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wynnyfryd · 6 months

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Trailer park Steve AU part 59

part 1 | part 58 | ao3

cw: canon-typical horror/gore (like for real this time), emetophobia, reference to minor character death. ty to @thisapplepielife for indulging my weirdly specific research about headstones

Steve tries to follow her — gets shot down before he even gets within speaking range, Max shouting at him to give her a minute the second she spots him coming over the hill. He backs off, hands raised in surrender, and then…

Well, then he’s already out of the car.

Well then his feet know where to take him.

His dad’s grave isn’t far. Maybe a football field away, close enough that he’ll be able to hear it if Max calls for help. He moves toward it without thought, his legs carrying him past simple overgrown markers in the oldest part of the park — crumbling remnants of civil war soldiers, farmers and shopkeepers and factory workers, people who worked the mines, people who died before his grandfather was born. People who might have been loved once, before time and moss and water stripped their names off of the stones.

Up the next slope, the markers get more elaborate, shift from bronze to granite to marble, to monuments and mausoleums and a fucking obelisk; ostentatious displays of the town’s oldest money. The coal barons, the oil tycoons. Rotten bastards, Wayne might say.

The Harringtons aren't that rich. They're further down the hill in a neatly manicured row of Indiana limestone; fresh flowers on each grave, the weeds plucked, the grass trimmed.

Dad's buried right next to Grandpa Otis.

It almost looks nice.

Crisp, clean, dry. Nothing to suggest the messy wet red of his father's demise. Steve shoves his hands in his front pockets and steps up to his dad's plot, toes the edge of it, the rounded lump of earth, sparse grass and loose soil where his father's bones are laid. The ground gives a little under his weight, the dirt compacting. Could he dig this up with just his hands? Could he claw through until he reached the bottom, pry open the box and peer inside? Unbidden, the image forms in his mind: worm food and rot, half a man left inside, somehow still frowning in disappointment with his jaw bone shining clean.

Steve's stomach turns. A sick shiver runs through him, saliva flooding his mouth, sweat beading at his hair line.

This isn't right.

Something's not right.

There's a sudden chill in the air, frigid wind carrying a smell like roadkill in the summer — heat wafting from the pavement, death clogging up his throat. Steve covers his nose and wills his shoulders down from his ears; tries to mutter words of comfort to himself under his breath. “Just a graveyard, Steve. Just a totally… normal…”

Ice on the back of his neck. Steve tenses every muscle, turns his good ear toward the sound of whatever's creeping up on him; something taller than him, something slithering and wet, its rasping rattles of frozen breath sending goosebumps down Steve's arms. His hands twitch inside his pockets.

Then, a voice — a voice that isn’t his, that can’t be anyone’s, because the man it belonged to is dead. “That Munson boy was right about you."

Steve can't fucking breathe. Dark clouds roll in around him, violent as a blooming bruise, and that voice behind him echoes — distorted, vicious; hungry.

"You are a black hole."

Steve grabs two fistfuls of his own hair and tugs; wills the pain to dispel the nightmare, his eyes swimming from the sting.

The thing behind him laughs. "Look how you ruined your mother," it snarls. "Look how you tore her apart.”

"Shut up!" Steve barks with his hands over his ears.

“Steve…” The voice deepens, beckons, thick with malice and rot. Steve slowly turns to face it, trembling all over, pulse thudding in his ears, and his shoes squelch in the dirt, and when he looks down he sees that the dirt has turned to mud that now turns to oozing red, a viscous river beneath his feet, flowing up over his ankles, pouring from his father's grave. And there, in front of him, a mangled remnant stands. The ruined corpse of Richard Harrington, his skin shriveled and gray, the torn parts of him held together by his clothes. There’s a hole in his torso where the exposed ribs glint like knives.

Steve throws up on himself.

The ground gives way beneath him, goes spongy like rotting meat, and the thing wearing his dad's face cackles as Steve sinks into the earth, the grave swallowing him whole, up to his calves, his knees, his thighs. "Join me," it offers, lipless smile full of teeth.

The glamor peels back to reveal a monster underneath, its scarred skin crawling in mucus-coated vines; naked, long-limbed, stitched together with burnt flesh.

Steve screams as he scrambles for purchase, up to his hips now in the muck, his feet on the lid of his dad's casket. He claws blindly at the loose ground but it’s all thick and wet with red, and the air itself is red; blood in the sky, in his eyes, in his lungs. He's going to die here. The voice tells him so. It's in his head now, a bellowing echo as the monster draws near, one hideous hand outstretched, an all-consuming join me, join me, JOIN ME—

“HEY!!!”

Max shouts directly in his face, shaking him hard by both shoulders where they're crouched on the cool ground, Kate Bush leaking from the headphones slung around her neck. Steve gives a startled shout and jerks back out of her grip, falling hard on his ass, landing harder on his elbows.

The world shifts back to blue. To dry, clean grass. To breathable air.

Steve pants up at the sky. His shirt clings to him where he's soaked it through with sweat. When Max offers him a hand, he stands on shaky legs, looks at the ground beneath his feet and screams again, scurrying back until his ass hits a stranger's headstone.

There’s a dent in the earth where he was standing. A smudge of packed dirt where he really did sink in. Steve stares at it; feels it reaching out for him, the dark patch thudding like a heart beat, spreading out like snaking vines.

He clutches at his heaving chest. Max’s eyes are huge on him.

"Okay, what the fuck?" she begs.

"What the fuck yourself!"

No heat behind the words, but they burn him, anyway, pushed out on a weak gasp. Is this what she was talking about? Is this what she calls nothing?

This doesn't feel like fucking nothing.

“Shit," she says, and her eyes go even wider. Steve can see the veins in them. "Shit, Steve, your nose…”

He swipes his arm across his face.

It comes back red.

—

part 60

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

#trailer park steve au #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #max mayfield #vecna

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wherethefireliliesgrow · 8 months

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Linear Lines (Part 2 of Clerestory Rendezvous)

Yoo Jimin x Reader

GENRE: fluff, angst

TYPE: Two Shot, Request

You can find the first part, Clerestory Rendezvous here

You, adorned with a white scarf delicately wrapped over your shoulders, swiftly pulled into the parking lot of the familiar cathedral. The soft sunlight cast a subtle warmth before yielding to the November breeze's chill, prompting a shiver as you stepped out of the car. Cursing inwardly at your tardiness, a soft jingle emanated from the blue bracelet on your wrist. You hastily brushed through your wavy hair before ascending the stony stairs that seemed to lead directly to the cause of your heart nearly leaping out of your chest.

Standing before the towering wooden doors, you took a sharp breath before gradually walking in, the echoing of your footsteps resonating abnormally loud within the hushed limestone walls. It had been a while since your last visit, and the thought of Jimin standing under the clerestory windows clouded your mind whenever you returned.

Ethereal glitters from the sunlight scattered through the clerestory windows, painting the marble floors with colorful hues. It was just as beautiful as you remembered, but the reason for your breathlessness was not the cathedral; it was the girl standing in front of the candlelight, a breathtaking smile gracing her lips as she stared at you.

Your heart lurched at the sight of Jimin, momentarily stunned by her presence. Snug in a woolen grey sweater, her hair now back to a raven black, with perfect bangs framing her face, she looked even more enchanting than through your screen. Despite countless FaceTime calls and watching all of her comeback videos, seeing her physically in front of you caused your brain to short-circuit.

"Are you just going to stare at me all day?" Jimin laughed, her nose scrunching adorably at your frozen state.

Your eyes scanned her face, your heart tingling at the sound of her heavenly voice, yet you remained rooted in place.

With another adorable giggle, Jimin took a few steps forward and reached down to tug at your hands. "Y/N-nie." She gently pulled you closer, hoping to break you out of your trance. Her long arms wrapped around your waist as she put her chin on your shoulder, burying her face into your neck.

She deeply inhaled your floral scent, tinged with the familiar faint trace of pastels. Her eyes closed in contentment to finally have you close in her arms after months of longing. The past year had been tough on the idol, with continuous comebacks and endless traveling for performances. AESPA's popularity had soared, and her company insisted on maintaining the momentum. She had barely enough time to sleep, let alone visit you.

The feeling of her hot breath on your neck finally broke you out of your trance. Your arms automatically reached up to pull her closer, eliminating any distance between you two.

"I missed you," you muttered, your voice slightly muffled by her hair.

Jimin pulled back, grinning at you with soft eyes twinkling. She cupped your face with warm hands, gently caressing your cheeks, leaving a soft tingle in their wake.

"I missed you more, jagi."

Unable to contain yourself, you looked into her eyes, feeling like you held the galaxies in her universe. Your eyes shifted from her soft honey hues to her full pink lips. Before you could initiate a kiss, she placed her forefinger on your lips, halting you.

"Let's not blind God with our kisses," Jimin giggled at your pout, pulling you along as she walked out the doors.

Leading her to your car, hands intertwined and swinging between you, she was confused to see you stop in front of a sleek black vehicle. "New car?" She asked.

"Yeah, thought you might've been tired of sitting in my beat-up truck. Last time, you got paint all over your expensive dress," you laughed, turning to look at her.

"I like the truck. It had its own charm," Jimin said, reaching up to play with the hairs at the nape of your neck.

With soft sunlight cascading on her pale skin, making her light freckles barely visible, you couldn't help but bring your faces closer, brushing her nose with the tips of yours.

"It had charm because you were there," you said, kissing her eyelids. You heard her take a sharp intake of breath, shivering slightly.

Jimin couldn't resist any longer and closed the gap between your lips. She pulled your face down, and your soft lips met hers. Sighing into the kiss, she felt your lips curve up in a smile. You allowed her tongue access without any resistance, shivering as it met yours. Gently pushing her, her back leaned on the car, ensuring there was no space between your bodies.

When air became a problem, you were the first to pull away. Jimin let out a whine in protest, her lips trailing behind yours. You laughed at her adorableness, looking at her once more. Her eyes were still closed, long lashes fluttering, and her lips were swollen, with her lipstick smudged. This messy version of Jimin was your favorite, and your heart warmed at the thought that you were the only one to see it.

“C’mon, pabo. We have places to be.” You messed up her hair a bit more, laughing at her as she cleared her throat and glared at you, trying to conceal how much the make-out session affected her.

You unlocked the sleek black car, and she slid into the passenger seat with a satisfied grin. As you settled into the driver's seat, Jimin couldn't help but run her fingers along the dashboard, appreciating the unfamiliar but luxurious surroundings.

"Alright, where are we off to?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

A playful smile tugged at your lips as you started the engine. "It's a surprise," you teased, winking at her before pulling out of the cathedral's parking lot. .

As you drove, Jimin filled you in on all the things you missed for the past year. The drive was long, so you had stopped at the bakery she was obsessed with the last time she was there, for a few of her favorite Fougasse. It felt right, with your hands intertwined and resting on her legs, as she fed you bits of her Fougasse (more like all of the olives because she hated the taste). It felt like home, and it seemed like she never left. You wondered if you were soulmates in your past life, as she appeared to understand everything about you.

“Are you plotting to murder me in a deserted place?” Jimin teased, a playful glint in her eyes, as you maneuvered down another empty country road.

Acres of land and grass stretched endlessly, devoid of any other cars in sight.

"Hush," you laughed, bringing her hand to your lips for a kiss as your attention stayed fixed on the road.

Her heart fluttered at the gesture; she wished for nothing more than for you to pull over and resume the previous make-out session in the backseat.

“I’m taking you to meet my grandma.”

Silence hung in the air as Jimin's mind raced with concerns. She felt immense happiness at the thought of meeting your family but couldn't shake the fear of potential disapproval from your grandma.

"You mentioned last time that you wanted to go somewhere in the countryside, so I thought it would be nice if we could stay at my grandma's for a couple of days. But we can go back to my place if you're uncomfortable. I'm sorry I didn't ask you first." Mistaking her silence for anger, you slowly pulled over to the side of the road, turning around to look at her with your full attention.

Jimin quickly shook her head.

"Don't be sorry. I'm just scared that she won't like me. I can't speak French."

"I already told her about you. The fact that you speak Korean definitely won her approval." You laughed, finding her worries endearing. "She always chastised me for my broken Korean."

Still uncertain, Jimin nodded slightly. Sighing, you cupped her face gently with warm hands, attempting to soothe her. You left a small kiss on her forehead, and she leaned in immediately for more.

"How can I make you feel better?"

"A kiss," she said without hesitation.

You grinned before pressing another soft kiss on her nose. "Better?"

Shaking her head, she pointed to her lips, a playful pout on her face.

Amused, you gave her a peck on her cheek. "How about now?"

She glared at you in feigned annoyance.

“I need a couple more.” Jimin said, grinning at you mischievously before locking her lips with yours.

Before you knew it, you were putty in Jimin’s arms, with her graceful maneuvering herself onto your lap, hands in your hair, and her teeth gently nibbling on your lower lips.

The drive to your grandma’s house took a bit longer than expected, the sun having dipped below the horizon by the time you pulled onto the pebbled road leading to the cottage.

Jimin stepped out of the car in awe, savoring the crisp, clean scent of the air and the picturesque surroundings. Your grandma's quaint two-story cottage, constructed from butter-colored bricks, stood proudly amidst a charming garden. Ivy adorned the exterior walls, lending an air of age and mystery. Jimin felt more at peace than she had ever been, far removed from the city lights and urban chaos. She was here, surrounded by the tranquility of nature, with you.

Gently holding her hand, you led her through the garden.

A thunderous bark echoed from the door, which swung open to reveal a large brown Chow Chow dog bounding towards you.

"Bear!" You laughed with excitement before getting playfully tackled to the grass as the dog showered you with affection.

"He’s been waiting for you for hours. What took you so long?" A raspy voice came from the door.

A frail old lady, with wisps of grey hair in a puff, leaned on the door sill with a cane in her hand. Her face bore the marks of time, yet her eyes gleamed with brightness. She exuded kindness and a keen elegance that you also possessed.

“Ah, that’s why.” Your grandma looked at Jimin, and then at the faint hickies covering the idol’s neck, a smile playing on her lips.

“She’s a showstopper. I don’t blame you.”

The raven-haired beauty blushed in embarrassment, her face turning a shade of red as she stumbled forward to shake your grandma’s hand.

To her surprise, your grandma pulled her into a warm hug. “You make Y/N happy, and this is all that matters to me.”

You observed the scene with adoration as Bear continued to slobber all over your face. The two most important people in your life were now together with you. There was nothing more you could ask for.

It turned out that Jimin's worries were unfounded, as she gained your grandma’s approval right from the start. Another point in her favor was when Jimin successfully brewed a traditional kimchi jjigae she had learned from her mom. Your grandma nodded in approval, giving you a wink and whispering, “You better marry her.” They conversed in Korean, at times too rapid for you to comprehend, but you didn’t mind. Seeing Jimin so happy, her face flushed from the soju, and your grandma patting her arms in adoration, this was all you needed. The night passed quickly, filled with your grandma sharing embarrassing stories of your childhood and showing off your awkward baby pictures to the idol. It was well past midnight before your grandma retreated to her room.

“I love your grandma,” Jimin said, laying on your childhood bed, dressed in an adorable fluffy pink pajama set.

"And she loves you," you grinned at her before turning off the lights and settling in bed with her.

She immediately snuggled up to you, her nose stuck to your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. You shivered as her cool breath blew across your neck, goosebumps popping out at her close proximity.

You hesitated before saying the thing that had been on your mind for a while. You never really brought up the courage to tell the idol.

“But not as much as I love you.”

You felt Jimin still, not taking a single breath. Panic set in, worried that you scared her off. You weren’t together physically for much time, but you couldn’t help falling deeper in love with the idol.

The silence felt so long, but before you could open your mouth to change the topic, Jimin let out a small sigh of relief.

“I love you, too,” she said, giddy and her heart feeling like it was about to burst. “I wanted to say this for so long.”

You pressed your lips to hers, finding solace with her in your arms. The room was hushed as soft whispers of affection and the gentle rustle of clothes falling to the floor filled the space.

Neither of you got much sleep that night.

The two of you fell into an easy routine, as if you had been living together for half of your lives. You would wake up early, leave lingering kisses on her bare back as she snuggled deeper into your pillow, and start your day with your grandma’s hearty breakfast. Retreating to the study room or the backyard when the weather was nice, you'd begin your work.

After graduation, you had immediately joined one of the biggest event companies in Europe as their event illustrator, working on significant projects, particularly for the entertainment industry. As the Paris Fashion Show approached, your manager requested you to work remotely. The upside was that Jimin was scheduled to attend the show this year, allowing you to see her in all her glory, posing in front of your designs.

As you worked during the morning, Jimin would stir awake to the gentle knocks of your grandma on the bedroom door. Her frail voice followed, calling out “gang-aji” affectionately. Jimin would then indulge in a delightful breakfast and accompany your grandma for a stroll, often driving her to the early market for groceries and errands.

The afternoons were yours to share. You would then take Jimin on hikes with Bear, or take her to the lake nearby for a picnic and charm her with all of your random survival hacks you learned from Girl Scouts. The days passed filled with love, laughter, and soft kisses. The initially planned two-day stay was extended to another two weeks, and soon, you were to return to the real world.

You noticed Jimin becoming less affectionate as the day of your departure neared. Despite trying not to think too much about it, you couldn’t help but overthink that this might be your last trip together.

“I don’t want to leave,” Jimin sighed, seeking solace by lying on your lap, her hand idly caressing Bear's large head.

“Hmm?” You answered, concentrating on sketching the idol in your lap, biting your pencil as you stared at your art in your sketchbook.

Jimin waited patiently for you to complete that final stroke, a gentle smile gracing her lips. The days with you had only deepened her affection, and she wondered if she could return to the months of separation. She had started to intentionally distance herself, preparing herself for the impending drawbacks of leaving France, and of leaving you. Tomorrow, you were scheduled to head to Paris for final checks on the fashion show site, while she had meetings lined up with her agency and manager to prepare for the fashion show.

Setting aside your sketchbook, you gazed down at her, brushing soft strands of hair from her face. Jimin looked healthier, dark circles erased, and a few healthy pounds gained, giving radiance to her face.

“Do we have to go tomorrow?” Jimin pouted, her face contorted into a grimace.

“Unfortunately, yes. But we can always come back whenever you want, baby.”

The idol’s eyes lit up at your comment, but immediately dampened as she thought about the upcoming schedule. Another comeback was scheduled, which meant less time to see you.

"When are you leaving France?" you finally asked, carefully inspecting your girlfriend's expression.

This had become a touchy subject, always leading to small fights whenever you brought up her schedule, so you started to avoid talking about it.

Jimin avoided your eyes and continued to stare at the sky, “Right after the event.”

You nodded in understanding, trying to push back the lump in your throat at the thought of saying goodbye.

“Do you know when your next break is? I could go visit you.”

Jimin simply sat up and harshly said, “No idea,” her eyes burning with frustration.

The conversation immediately changed moods. Jimin didn’t mean to lash out, but this has been bothering her for quite a while. She hated the idea of having to go on days without seeing your face again, she loathed the fact that she could possibly never step out of the spotlights, and most of all, she abhorred herself for thinking that you are just a dream too good to be true and something she would never be able to fully be with you.

Slightly taken aback at her reaction, you nodded, trying not to show your hurt.

“It’s okay, we can figure it out.”

You were met with silence.

After a tearful goodbye with your grandmother, Jimin and you got into the car in the early hours of dawn. The drive to Paris was a quiet one, with only the soft hum of the car engine accompanying the two of you as you navigated the familiar roads. The atmosphere inside the car was heavy with unspoken emotions, the looming thought of reality dampening Jimin’s emotions. It seemed that the closer you got to the event, the more closed off your girlfriend became.

Jimin stared out of the window, lost in her thoughts. The country roads slowly changed to the highway, and the trees and sunshine were replaced by the bustling city skyscrapers. She couldn't shake the feeling that her dreams and yours were diverging as you navigated towards reality. It seemed like the past weeks with you were just a dream after all, something Jimin could never have. She wondered if she would ever be able to see your grandma again.

As you parked the car in front of your hotel—shabby but clean, all you could afford—the silence lingered. You exchanged glances, both hesitant to address the unspoken tension that hung in the air. Jimin's eyes, once filled with love, now held a mixture of longing and apprehension.

Once inside the room, you turned to Jimin, searching for words that could hopefully bridge the growing gap between you. She met your gaze, her eyes a stormy black, exposing the internal struggle she was facing.

"I'm sorry," Jimin whispered, her voice barely audible.

You approached her, gently cupping her face in your hands. "There's nothing to be sorry for, Jimin. We'll figure this out, together."

“I just…I just don’t think I can handle being away from you for that long again.” The idol muttered, eyes slightly tearing up.

“Don’t think about it.” You leaned over to kiss her tears away. “We’ll be together in no time.”

“Will we?” Jimin’s voice raised an octave higher in frustration, “I have another two comebacks scheduled, and you’re here working. Is the next time I get to see you another year later?”

You stepped back, rubbing your forehead, trying to calm down your temper. You knew Jimin was not lashing out at you; she was just insecure about how things were.

“What do you want me to do, Jimin?” You asked, knowing full well what her answer was going to be.

She hesitated, wringing her hands in nervousness and desperation. She knew that the moment she voiced her thoughts, things will never be the same.

“You could leave with me. Go back to Korea with me.”

You raised your voice, furious at how selfish her request was. “I can’t just leave my job. I can’t just follow you around like a lost puppy.”

“Well, I can’t just quit being an idol.” Jimin's voice cracked, her body swaying as she tried to comfort herself.

She looked so small, so defeated, consumed by her thoughts and the overwhelming sadness.

As her tears fell, a sharp ache rippled through your chest. Seeing her cry like this, witnessing her pain over you, tore at your heart. You couldn't bear it. You pulled her back into your arms, but this time, the embrace felt heavy with the weight of uncertainty.

“Shh…I’m sorry, baby.” You stroked her hair, trying to stifle her sobs.

“It will take us some time to figure things out, but I promise I will find the time to visit you as much as possible, don’t worry.”

“You’re still here, and somehow I already miss you.” Jimin cries into your chest, shaking uncontrollably.

“The past weeks with you made me want nothing more than to be with you every second of the day, but I keep feeling that our lives are so different, like we’re just two parallel linear lines.”

Your heart crumpled at her confession; you could feel it break into a million pieces at the thought of her doubting that your lives are never meant to be intertwined. Perhaps she was right; perhaps you and her were too different, but you were adamant about making this work.

You loved her too much to give up.

“We’ll make it work.” You whispered, but even the promise sounded hollow to you.

As you dropped Jimin off at the luxurious hotel booked by her company, her words of linear lines, of being parallel, kept echoing in your ears. Jimin was a child of stardom; lights followed wherever she went, and you felt that she deserved nothing but the best. and the stark contrast between her grandeur and your shabby hotel, along with your grandma’s run-down cottage, struck you with a painful realization. The nagging thought at the back of your mind of never being enough now loomed large, wavering your confidence.

It was ridiculous how you actually believed you and Jimin were meant to be together. Your life has been parallel since the start.

“I’ll see you soon.” You said, as Jimin slowly unbuckled her seatbelt.

She nodded, trying her best not to cry. This felt more like a goodbye than a see you later, but she wasn’t ready for either.

Jimin leaned over and pressed her lips on yours, trying to convey her love to you. She hoped you understood. She hoped that this wasn't the last.

“I love you.” You muttered against her lips, tasting the salt of her tears.

“I miss you.”

As Jimin walked away, disappearing into her towering hotel, you were left sitting alone in your car. The echoes of shared laughter and whispered confessions lingered, an unforgettable imprint of a love that tried to fight against boundaries.

You didn't fail to notice how her bracelet was situated neatly on the dashboard in front of the passenger seat.

“Karina! Karina!”

“Look here, Karina!”

“Turn for us!”

Shouts could be heard from the crowd of flashing lights as Karina walked down the red carpet. She moved towards her band members with grace and confidence, poised with precision, dazzling everyone with her beauty.

A faint smile could be seen on her face as she looped her arms with Winter and posed for picture after picture. But you knew her well enough to notice her hand shake slightly in nervousness and the way her eyes tightened when her ex-lover wrapped her arms around her waist for another picture for the scandalous tabloids.

Your heart throbbed in pain, wanting nothing more than to cross the sea of people, breach the barriers, and pull your Jimin into a comforting embrace. But she was no longer your Jimin; she was Karina.

Just as you predicted, she seamlessly blended with the tone and manner of the event decorations, as you had based everything on the thought of her. Karina appeared angelic in her white gown, fitting perfectly with the theme. The soft, colorful glitters of the chandeliers, meticulously designed to replicate the clerestory windows where you first met, cascaded onto her silhouette. She looked unbelievably celestial, almost too perfect to be real. A year ago, you thought she belonged in the Musée du Louvre, and tonight she confirmed that.

As she gracefully moved towards the event, you stood quietly by the walls, dressed in black attire, attempting to blend in as an event worker, avoiding notice from the crowd. Hundreds of people separated you from her, all eager to catch a glimpse of the captivating ethereal being you had come to know so intimately, yet remained a mystery.

And then it struck you.

Karina was the art, and you were just another person in the crowd, admiring her from a distance.

You were hers, but she could never be just yours.

You were linear lines, just never meant to intersect.

Well...this ended differently than what I had planned 😬

For all you fluff lovers, I'm sorry 🥲 I couldn't stop myself

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antonio-m · 1 year

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“Bust of a Man”, c.1758. Studio of Francis Harwood. Yale Center for British Art. Black limestone on a yellow marble base.

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sebastianswallows · 5 months

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The English Client — Seven

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: none

— WORDCOUNT: 2.6k

— TAGLIST: @esolean @localravenclaw @slytherins-heir

She called him at ten o’clock the next morning, right as he returned from breakfast. She sounded very excited. And scared. They agreed to meet the next afternoon not at the shop, but on a broad street from where they would walk to the Baron’s office. It all had more secrecy than a muggle dabbler merited, but Tom played along.

“Ready?” she asked once they were outside his building, a tall wide limestone white manor.

“As ready as you are,” grinned Tom, his eyes glinting. He was teasing her, and enjoying it far too much.

“Oh dear, I hope not,” she chuckled.

Its doors were as big as city gates, thick old wood with one much smaller door inset on the right. Above it in a shield of stone, a fat snake swirled as it ate a child, legs first. It was a biscione, the Baron’s sigil.

She pushed a button on a metal box beside the door, and a low voice answered on the other side.

“It’s us.”

The door unlocked with a buzz.

The inside was wide and sparse, a naked vault that rose high into the darkness, all cold corridors and decorous marble. There were no carpets, no paintings, not even chairs or tables, only stains and scratches on the stone to tell there ever were any. Golden candleholders clung lightless on the walls, replaced it seemed by fake-crystal fixtures that hummed with electricity.

There was a lift, but they ignored it and went up the stairs instead.

“I’ve been to mausoleums with more life than this,” said Tom.

She giggled. “He’s had to sell a lot of his family assets to renovate the shop. He could probably have them replaced by now, the last few years have been profitable. But I guess he prefers it like this. It’s just his way.”

They climbed the wide and stately stairs up and up and up, going past the first floor, and the second, and the third, and Tom began to wonder if the building was abandoned when a hollow noise came through. A steady murmur. A monologue.

They reached the fourth floor. She opened another door, the only one there between two naked walls, and they stepped into a vestibule.

It was a little livelier and richly decorated. Low red sofas lined the walls on either side, and a tall stove made of ceramic tiles was fixed into the corner. Bookshelves lined the walls, and busts of ladies in black marble were set against the corners.

In the centre, behind a tall imposing desk, sat a woman who nearly dwarfed it with her presence. She was flanked by stacks of papers and a telephone. Although her suit of blue and bronze was feminine in shape, Tom felt a bit emasculated. Her hair was pinned in a harsh style, slinked back and practical.

“Ciao, Berit! Come stai?”

“Bongiorno. Bene.”

“He’s still speaking?”

“Yes. You’re free to enter, silently.”

“I think we’ll wait here. Oh, by the way, this is Tom Riddle. Tom, this is Mrs. Berit Boveri, the Baron’s secretary.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Tom, staying where he was.

The woman was impressive, and he wondered briefly whether this Baron had hired her for security rather than for answering his letters.

“Please,” she said, extending a hand in a quick, precise movement, “sit down.”

She appraised Tom coolly, quickly, before turning her attention back to the newspaper before her. An orange the size of a child’s head was cut open on the desk beside her, filling the room with a fresh scent.

The pair of them sat down, and Tom turned his attention to the sounds coming from the room behind them. A man was speaking in a low and shaky drawl, droning in Italian about what sounded to Tom like the Malleus Maleficarum, a compendium on witchcraft and demonology written by a sadistic German inquisitor in the 15th century. The silence of his audience was heavy and intense, chairs groaning now and then beneath their anxious squirms and ink pens scratching eagerly on paper.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered to her after a sudden thought.

“What?” she whispered back.

“About the nero di seppia… I looked a perfect fool all night, didn’t I?”

She giggled. Tom frowned at her.

“I warned you not to order it.”

“Yes, but perhaps next time I’d like an indication as to why.”

She was going to say something else when the doors opened, and the Baron’s audience ambled their way out. The air buzzed with their excited murmurs, some laughing nervously, some crying.

The pair of them got up, ready to greet the Baron. Tom looked over the crowd as they filed out, a mixed group of all sorts of people, from students to the elderly.

“Where is he?” he asked.

“He’s coming over,” she said.

“Where? I can’t —” He was going to say he couldn’t see anyone else, but then he looked down.

The figure that approached them was far from what he had imagined. Although not diminutive in size, the white and wrinkly lump that came took Tom by surprise. He sat, like a deflated balloon, in a stout but polished wheelchair, and was rolling toward them.

“Hello, Baron,” she greeted with a little bow. “Thank you for seeing us today. This is —”

“Come to my office,” said the old man as he rolled right past them.

The room was golden-lit with deep and intimate colours, as natural as an autumn forest. There was something to look at everywhere. The walls were dense with paintings and photographs in black and brown of little groups of men. The chairs were wide, majestic things with crimson wings and cushions. The carpet was a floral red, the windows tall and gilded. A crystal chandelier hung overhead, low and opulent and gleaming, and from a cabinet on the side a set of golden spoons with handles like rose stems shone among fine china glasses shaped like gaping koi. It couldn’t be anything further from what Tom was used to.

The Baron’s desk was small and delicate, overburdened with ink wells and notes, a lone lamp hard at work between them.

“So, how are you?” the Baron asked them once they were alone.

“Very well,” she answered, smiling widely. “And you, Baron?”

“Fit as an ox on the field, and twice as strong,” he answered in an imposing voice. “Is this him?”

“Yes,” she said, her nervous gaze flitting to Tom. “Should I —”

“Thank you. You may go.”

She nodded and turned without another word to Tom, her eyes lingering on his for just a moment as if to wish good luck. He watched her as she left like a chastened child, then turned his attention back to the old man.

“Pleased to meet you, Baron,” he said with a light bow. “My name is Tom Riddle. At your service.”

The man rolled his way slowly from behind the table, his face set in a frown — or perhaps the rolls of skin were so heavy that it was his fixed expression. He’d clearly been corpulent once, but old age and disability drained him of his strength. He stopped in front of Tom, the wheels almost atop his shoes, and extended his hand — to shake? to kiss? Tom had never met muggle nobility before… Although he was looking at him from two feet below, the old still managed to look down his nose at him.

Tom squared his shoulders, took a breath, and shook the Baron’s hand.

“Julius Eugenio Victor Agarda,” he introduced himself. His grip was still quite strong. His mouth seemed flimsy beneath a sparse moustache, and he spoke with a slight lisp — unless Tom’s eyes deceived him, he was missing a few teeth — but his eyes, a clear blue, had a steady gleam to them. “How do you do?”

“I’m well, sir, thank you,” said Tom, finally getting his hand back. “I came about the books.”

“So I’ve heard.”

With a flourish, the Baron directed Tom’s attention to the right, where a pair of doors stood closed.

“Help me with those, will you?”

Tom looked at him, feeling a bit puzzled, but he maintained his air of calm. He steadied the messenger bag over his shoulder and bowed.

“Of course, sir,” he smiled.

The doors were delicate and white, with carvings on their edges like a frame. Tom grabbed the brass handles and pushed. Beyond them was a large and sunny room in the same style as the Baron’s office but much wider. Its centre was dominated by a dark brown table and its walls with books. The east of the room was all tall windows framed by a thin balcony, and beyond that was the street and the canals.

“My most precious possession. My private collection.”

Tom rolled the Baron through, but quickly let go of him to stroll along the bookshelves without waiting for an invitation. They held every kind of esoterica, from the Corpus Hermeticum to the Grimoire of Armadel. Archidoxis was there, as was De Umbris Idearum, a book Tom had not seen since his first year at Hogwarts.

Others were more recent books, like a cluster on Bacchanal arts written in the 19th century. There stood among them also a well-worn copy of the Metaphysics of Sex. Tom curled his nose at it and looked over his shoulder with disgust. Some books were held in chains, with locks connected to the bookcase, and others were held safe behind glass panes, bright lights in the darkness.

“Impressed?” asked the Baron from the doorway.

“A remarkable collection,” said Tom as he turned.

The old man rolled forward with a peculiar twist of his heavy brows that Tom suspected to be pride. He went to one shelf in particular and reached as high up as he could, carefully picking out a volume. It was bound in leather so aged it was completely black, its spine capped in silver fastenings.

“Look at this,” the Baron said.

Tom stepped forward and carefully lifted it from his hands.

“Michael Psellus, De Operation Daemonum,” Tom read. “Byzantine books on demonology are hard to come by. It must be worth a fortune.”

“Seventeenth-century edition,” he said, slipping right over Tom’s praises. “One of five copies. They survived hidden among the volumes of Psellus’ Mathematics. Only the most important families of the time had access to them.”

Tom smirked. With the Baron’s toothless mouth and his scraggly sparse hair, he didn’t cut a very noble figure. “I don’t suppose you inherited it.”

The Baron took the book from him and set it on his lap, his fat hands folded over it. “I might have,” he said measuredly. “My family traces its roots to the eleven hundreds.”

A mocking smile played on Tom’s lips. He hid it with a timely bow. He’d rather not tell the old man he could brag of the same through Salazar, and so instead he said, “I’m honoured, then, to be in your presence.” But he didn’t hide as well as he meant to.

“Don’t be obsequious,” said the Baron tersely.

Tom straightened and looked down at him, steadying the strap over his shoulder once again.

“I showed my collection to you to illustrate a point. I have some of the rarest editions in my collection, first. And second, there is nothing that I want that I cannot acquire. Now, you may attempt to barter with me.”

Tom regarded the old man coolly for a moment, then took the messenger bag off his shoulder and placed it on the table. The Baron, after that little speech meant to humble him, had nevertheless given himself away: he may have had a grand collection, but he was still willing to entertain a nobody, a stranger, an unknown, for a chance at something rarer. A small man with a big ego and an insatiable hunger, Tom thought, I am well familiar with his kind.

“Then let me show you what I’ve brought for you today,” he said, “and you’ll tell me if it meets with your approval.”

The Baron went to place the books back on its shelves, and by the time he turned back, Tom had lined them all along the table.

There were six books in total. First was the Liber de Lamiis et Phitonicis Mulieribus, a 15th-century manuscript on witches and demonic possession. Then, the Liber Belial,a medieval grimoire with an unknown author, highly sought after and obscure. He took out The Grimorium Verum, an illuminated copy of The Sworn Book of Honorius, the Codex Palatinus Germanicus, and finally the colourful Le Livre de la Vigne Nostre Seigneur.

The Baron approached, retrieving from his breast pocket a thin-rimmed monocle that he perched upon his nose. He looked down at the books while Tom waited a little to the side, one hand stuffed casually in his pocket.

He picked the first one up, his old hands trembling slightly, and opened it, spine cracking. He threw his eyes over the frontispiece, then peeled away the first few pages.

Tom waited patiently as the Baron looked through the second book, and the third, and not a word was said. He could only hope the illusions he had cast on them would hold. It was difficult to even tell what the old bastard was thinking.

When the Baron was done, he took the monocle off, and slowly rolled to face him.

“Remarkable,” he said, his fat plum lips aquiver. “What vitality in these images… And The Grimorium Verum in particular I have been hunting for years.Where did you find them?”

Tom breathed a sigh of relief and grinned. “I’m afraid that will have to remain one of their mysteries. So, I take it you are interested in a trade?”

“I am,” he grumbled, taking from his pocket the list of books Tom had provided, “but it can not go forward.”

Tom cocked a brow. “And why is that?”

The Baron rolled forward and past him, going back into his office. Tom frowned at him and packed the books again before he joined him. With one last longing look at the vast library, he turned and closed the doors behind him.

The Baron was back behind his desk, stuffing a black pipe with tobacco.

“I wish I could,” said the old man, “but I cannot afford it.”

“I’m sure we could —”

“No,” he said, “I do not mean fiscally. I mean ethically.”

Tom regarded him without blinking for a moment. He searched the Baron’s mind for truth and found only a nest of brambles. Too many ideas, conflicts and confusion, plans that stood to shatter at the lightest touch. How much was going on with his little bookshop? Was it to do with that ‘auction’ he’d heard about?

“I don’t see how ethics come into it.”

“Nor do I,” chuckled the Baron with a puff. “That’s the problem.”

He fixed his steely gaze on Tom, and then he understood. Distrust. The old man didn’t trust him.

“Ah,” Tom smiled, “that is a pity.” He bowed, the books tight by his side. “Thank you, nevertheless, for your time. I shall be in Rome for at least another month. If your ethics should change, I would be honoured to be invited to see you again.”

“Be sure I let those books leave my office with a heavy heart, Mr. Riddle.”

“Oh, I know, Baron,” he grinned. “But you might yet see them again. And me.”

#Tom Riddle #Tom Riddle x reader #Tom Riddle x OC #Tom Riddle fanfiction #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #sswallow;fanfics #sswallow;made a thing #fanfic;englishclient

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somethingclevermahogony · 16 days

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WIP Tour Tag!

Finally getting to this! Thank y'all for the tags @paeliae-occasionally, @illarian-rambling, @willtheweaver, and @topazadine!

For the sake of simplicity I'll be showing you around a single city, the Grand City by the Lake, Labisa.

(There is a 99.9999 chance that I missed at least one typo, please be forgiving haha)

Stop 1: The Serpent Road

You find yourself walking down a worn and dusty road, one which stretches far behind you, curling serpent-like through the forested hills, as well as farms and villages, eventually vanishing into the looming Red Cedar Mountains. At first glance you may believe it to be little more than a wide dirt path, but as you look closer you can see the faint outlines of cobblestones, laid in times long forgotten, their surfaces sanded down by centuries of feet, hooves, and wagon wheels. Other travellers surround you, many dressed in strange clothing, some are Kishite some come from far more distant lands. They have come to partake in the Festival of Humbalibal, Goddess of the Mountains. Performers draped in the skins of leopards and boars, dancers bedecked with bells and ribbons, and poets bearing harps and drums ply their trade. Over the excited chatter, they sing of great heroes and tragedies, of beautiful Hiru and sorrowful Lat. Through the people, on either side of you are steles, dozens of them, some as small as a child, others as large as a house, pillars of stone their surfaces carved and chiselled with decrees of kings and queens, living and dead. Gods and beasts glare down at you as you pass beneath their stony gaze. Woe the Thief, Woe the Murderer, Woe the Traitor they seem to whisper. Or perhaps the whispers come from the lips of the heads, their eyes plucked by birds, cheeks sunken, skewered upon the poles of pine wood which line the roadside, their crimes scrawled in black coal upon their foreheads. To your left glittering under the mid-day sun is Lake Shebali, its massive expanse seems to swallow the horizon. White-feathered shorebirds stalk black sand beaches and weave amongst reeds. Ships bob lazily at the docks, grandest among them is the royal barge, a floating palace, its two masts extend high into the air like two massive trees. Beyond the docks you can see the fishing village, humble buildings of mud and timber, racks where fish dry, and leather cures. Children run between the houses whooping and crying, waving sticks and dolls of hair and cloth above their heads. Neither you, nor your fellow travellers have the time to ponder as to their games.

Stop 2: The Outer Walls of Labisa: The Black Walls of Tamel and the Serpent Gate

This rural scene does not hold your attention for long, for now you have reached the walls of Labisa. They tower above you, their stony surface rising 70 ft, and almost as thick, each one of the tens of thousands of blocks is the size of a horse. The lowest stones are made from black basalt, dragged from the looming mountains. Above these are yellow limestone, the surface of the stones each lovingly carved with scenes of animals, forests, battles, gods, and spirits, most so worn by the ravages of time that are all but incomprehensible. One could spend a lifetime inspecting all the images. The upper most layer and the towers placed at regular intervals are made from snowy marble. Long ago these walls had been built by the demigods Tamel, Sadaric, and Mikrab alongside thousands of workers and artisans. These walls had been made to withstand all enemies from armies to dragons. No tree or shrub grows against the imposing stone, nature kept at bay by fire and bronze. Before you, rearing high above, are two gargantuan stone serpents, one is crooked, its snarling face cracked. Any of the excitable travellers will tell you that the story goes that it was Narul that cast down the serpent while fleeing from the city with the fugitive princess Ninma. How any one person could do this, you do not know. But now is not the time chat, you are approaching the gates. Doors of thick cedar, 30 ft tall, freshly painted, as blue as the sky, bolts, and rivets of bronze glimmering in the sun. Guards stand on either side, inspecting the wagons and carts as they pass through. They wear armor of bronze, scaled like dragonskin. Their tall helms are bedecked with red feathers. In their hands are gripped spears, shields of bronze and oak hang from their backs. They stand stern and proud, these are not the men of Hutbari, untrained and inattentive, these men serve Akard, King of Kings. As you reach the gates they look you over. After a thorough but quick glance, they beckon you inside.

Stop 3: The Grand Square and The Tomb of Tamel

You enter a grand square, larger than most villages. Tents and makeshift ovens have been placed around the square to feed the hungry people. Honey cakes, stretched flatbreads, snails, sausages, olives, wine, beer, fried fish, fruits, nuts, fried dough, cups of stewed beans, dozens of different choices, each with a hungry crowd jostling for the next spot in line. The smell of fried foods hangs heavy in the air. Surrounding the square are buildings, many are beer halls from which sounds of laughter and twangs of harps emanate. Still others are brothels, men and women hang from windows cooing and calling to passers-by.

Musicians blow on flutes and pound at drums, while men dressed in naught by ram's skin, their faces and bodies painted, dance their arms raised above their heads, their eyes rolling in their heads as if in a trance. Sages awe children and terrify adults with streams of fire and crackling electricity which arcs from their fingertips. Exotic animals pace in cages under the curious eyes of Kishite children. If you look closely among the crowd, you may notice hillfolk, short and broad, their thick fur and long arms easily distinguishing them from their human neighbors, or perhaps you might see the amethyst hair of an Ikopeshi, or rarer yet the great winged form of a kiriki, their feline bodies draped with beads of amber and bone.

Laborers are hard at work, constructing a massive stage at the center of the square, here is where priests from the Temple of Humbalibal will perform odes and songs in honor of the goddess. But it was what lies beyond that catches your attention. At first you assume you must be hallucinating, for it seems that somehow a mountain has sprung up here in the middle of a city, complete with lush forests and trilling birds. As you draw near, you can see marble steps among the greenery leading up to the summit, three hundred feet above you.

This is the Tomb of Tamel, built to house the bones of the founder of the city. What appears now as a massive mountain, is in actuality a tiered structure, composed of thousands of stones, concealing a burial chamber within. As is the tradition of the Kishites, the tomb has been covered by soil and planted with a lush garden, fed by manmade rivers, the water drawn up from underground sources. Entire orchards of fruit trees inhabit each rounded tier. Tamel alone has been given the honor of being buried in the city, the tombs of his successors dot a nearby mesa. While magnificent in their own right, none can match the grandeur of this tomb. Kishites pour bowls of crimson wine at the tomb's base, libations in dedication to the spirits said to guard the dead king's bones. A man approaches you, offering you a bowl for a small fee. However, as the crowd grows you are quickly forced to continue on with your exploration of the city.

Stop 4: The Temple of Humbalibal

The city is marked by three hills, aside from Tamel's Tomb. The first of these, which stands opposite to the square, is the Temple District. As you walk up with stone steps, statues of many armed gods and animalistic spirits dance on either side of you, freshly painted with vibrant shades of red, green, yellow, and blue. Dozens of temples flank the steps, some little more than huts, others grand structures of stone and wood. The smell of burning incense combines with the aroma of sacrificial fires and of the city below. The greatest temple lies before you, dedicated to the patron of the city, Humbalibal. The red doors are swung open to allow all entrance. Priests and priestesses, devotees of the Mountain Goddess, go about their work, some tending to the statues, others kneel, their heads bowed in reverence, hands raised with palms flat in silent prayer to the watching divinities. Their white robes swish as they walk, their horned headdresses click and rattle as they walk, adorned with pins in the shape of poppies. Also, among them are many of the city’s sages. They are recognizable by the ivory circlets rested upon their brows, traditionally sourced from the dwindling Kishite elephants of the southern cedar forests, though increasingly, the city’s ivory supply is reliant on the elephants of Namut.

The great statue of Humbalibal, sits within the eastern alcove. As with the other various statues and reliefs that fill the great altar room, Humbalibal is painted with garish colors, her skin the color of ice, her nude form draped in iridescent dragon skin. The muscles and veins in her four powerful arms have been carved with loving detail, as have been the curling ram horns which sprout from her jet hair. Her silvery eyes, creased with the cold fury of the avalanche, look down at the mortals milling around her feet. Opposite her in another alcove sits a simple wooden throne, it is from here that the king of the city listens to the concerns of his people. Between the throne and Humbalibal, sits the grand altar where sacrifices to the goddess are made. The flame there has burnt, uninterrupted since the days of Tamel. At that moment another one of the temple doors is opened and six cattle, five geese, four sheep, three pigs, two gazelles, and a lioness are guided into the temple, flanked by priestesses wielding knives of cruel obsidian. Rather than sticking around to see the sacrifices, you decide to travel on to the next part of the city.

Stop 5: The Markets

You descend one of the other staircases, winding back down into the city proper. You can see ships approaching on Lake Shebali, carrying yet more visitors to the already crowded city. To the north, hugging the Black Wall, you can see the so-called Lower City, named for its elevation rather than its position on the map. It is marked by many small, cramped hovels of mudbrick and straw, interconnected through various doors and halls to form a sort of hive. There is no such thing as a private home in the Lower City. A man could walk from one end of the district to the other without ever stepping onto the street. Peasants lie on their roofs, chatting, trading, and playing games of dice. There are fewer travellers there, for it is there the city's poorest live. There are no statues, the beer halls are puny, and the shops ill-supplied. Yet cramped and humbled as the lower city may be, you have heard stories of how it once looked under the reign of the previous king, Hutbari, crumbling and filthy. Under the reign of King Akard, no longer do children pick through piles of rubbish, no longer do disease and fleas run rampant, nowhere else in the city are the praises to Akard sang so loudly.

In front of you, to the south, can see the palatial hill, rearing high above the city, the Blue Walls, those that separate the hill and the palatial olive grove from the rest of the city. You decide to head in that direction to see the Palace for yourself, but first you must pass through the Market Districts. Called the 26 Streets, these form the economic and production backbone of the city. The streets are as follows: The Potter's Street, The Perfumer's Street, The Weaver's Street, The Butcher's Street, The Slaver's Street, The Bronzesmith's Street, The Coppersmith’s Street, The Carver's Street, the Brewer's Street, The Vintner's Street, The Jeweller's Street, The Plantbrew's Street, The Scribe's Street, the Ropemaker's Street, The Tanner's Street, The Spicer's Street, The Painter's Street, The Dyer's Street, The Stonemason's Street, The Fishmonger's Street, The Carpenter's Street, The Basket weaver’s Street, The Papermaker's Street, The Musicians’ Street, The Farmer’s Street, and the Candlemaker’s Street. Your path through towards the castle will take you through the first three: Potter's, Perfumer's, and Weaver's. You start with the Weaver's Street.

As with the Square, the market streets are bustling, crowds of people, mostly visitors, rush to gawk at and purchase bits and pieces of Labisian clothing. Garments of silk, linen, and wool of every color are waved by enthusiastic shop owners and hawkers seated in front of the flat-topped brick and wood buildings that function as store, workshop, and home. The shops are colourfully painted with blues, reds, and greens, in the hopes that their bright tones will draw in curious patrons. The pungent smell of dye lays over the distract like a blanket and the squeals and clicks of the looms and wheels fight to be heard over the many chattering voices.

You may have heard of the state of these streets thirteen years ago, when Hutbari and before him, his predecessors reigned. Then mounds of various kinds of filth had formed stinking barriers along the road. Human muck had clogged the streets, bodies of livestock, broken pottery, and every other imaginable pollutant rendering the market district and the surrounding city a stinking cesspit of disease. There were and are tunnels beneath the city, meant to carry waste out of the city. But these had been neglected for years, with monarch after monarch failing to delegate the duties of their upkeep. Upon taking the throne Akard and his new court had undergone a disgusting and arduous quest to see that the tunnels were returned to their former functionality, and the grime removed from the city. This was later derisively called, The Shit War. Methane gas, collapsed tunnels, and dark things living below the city made the endeavour a nightmare, one which claimed the lives of many guards and even a nobleman or two. And yet after 3 long years of constant work, the city was cleaner than it had been in the last 90 years.

This is not to say that the city is in anyway perfect. As you pass into the Perfumer's district The smell of dye is quickly overwhelmed by a headache-inducing melange of fragrances. Jugs and bottles of dozens of sizes, from the size of a child’s palm to the height of a grown man, line the street, images have been painted on their surface to advertise their contents. Perfume is of immense importance throughout the lands of the Green Sea, but especially in Kishetal. No person leaves their home without first scenting themselves, slaves are typically the only exception. Indeed, among some peoples like the Makurians and the Korithians, the Kishite people were thought of as feminine for their love of perfume, adornment, and their extravagant bathing practices, even the presence of public toilets was at times considered to be unduly opulent. As you look at the various decorated perfume bottles, a thought occurs to you. You recognize visitors from Korithia, Shabala, Makur, Ikopesh, Knosh, and beyond, but there is a group that is missing. Despite being one of the largest and most wealthy kingdoms you see no one from Apuna. Perhaps it’s not surprising, after all Labisa is currently war with Apuna.

At least that is what you think at first, until you look closer. There are Apunians here, slaves. They follow behind Kishite masters or else can be seen cleaning the streets and do other kinds of menial labor. Many are missing eyes, a hand, a thumb, or other parts. Kishite Palaces have a long and proud tradition of mutilation when it comes to their prisoners of war. You quickly avert your attention, but it lands on something else, the figure of a woman, sat in an alley, her knees tucked beneath her chin, her eyes hooded. At first you assume she is a beggar, though thus far they have been a rarity in this city, until you see the pustules. Her face and arms are covered in hundreds of angry red swellings, her teeth are chattering, her eyes vacant. Disease is an inescapable reality of living in a city, particularly one as massive as this. There are no hospitals or hospices, and in favor of the festival most of the temples have temporarily banished those being cared for there. And so, the ill gather here in the Perfume District, where the sweet smells may in some way cover the smell of pestilence.

In recent years Pyrian Fever become an increasingly dire problem throughout the domain of Akard. Though Kishites may not know what bacteria or viruses are, they have managed to identify where this particular outbreak originated from. As is often the case, war is a flashpoint for plague. Some of the same prisoner's war and slaves, you had previously noticed, brought the deadly disease with them. Now every slave is inspected for any signs of disease, but it is too late, they sickness is already here. You notice the plantbrews, medicine women, marching up and down the street, tending to the sick who huddle in alleys and under doorways. Some of the treatments seem to be working, certainly the disease seems less virulent than it has been in the past. Even still, you take note of the warnings scrawled on wooden boards. " Enun Nadolul Na Lumiga" "Do not touch the sick." You quickly decide to move on from the perfume district.

Soon enough the smell of rose and cinnamon declines, replaced by the earthy scent of clay and the sharp tang of kiln smoke. Potters line the streets, hawking their wares, hands stained with the rich red brown of freshly fired earth ang glaze. From tiny, ornate perfume bottles to massive pithoi, many of which you recognize from the previous district. The pots, jugs, and jars are adorned with intricate designs, some depicting scenes of daily life, others abstract patterns that seemed to dance around the curves of the vessels, still others are unglazed, fiery orange or ashy grey. A group of Korithians, immediately recognizable by their short colourful kilts and their long-braided hair, are gathered around one such shop, gawking at the erotic imagery that adorns those particular bowls and plates. You stop to look for yourself, though you quickly find that the going price is far too high for your tastes.

As you leave the Market Districts and approach the Palatial Hill, you enter the area where many of the richer families dwell, minor nobility, and wealthy merchants. Here too are the grand estates were visiting dignitaries stay. Buildings of stone and cedar wood, one, two or even three stories tall. Their surfaces painted and carved with stylized frescos of nature and festivity, curling palms, and leaping gazelles alongside bell-adorned dancers.

Kishite nobles, lounging in front of their homes, sipping wine, and eating dates and olives can be seen dressed in expensive clothing, their hair bedecked with many beads, ribbons, and rings, their necks and wrists choked with chains, collars, and baubles. Their robes are made from silk and soft linen, purple, red, and saffron yellow, their hair and beards are slicked with scented perfumes. Some wear capes and cloaks of lion and leopard fur.

The Kiriki Gates now stand before you.

Stop 6: The Palatial Hill

The Blue Wall separates the Palatial Hill from the rest of the city, while considerably smaller than the Black Wall, at only 32ft in height, it is no less magnificent. The wall itself is made from limestone. Unlike the carved surface of the Black Wall, the stones of the Blue Wall have been sanded and smoothed until it almost seems to sparkle in the afternoon sun. Even the cracks and gaps between the stones have been filled in to create a uniform surface. It is named for the upper most layer of stones, each one painted with a mixture of cobalt and copper to produce a vibrant blue. The only break is the Kiriki Gate, named for the two massive guardians which stand at either side, stone statues of Kiriki, each larger than an elephant. Kiriki are bull-horned and winged lions with the human-like faces. They are culture is secretive, their language indecipherable to most humans, yet they are seen on occasion, you had even seen earlier at this very festival.

While the statues are immobile, the same cannot be said of the guards, eight of the, standing on either side of the open cedar doors. They carry spears and axes, and massive shields in the shape of hourglasses. As you approach one of the guard's holds out his hand. You place a small tablet, no larger than a postage stamp in his palm. Carved on its surface in miniscule writing is a number of Kishite glyphs. This tablet acts as your permission to enter the palatial grounds. After a minute he nods and steps back. He does not return the tablet, this particular privilege is only being afforded, once.

You walk through the gates, head respectfully bowed. It is as if you had just been transported miles away to the countryside. An olive grove stands around you, gnarled trunks twisting and turning. Many of these trees have been here for hundreds of years since the time of Tamel and his children. Currently the workers and caretakers are lounging by ponds and pools, a handful are pruning and attending to the trees, but overall, with the harvest still being months away, the Palatial Olive Grove is tranquil. A few of the laborers wave as you pass by. Stags, gazelle, pheasants, and other peaceful creatures roam through the rows of trees, their presence meant to simulate a rural farm or hillside orchard. A gazelle approaches you, hoping for handouts, upon finding none it goes back to nibbling at the grass.

You spot a small stone shrine tucked among one particularly thick grouping of olive trees, you are not sure which god it is meant to honor, for there are no markings on the alter. Before the shrine is a ring of stones placed on the ground. You immediately recognize this structure as one of those in which Kishite dead are placed, allowing their flesh to be reclaimed by nature before their bones are buried or placed in tombs. However, this particular ring has never held a corpse, rather this ring is used as part of the naming ceremony performed on Noble Kishite children upon reaching the age of 4. The child is made to sleep here, and upon awakening, they symbolically rise up from their "old life".

Beyond the olive grove you enter an area filled with fig, pomegranate, regalu, and quince trees. You even spot a peach tree, still a rarity this far west. Myrtle and laurel trees also make an appearance, their trunks seemingly wrapped in grape vines. The fragrance of these trees mingles with the dry scent of earth and old wood. A few more workers, dressed in simple linen wraps, tend to the trees, and prune the vines, their movements slow and deliberate.

You spot a number of terraces built into the hill side; great blocks of limestone topped with soil. Here is where the king's plantbrews grow their stock, exotic berries, tubers, and flowers.

The ground is crisscrossed by stone pathways, like the one that you are walking on, however it seems that most of the laborers choose to ignore these, instead walking over grass and roots.

The White Wall waits before you.

Stop 7: The Palace

The last and smallest of Labisa's three great walls, at only 24ft is The White Wall, which separates the palatial complex from the rest of the hill. In similar fashion to the Black Wall, the White Wall is made from massive blocks of stone rather than many smaller bricks like the Blue Wall, the lintel above the king's gate is the single heaviest stone in all three of the walls, at nearly 20 tons. The White Wall is the only one with stones that were not quarried in Kishetal, rather its stones were sourced from the original homeland of Tamel and his followers, Shabala. Each massive stone was transported by ship, barge, and finally by rope and manpower over hundreds of miles to the top of the hill, thus while the wall itself may be the smallest, its construction was arguably the most expensive. At first glance you might be confused as to why it is called the White Wall, the stone used is a pale grey, distinctly not white. The name comes from a thin layer of marble tiles that once covered the entirety of the wall, placed there by Tamel the Second, the last monarch of his namesake's line and the last king of a united Kishite kingdom. The tiles cut from the ruins of Arkodian temples, their capture viewed as the symbolic end of the war that had ravaged both Kishetal and Arkodai for decades, the single most destructive war in the recorded history of the Green Sea.

The tiles were stuck to the walls, with the plans for the white marble to be painted not only with images of the valiant heroes of Kishetal, but also those of Arkodai, their faces meant to stand guard over the palace as a memorial of the terrible war. After the last of the tiles had been placed but before the first of the paint could be applied, Tamel the Second was assassinated by his own son, Kerim. United Kishetal died with Tamel. Kerim cancelled the plans to paint the walls.

After Kerim was himself, killed by his younger brother, Farut, the tiles were taken ripped down and instead used to decorate the tomb of Tamel the Second. If one were to venture to the mesa where the royal tombs sit, the tomb of Tamel the Second would be easily identifiable by the snowy white Arkodian marble which still peaks from under the greenery.

The King's Gate is surprisingly plain, there are no great guardians looking over you as you pass under the massive lintel. The eyes of the guards burn into you as you pass, though they do not stop you.

The main palace along with the other palatial buildings function as a miniature city of sorts. The royal residence, a temple, storage buildings, a smithy, a pottery workshop, several workshops reserved for the palace weavers, two different sets of kitchens (and several massive outdoor ovens), the slave quarters, the bathhouse, and the stables are all contained within the White Wall, forming a large palatial citadel dotted with oleander, chestnut, and beech trees. The nobility and their guests who visit palace bathed in the grand bathhouse which stands directly beside the palace, constructed from polished granite, built atop an ancient spring, its interior is decorated with exotic plants and birds, carvings of dancing gods and heroes adorn the walls, and steam curls constantly from its high-set windows. Three similar though decidedly less extravagant baths can be found in the lower city, open to the people of Labisa. The palatial slaves make do with a large pond which lay at the edge of the courtyard.

The palace stands like a fortress atop the rugged hill, its thick stone walls towering above, as imposing as the demigod Tamel the First, who both ordered and assisted in its construction. Built from massive limestone blocks and mudbrick, it seems to have risen from the earth itself, sturdy and timeless. At six stories tall, it is the highest structure in all Labisa, save for the Tomb of Tamel. The outer walls are fortified with battlements and defensive towers, making the palace not just a seat of power but a stronghold overseeing the sprawling city below. Black soot still scars the walls, a grim reminder of Barunaki's brutal raid during Akard’s coup, when soldiers snuck in, murdered Hutbari’s children, and accidentally set the ancient structure ablaze. Only heroic effort saved the palace from complete destruction.

As you pass through the massive stone gate, you enter beneath an arch adorned with reliefs of lions, leopards, and horned men. Inside, the vast central courtyard opens before you, its stone floors smooth from centuries of footsteps. This space, often the site of ceremonies and rituals, is now empty—the king is far to the south. Yet, the palace is far from abandoned; at least two hundred nobles, along with their servants and slaves, occupy its thousand rooms, overseeing its care and performing sacred rites.

The halls are vast and labyrinthine, easy to get lost in. The lofty ceilings are supported by cedar beams and painted columns, every surface intricately adorned. Walls, pillars, ceilings, and even floors are decorated with colorful cloth, carvings, and frescoes. The murals depict royal processions, epic battles, dragons, divine figures, and tales from the Age of Glass and Metal, drawn from "Ti Jali Chasma," the Great History. You pause to admire a fantastical depiction of an ancient city, its twisting, impossibly shaped buildings a testament to the imagination of the artisans. Peeking into some rooms, you find many to be storage spaces, filled with pithoi and vessels holding oil and grain. One door nearly costs you your head, as the Chief of Wine glares at you with a spear in hand, clearly protective of his charge. Hastily, you move on, climbing stone stairs worn smooth from use, the center dipped from countless feet. Banquet halls line the next level, each filled with ornately carved furniture inlaid with pearl and ivory. Large hearths and massive braziers warm the rooms, the scent of smoke and wood blending with resin, stale perfumes, and the earthy smell of stone. Light filters through narrow windows, casting sharp contrasts of shadow and brightness across the floors. As you ascend further, you pass thick wooden doors fitted with bronze, marking private chambers—most are closed, and you wisely choose not to linger. The throne room is at the heart of the palace, both intimate and imposing. A raised platform holds a richly adorned stone throne, carved from black rock streaked with gold. Frescoes and tapestries line the walls, depicting heroic figures battling savage beasts. High above, barely visible, are the words of long-dead kings carved into the ceiling, some written in dialects so ancient only a handful of scholars can decipher them. At the back of the room are doors leading to upper floors, reserved for the royal family and palace sages. As you approach, a guard blocks your path, his stern expression and sharp spear making it clear that your tour ends here. As you leave the palace, the painted eyes follow you. Descending the palatial hill along with stern guard, you are guided back towards the bustling city. Somehow in your brief time away, the streets have become even more hectic, alive with color and activity. With the festival’s opening drawing near, you ponder your options for the time being. You could choose to explore the vibrant market districts, engage with the locals, or simply enjoy the lively atmosphere, the city offers a myriad of experiences. Perhaps if you can find a good beerhall or city corner, you may just be able to hear one of the many tales of Princess Ninma and the giant Narul. Regardless, the festival promises to be a grand affair, the likes of which no other city in the region can match.

I hope that you enjoyed your tour!

Tagging @kaylinalexanderbooks, @melpomene-grey, @mk-writes-stuff, @elizaellwrites, @unrepentantcheeseaddict

Also gonna go ahead and leave this one open

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