#but hey were done now and i can work on the odile piece.

[bengallemon]

Polished kagedaze frame piece number one! I have realised that working in greyscale and only one colour is incredibly fun.

If you're like me and know exactly which moment in the pv this is, alongside music and lyrics, you may be entitled to financial compensation.

[aelixandra]

Dreaming On Your Feet: Chapter 18

Read on Ao3!

Summary: Aelin Galathynius is one of the newest company members of the Rifthold Ballet Theatre, and she is eager to make all of her dreams a reality. She has the talent, the ambition, the walls no one can get past, and the thick skin that no one can get under. Except for new principal dancer Rowan Whitethorn. He’s arrogant, talented, and infuriating - and they just might have more in common than they think.

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Chapter 18: Two Waltzes

It was the second week of the Nutcracker run, and Aelin was loving every second of it.

It was a bit chaotic, since the cast was so large, but it was the kind of chaos she relished. Dancers scrambling to get to their places, the orchestra tuning up, the steady murmur of the audience before the curtain, last-minute costume fixes, extra pins in hairpieces for good measure.

Then, when the curtain rose and the lights warmed the stage . . . she was free.

Aelin was stretching in her dressing room, her hair and makeup already done as the beginning notes of the overture came over the backstage audio monitors.

Suddenly, the door to her dressing room opened, and Amren appeared, wearing her headset and her backstage black outfit. Her usually calm, cool grey eyes were now filled with worry.

“Amren, what is it?” Aelin asked, her heart suddenly pounding.

“Do you know the Snow Queen choreography?”

Her heart pounded harder, already knowing where this conversation was going. “Yes, I do.”

“I need you to go on tonight.”

While her emotions whirled in protest, her head immediately knew what this was.

An opportunity.

So she didn’t ask questions.

Instead, she stood up from her yoga mat and nodded.

“Where would I find a costume?”

----------

When he was in Doranelle, Nutcracker was just another performance for Rowan. Another part of the routine, something else on his to-do list. The last hurdle before the holiday break.

But this time, with the Rifthold company – it was different.

In the best ways.

Here in Rifthold, Nutcracker was important. It wasn’t a community obligation, it was valued. Rehearsals were just as intense as they had been for Giselle, even with the children of the company school involved. But everyone was smiling, lost in the joyful chaos.

Rowan stood in the hallway at one of the barres to finish his warmup, dressed in a deep green track jacket and a pair of black sweats over the tights of his costume. He heard the music of the battle scene wafting over the monitors, letting him know he still had a bit of time before he had to get his Dewdrop Cavalier tunic on.

Even as he thought the word “Dewdrop,” her smile flashed through his mind –

As the battle scene music came to its end, Rowan found himself wandering down the hallway to the backstage area. It had been a few nights since he had watched the snow scene, one of his favorites in the entire ballet, so he might as well take the time to watch it tonight. As he rounded the corner to backstage, Amren was just getting back to her stage manager podium. Where was she? he wondered. It wasn’t like Amren to leave her post; she was the most dedicated, focused stage manager he had ever worked with – and sometimes, he had to admit, she was a little frightening.

If she had left backstage, something must have happened. And it wasn’t good.

Rowan began to scan the wings, looking for anything amiss, for any signs of panic or anything that stood out from the usual chaos.

As he looked around, the Snowflake corps de ballet began to make their way past him, their sparkling white and blue knee-length tutus looking light and airy. Nothing seemed unusual, but there was a tenseness to the atmosphere that hadn’t been there the entire run. As the Snow music began, Rowan scanned the dancers, but everything looked fine. They were all smiles, their costumes glittering under the stage lights as they danced.

Then the Snowflakes scattered offstage, making way for the Snow Queen’s entrance.

And enter she did, her tutu and crown shining as brilliantly as the cool, calm joy in her turquoise eyes.

He had to stop his jaw from hitting the floor.

Gods above, it was Aelin.

She was a living snowflake, whirling across the stage with a speed and precision that reminded him of her Odile variation those months ago, a playful smile on her lips.

She had gotten even better without him even noticing.

Before she left the stage again, Rowan hid himself around the corner from Amren’s spot, thankful he was wearing dark colors. He wanted to watch Aelin in her element – and she was certainly in her element right now.

Before he knew it, the snow scene was almost over, which meant that the paper snow had begun to fall from the catwalks above the stage. And dancing in the snow, Aelin looked even more beautiful.

His chest swelled with pride as the curtain came down.

He snuck out of the backstage area quickly and quietly back to his dressing room to get his tunic on, but he joined in the applause that echoed in the hall on his way.

----------

“What the hell just happened?” Aelin said to Lysandra as they made their way back to change for Act II.

“You were gorgeous, that’s what!” Lysandra said, taking the bobby pins out of her Snowflake headpiece. “Do you know what happened to the original understudy?”

Aelin shook her head. “Amren didn’t say. She just asked if I knew it, I said yes, and here we are.”

“And . . . how did it feel?”

“Honestly?” They were back in the dressing room now, and Aelin turned around to let Lysandra undo the hooks and eyes on her tutu. “It felt amazing.”

“I saw Aedion and Dorian watching, but I didn’t see Rowan.”

Aelin hid the slight disappointment from her voice. “Oh.”

“I bet he would have been proud though.”

Aelin smiled to herself, even though something like that shouldn’t matter.

But she knew that he would have been proud of her – so it mattered.

* * *

Aelin made it onstage with a few minutes to spare to warm up, dressed in her short, pale blue Dewdrop dress and headpiece. She found Rowan already there, doing a few warmup jumps. She let herself admire the way he looked in his matching blue tunic before approaching him.

He turned to see her there. “Hey,” he said with a smile. “How do you feel today?”

She decided not to say anything about doing Snow Queen. “Really good, actually. I’m ready.”

He chuckled. “You always are.”

Aelin felt the slightest blush rise to her cheeks, and she was grateful that her stage makup hid it. “What do you need to practice?”

He thought for a moment. “Let’s just do the pirouette sequence into the lift?”

Aelin nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

She made her way to her starting position, careful not to get in any other dancers’ ways. She did her piqué turns and double stepovers, the last of which ended right in front of Rowan. His hands caught her hips on her last turn, adding more rotations. Finally, when she stopped, they pliéd together before Rowan lifted her straight above his head, turning around as he did.

Perfect.

Had it ever been anything less when she danced with him?

He set her down gently, carefully. “How was that?”

She smiled. “Great as always.”

He smiled back, and her heart flipped. Stop that, she told herself. “Anything else you need from me?” he asked.

If only I knew the answer to that question. “I’m good if you are,” she replied.

“Places!” Amren called from the wings. “Places for the top of Act II!”

“You ready?” Aelin whispered to Rowan as they made their way offstage.

“Of course,” he said. Then his green eyes grew mischievous. “But let’s be honest: when I’m with you, Aelin, I don’t really have a choice but to be ready, do I?”

With a quiet laugh, Aelin nudged him with her elbow. “You never had a choice to begin with.”

* * *

Everything was going perfectly.

As always – when she was with Rowan.

She spun, and he was there.

She leapt, and he tossed her higher, always there to catch her.

So she let herself dance freely, uninhibited and unafraid – because she wasn’t alone.

As they approached the end of Waltz of the Flowers, she came out of a soutenou into Rowan’s waiting arms. As he dipped her to the side, she heard his voice, quiet so only she could hear.

“You make a beautiful Snow Queen,” he whispered.

She felt her eyes go wide.

He had watched her after all.

He saw her.

She blinked back the burning in her eyes as she did the last balancés with the rest of the Flower corps, ending the piece in an arabesque with one arm around Rowan’s shoulder.

He smiled at her softly, again speakly quietly as the audience applauded.

“But you make an even more beautiful Dewdrop.”

----------

Lysandra stood next to Aedion in the wings, the two of them already dressed in their Spanish costumes for the finale. They were watching Flowers – or more accurately, Aelin and Rowan.

She had never seen two people dance together like they did.

They trusted each other so completely, and because of that, they were able to dance without restraint. She could have sworn that they even breathed the same when they were together.

She wondered –

“New Year’s,” Aedion whispered, yanking her from her thoughts. “They’ll be together by then.” So he saw it, too.

Lysandra shook her head. “I think she’s scared,” she said just as quietly. “She doesn’t want to have someone in her life only for him to disappear.”

Dorian appeared beside them, clad in his Candy Cane costume with his hoop slung over his shoulder. “He’s scared, too,” he said. “I think he doesn’t feel worthy of her or something. The whole thing with Lyria must have completely shattered him.”

“Don’t you remember how Aelin has been for the past two years?” Lysandra asked. “It destroyed her.” She looked back onstage, watching Rowan toss Aelin into the air before catching her effortlessly. “But look at them now. They’re healing, and they’re healing each other.”

Aedion looked at them, too. Two broken pieces that fit together so perfectly. He shrugged. “Well, ten bucks it happens by the spring show.”

Lysandra and Dorian both looked at him quizzically. “What’s the spring show?” Dorian asked. “It hasn’t been announced yet.”

“It’s going to be announced at the closing night party,” Aedion said. “But I got to talking with Eudora the other day, and she told me what it is. And if I tell you, you guys can’t tell anyone until then. Not even Aelin and Rowan.”

When he didn’t continue, Lysandra hissed, “So what is the spring show?”

Aedion’s lips twitched into a mischievous grin as his gaze drifted back to Dewdrop and her Cavalier. He dropped his voice barely above a whisper.

“Romeo and Juliet.”

[theygavedvaananimatedshort]

Lore Compilation - Hero: Widowmaker

This post is the 22nd [Tanks | Bastion | Doomfist | Genji | Hanzo | Junkrat | McCree | Mei | Pharah | Reaper | Soldier:76 | Sombra | Symmetra | Torbjörn | Tracer] in a project I’m carrying out to compile all the lore on every individual hero, scattered through the various pieces of media we’re provided with. While I’m sure many people already know all of this, it’s intended to be a good starting point for people who don’t, and a good reference point to those who do. This post will include links to official media, screenshots and descriptions of voice lines.

This post will not include sprays, nor any kind of analysis, speculation or theories. However, it is important to note that every piece of media is being given to us through the perspective of an unreliable narrator, so while the material is canon, it may not be the truth of the situation.

(Rest under the cut.)

Hero Bio:

https://playoverwatch.com/en-us/heroes/widowmaker/

Origin Story:

Despite not having her own, Widowmaker features in Ana’s and makes a cameo appearance in Sombra’s and Sigma’s.

Cinematic Appearances:

Widowmaker stars in Alive and is featured in the cinematic trailer and Infiltration. 

Comics:

Widowmaker is featured in Masquerade, Legacy and The Return of Junkenstein. She makes cameo appearances in Searching and Reflections.

[above: Widowmaker’s photo in Searching.]

[above: Widowmaker’s cameo in Reflections.]

Short Stories:

Widowmaker is mentioned in the short story Bastet.

Skins:

Widowmaker has three (3) skins with bios: Odette, Odile and Comtesse.

Odette/Odile: For much of her life, Amélie Lacroix was better known as an accomplished ballet dancer in Paris.

Comtesse: The historical motto of the Guillard family was, “Chasseurs Toujours”.

Maps:

Widowmaker’s home map is Château Guillard, where the player can find many of her possesions. This includes her gun and a case for it, her laptop, a photo of herself and her husband, and some files and a plane ticket on her desk.

[above: Widowmaker’s desk.]

[above: A wedding photo of Widowmaker and her husband.]

[above: Widowmaker’s laptop with her emails open. Also on her desk is a newspaper, classified folders and a plane ticket.]

[above: Her gun and gun case.]

Additionally, on King’s Row, there is a shrine to Mondatta where she killed him.

[above: A photo of Mondatta with some candels and incense on King’s Row.]

She also has pregame interactions on the maps below:

King’s Row: "Ah, the site of one of my finest kills. That day, I felt alive."

Numbani:"I am not leaving without that gauntlet." | "I will have that gauntlet."

Volskaya Industries/Nepal/other cold maps: "I don't even feel the cold."”I still don’t feel the cold.” (Côte d’ Azur)

Ilios: “Hmm..I remember an eventful vacation here.”

Using the telescope on Horizon Lunar Colony: [scoffs] A bit more powerful than my scope."

Voiceline Interactions:

Ana:

Ana: Gérard was a fool to love someone like you. Widowmaker: You don't know anything about him.

Widowmaker: You were once a legend, but what are you now? Just a shell of a woman. Ana: I take it you don't want my autograph, then?

Ana: It seems I was wrong about you, Amélie Widowmaker: I thought you’d have gotten used to that feeling by now.

D.Va:

Widowmaker: This is no place for children. D.Va: Who are you calling a child? /  Hey! I’m no ankle biter! (Cruiser skin)

Doomfist:

Doomfist: Watch my back out there, Lacroix. Widowmaker: Tell me what needs to be done, and I will do it.

Hanzo:

Hanzo: I would take my bow against your rifle any day. Widowmaker: That would be the last mistake you ever made.

Widowmaker: Talon could restore your family's empire. Hanzo: But at what cost?

Moira:

Moira: How do you feel Lacroix? Widowmaker: I don’t feel. That’s the point, isn’t it?

Reaper:

Reaper: Looks like we're working together again. Widowmaker: Let's hope it goes better than the time at the museum.

Sombra:

Sombra: Ah, my favorite spider. I wonder what sort of web you're spinning now. Widowmaker: It'd be a shame if something happened to you on our next mission. A real pity.

Tracer:

Tracer: What'cha looking at? Widowmaker: An annoyance.

Widowmaker: Tiens, tiens. It looks like we will be working together. Tracer: Don't think I'm happy about that.

Widowmaker: So predictable. Even if you reverse time you always make the same decisions. Tracer: Don't be so sure about that.

Widowmaker: Does it bother you? Knowing that you could have saved Mondatta’s life? Tracer: We are all responsible for the choices we’ve made.

That’s all for now! If there’s anything that you know I missed, please let me know and I’ll add it. If anything new is added to the game, I’ll be sure to edit accordingly.

[acentrpg-blog]

Whoa! Did you see Bang Seongjae, the ACEnt vocal coach? He’s 28 years old and looks a lot like Jung Daehyun. I look forward to seeing more of his work in the near future.

Barre!

  A prodigy, they called her. Talented youth untainted by the sly villainous vices of adulthood as lithe legs clad in baby pink hosiery were raised above mahogany tresses, luscious curve of the spine and—voila!— a asɑ̃ble perfectly executed. The duplet successions of clapping came from her Mistress draw nigh a pirouette whilst the danseur’s folded arms ended with welcoming hands for Arabesque penché; the golden laced corset scruffed against calloused fingers yet their legs remained ramrod straight, dainty facials and hooded gazes. Thirteen hours of lumbering through practice, numbing fingers tightly grasping the horizontal wooden bar that had bore witness even to the most refined ballet dancers; blood, sweat and tears; all for a meek sixty minutes, three thousand six hundred seconds worth of a program in which they would hardly shine on stage. Avaunt, she would pursue Mount Olympus dauntlessly; bended her back further until small hands and slender fingers grasped trembling ankles, limbered silhouette to pivot into a grand emboîté more than the courant tutelage. All in the name of love.    Fouetté en tournant en dehors; thus began the turn by having her supporting leg in plié. As the reinforce foot segue to demi-pointe or pointe, in an en dehors turn, her working leg extended forward and then whipped around to À la seconde whilst the working foot returned to the supporting knee in retiré, procuring the impetus to rotate one turn. The working leg retracted out of retiré nearing the end of a mono rotation to recommence the entire leg motion for successive rotations; that’s it child, dense velvet curtains unfurling to exhibit thy prodigy, mother, for thee who hadst giveth most wondrous supporteth; for thee to gaze upon thy daughter’s falleth; wast love the lady hadst hath found, or wast defeat the lady hadst grasped?  Perhaps, all in the name of love.

Temps Développé Devant!

   In the midst of a wonted winter, whilst others cow herded into cozy cafes to luxuriate in Yuletide themed beverages, her indoctrinated stoicism clung to enervated quadrupeds; adamantine pertinacity unrivaled by others. Those trophies gobbling up spaces from numerous, lined up shelves, Helios blessed aurum laurel hung on the walls of their evening tea room in an eloquent muted speech of plaudits whenever her mother’s friends approached their household for diluted mannerisms to attempt a ride on her coattail. Pearls and puissant derogatory were further paramount to the absence of this child that this elitist socialite had matrixed through acute scrupulousness. An indomitable ringing sung falsehood; banging against the tender resistance of eardrums by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake; are you Odette basking in moonlit crystalline drops or are you Odile whom frolicked amongst the sneering foes? Albeit, all in the name of love?        Laden with fatigue yet her trepidation silhouette bounced off the mirrors in tragic mirage for heroism, did you not hear the fleeting bellows of perseverance, child? Did you not feel pieces of your bones shrink from its commodious compeneer? A staccato in former articulate rhythm, the buckling of knees accompanied the holistic execution of pizzicatos and tremolos in maturity alike to shattering of one’s whimsical fancies; can you hear the perished pride of yours? Can you hear it now, child? Ragged breathing, dulled senses; tendrils of compensation bid against blistering cobwebs of demise. How much folly shalt thou display! Relish in the dubiety screeching blasting from the mother’s rotten abyss of a mouth, sense the nihilism grasp this child had around her demoralized limbs, shan’t you come and snicker with me?                      A  l l     in   t    he   n    a   m e    of… l o v e!

Côté, de Avec Cou de Pied!

   The pallid complexion disfigured her mother’s beauty of a fair maiden’s quality. Three winters have passed since the consequential incident, the family’s doctor had dished out his ultimatum with unequivocally not even an inch for rejection on their behalf. Her bones had succumbed to fatigue, unable to support the extended hours of practice; swelled, deteriorated before finally crumbling bit by bit. Exuberance, despondency, audacity; all of it formed a lethal amalgam of a whirlpool that swirled with malevolent intents. The child was finally free, knuckled extremities combed through pinguid locks left unruly, lack of care gave prominence to diamond sculpted jawline as well as rubidant apples rested atop the high of her sunken cheeks. But what about all of the time she had spent on centre practice, finding the linear alignment for an unbeatable arabesque, perfecting the grace for a potent Croisé, endured painful snaps of leather crop against tender epidermis for the epitome of a Grande Jeté? Nothing else howled jocosity as refined as her current predicament did, anxiety coupled with a higher dosage of Estazolam purged the vile and bile to gush through rippling muscles of her esophagus, darkened nails clawed against sanguine tinted thighs where the skin missed over the absence of time to heal.     Duplet blades ominously glinted beneath harsh condescension of neon filled cylindrical bulbs, a sneer carved across disdained countenance whilst coarsened fingers lifted strands of hair with much carelessness. Thorax expanded in dubiety yet it appeared in such a way that her hand conceived an intellect of its own. For a moment in time, silence held reigns over the ambiance in which solely the sounds of snapping cutting through fine tresses could be discerned when trapped inside the four concrete barriers of her modest bathroom. Somewhere far in the distance, she could hear her mother’s squawk of stupefaction but hey, all in the name of love, no?

Les Tours Chaînés Déboulés!

    Inadequate against the overwhelming urge to bask in an over spilling instant of triumph, she— a shake of head in amusement, /he/ let the bouts of jaundiced laughter to spill forth from his chapped tiers, no gloss, no lip balms, void of chemically deviced and chemically proven mystique technique to colour one’s skin. Unadulterated pleasure cascaded from deep within his core, a bird no more he was, despite the abhorrent slaps that rained down upon his developing body from the mother whom he once attempted to appease or falleth to damnation, Seongjae couldn’t contain his exhilaration towards her reaction to the self-pioneering he had made throughout his visit to China, visited a father he once thought was estranged yet had embraced him with warmth and drowned him in paternal love. A raise of the eyebrow when the father witnessed his only child vacant of a single thread; peculiarly pressing fingers that dipped into soft duo of metamorphosing muscles and fats. Unbridled sentiments gushed from the brute bruising on Seongjae’s derma, it could have been a repetition of the Battle of Pharsalus if they had a third party; deep-sixed requirement for weapons, their edge cutting war of the words would have sliced through the thickest of marble, even coerced fiercest warriors to their knees.    His mother was nauseated at the sight of a concoction that ranged from short hair dyed a rustic shade, no longer prodigious nimble physique swimming in male’s clothing, an absolute abomination to her! Seongjae bathed in the euphoria, paid negative a hundred even when the circumstances peaked to the soap opera worthy scene of having their residential servants prying the now mother-and-son duo apart, their hold on him laxed for he bore no resistance unless they inquired manic laughing spree as hazardous. Oh the joy! He flaunted throughout the prison once known as home, executed a dramatic bow at the gates before turning around never to look back as he dashed into the future.

Tour En L'air!

   Joining the national defense force had been a turmoil of expletives as well as general repugnant towards noisome comport of one too many selves. In a trial to reenact the galactic scathing influence betwixt Saturn and Mars, his insufferable colleagues misgendered him in multitude ways, undeniably puerile, of course. Indefatigable resolution brimmed the alphabets that formed his meticulously worded sentences, he was naught but pertinacious resistance to hindrances. Neverending streaks of display for tenacity, Seongjae authentically experienced joie de vivre; may it be a storm or a drought, he persevered through, ravenous for supremacy with unrivaled lust in heed of conquest. As though performing underneath austere stage lights, poised for a hortensia back at the age of ambitious six; he ruffled throughout the whole training area with undivided obstinacy, assembled and disassembled an array of weaponry in the clear  absence of hardship. Bandaged hands firmly grasped the belief of bawling more tears, shedding more sweat and oozed more blood, amber eyes illuminated the darkness ferociously as it were he was in hybrid form, keen claws and keener gaze; bearing his fangs to gluttonously maul, imbibing deterrents like a starved beastial embodiment.

   Was it fear? Or was it done under the forsaken moniker of malign governance? Sleep had claws in his world, deleterious scorching on the other side of tightly shut eyelids as might be it was the cattle’s branding, fluttering bright awake whilst coercing chattering jaws to gape like a devouring abyss. Specks of ember licked along the fringe of jagged pink sierra in conjunction with reparative brawn to attenuate his perturbation. Sleep would scratch against marked skin blossoming with demented bouquets procured from wilted Morning Glory’s, littered by vicious Orchids. Forged iron blazed on his skin for he was wrong, wrong, wrong. Once more, silence engulfed adulterated senses, thrashed into limbo he was.

Rond de Jambe à Terre!

    Twin rivulets streamed along the petrified curvature of his countenance. Vertebral column tremored with the impact upon a concrete barricade, squelching noises reverberated throughout the iron alloyed enclosed space as sullied fingers dug deeper into torn flesh, searching for spiked wings of Heaven’s fallen that were never there. Lackluster orbs remained transfixed on the rustic ceiling despite the torrential crimson downpour soaking into a uniform once proudly worn, pores oozing atrocity before a jab of the finger had a gut wrenching shriek extracted from swollen voice spheroid; haemorrhaging gurgled in vexation by the hand prints self-righteously pressurized against the fragile flesh of his throat. Pain was a nefarious spectator, obliterating through each defensive layer before stripping him of his very own skin, chink armour now clattered of soundless worth whilst he was forced to bleed out his sins, cleanse of the taintment through means of macabre display as he retched grotesque internal chunks and spat mouthful of morbid gore all over himself. Seongjae’s form quaked wholesomely for the slightest bit of moment would jolt him into an experience of nerve ends caught aflame; yawning wounds were scattered throughout the entire expanse of vacant skin, inhibition of adequate healing by the coarse salt crudely interfering meshwork formation for fibrin fibres.

   It took them a week to liberate him, three days to coop up and release the arschloch whom had torn through his latissimi dorsi and an uneventful one month of testimony, trial, repeat before they came to the verdict of it being uncouth to bestow upon a punishment towards not only a fellow soldier, as well as someone who had contributed to the country so much to the apex of not being able to be repaid; he was just acting upon primitive instincts, he was just trying to justify his personal beliefs, he was not to blame, he did have a point and he tried to prove it to you through different ways. If one could reason out the bullshit they pulled out of their asses on a daily basis, then Seongjae wants a fucking refund.

échappé Sur Le Pointes!

  Unexpected it was not, the official letter that had arrived and harmlessly rested atop his messy bed. All of the badges, medallions, everything formerly occupying the breast of his uniform were stashed inside an inconspicuous box, never to be sighted upon in the furthest and nearest futures. Reports were double checked and handed in, walls bare of personal embellishment as suitcases were lugged into trunks of heavily armed military jeeps. Perhaps it was battement fondu développé enacted with one, two, a leg out à terre or maybe the glissade précipitée followed by a swift glissade jeté to topped off with grand écart; the firearms became an extension of his limbs devant, à la seconde und derrière, minuscule explosions of sparks illumined his neurotic melting facades for a visage out on the battlefield— or was it the stage?—, it could have been both, either one, even neither. Gunshots and thunderous clapping, marching of combat boots and Balancé—fondu, relevé, fondu—, glittering feathery wreath and gold awards, ballet and military was Seongjae’s juxtaposition. Why was he wasting time fabricating a cobweb of paradox when it was much more sagacious to undergo paradigm shifts?

    Carmine dusted all over his derma in patches of placid hues, the twentieth winter bore witness upon the rebirth of him; a hymn for the damned despaired its scarlet chromatic petals blooming against a bed of snow. It all began with forced matrimony vows, unholy trinity execution of bed, deliver and separate the bond betwixt a father and his child, a maternal lethal vice; qui totum vult totum perdit, ensnared in a chism of dazed and confusion, albeit as the myth of ouroboros goes, the samsara doesn’t end, a vicious continuous cycle that ruthlessly circles, is there truly an escape? So in the end, cui bono?