to enamel glazes. I created a new technique called ( FLOAT ON COLORS). My art journey finds depth and width in continuous experimentation, forays into the unknown and choosing challenging metaphors of expression. I did an installation (Wall of Divine flowers) with 12000 painting on 12-12-12-12hrs-12mnts-12sec at Zorba in New Delhi and donated entire collection to Smile Foundation New Delhi, for a girl child education. Where my art journey will take me next I leave to higher forces. Presently I offer you ZEN MOKSHA FLOWERS /MANN FLOWERS/MIYOKO FLOWERS AND WALL OF HEAVENLY FLOWERS as my next creations. Group Shows;- Newyork, Singapore, • Canvas Art Gallery , Nehru Place, Delhi 2006 • Studio Vasant, Vasant Vihar New Delhi, 2006, 2007 • Prabhat NGO, New Delhi, 2007 • Nithari, Canvas Art Gallery, 2007 • Sahaj Sankalp, Habitat Centre, New Delhi , 2008 • Aspiration, Charity show at Epicenter Gurgaon, 2008 • New Finds, Singapore, 2008 • Group Show at World Fine Art Gallery, New York, 2008 • Reverberation Habitat Centre, New Delhi, 2008 • Art for Prabhat Presents 'The Eternal Circle' MAY-2009 • Art Ponixs Mumbai-2013 Solo Show • Studio Vasant, New Delhi, 2006,2007 • Studio Vasant, New Delhi 2008 • DLF Mall, Saket, New Delhi 2009 • STUDIOVASANT,NEWDELHI • STUDIOVASANT,NEWDELHI-2011 • STUDIOVASANT,NEWDELHI-2012 • WALL OF DEVINE FLOWERS-ZORBA,NEWDELHI 2012(world record) • WALL OF EXOTIC FLOWERS-EPI CENTRE GURGAON-2013 • HOME& interior expo, EPI centor.GURGAON-2013 • Independence day Celebration-EPI CENTRE-2013 • Art-Phonix-NEHRU CENTRE MUMBAI-2014 Artist friend Baljit S. Chadha has a lasting honeymoon with flowers in his artistic expression. He paints sometimes with frugality of a Zen master. I can understand that as he had his early training in painting in Japan where he lived and studied as a teenager and had the benefit of the tutelage of great Japanese masters. But his present series on flowers nonplussed me with wonder and joy. He has in the present works a new dimension and a new personality of flowers that I have not seen before. This is because he has distilled the expression from his inner joy and happiness that is the essence of flowers per se and not from their forms. His flowers have a nearly expressionistic, abstract persona. He uses a watercolour like free flow of colour and tonalities to invest his work with a sensual poetry. His works are acrylic on paper and therefore amenable to idiosyncratic overflows that lends a fresh charm to his oeuvre. Another landmark quality of Baljit’s new works is that they are rendered in fiery shiny glazes. As we know glazes are traditionally done in oil paint medium. But Baljit has worked them with acrylic colour and without the use of pure impasto. The colours diluted with water float and embrace each other and still have lustrous intensity. Baljit Chadha has created a fresh stylistic edifice and his creative expression jumps from the visible-familiar to spiritually felt flowers in a divine Eden. Viktor Vijay Kumar Director Curator European Artists’ Association Germany • ART IS IMAGINATION/ART IS DREAMING/ART IS INOVATION/ART IS THINKING/ART IS CRAETIVITY/ART IS EMOTIONS/ART IS SUPPORT/ART IS COMBINATION OF MATERIALS/ART IS CONCEPT/ART IS TO DO SOME THING DIFFERENT/ART IS TO EXPLORE AND ART IS FOR EVERYONE TO DO AND ENJOY All images © Baljit Chadha All rights reserved. Copying and/or distributing without my p.ermission is strictly prohibited CLORS MAY VARY

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