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hb-writes · 3 years

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Little Lady Blinder - Chapter 29

Eleven Year Old Wisdom, 1919

Also available here on ff net or here on AO3.

Chapter content warning: canon-typical content, sibling teasing, mention of physical punishment/ discipline methods typical of the time period.

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A part of John Shelby found his sister’s current demeanor unrecognizable—too quiet, too gentle, too sensitive. They were words that described Clara Shelby well. The girl was typically timid. She was sensitive and quiet, too, but this was all too much.

She was too much of those things.

John found his sister’s presence around the house more than usual these days. She was closely following Tommy’s directive to stick close to home, refraining from wandering out on her own outside of her sanctioned trips to the Garrison or Charlie’s. John couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his sister do anything other than academic work or help Polly with this and that around the house—both of those tasks entered into with an air of distraction. Clara’s mind was clearly elsewhere unless she knew someone was watching her. It was only then that a flurry of energy would overtake her execution of whatever task she was lingering on, almost as if she just wanted everyone to see she was doing as she was asked.

Like she was trying to convince someone that she was good.

John figured it was likely only Tommy’s opinion that mattered, but he barely paid Clara any mind other than accompanying her to and fro to the Garrison and the yard when it fit his schedule. Tommy had no concerns that his sister would wander, not after he’d shared with her the details of the Inspector’s threat.

Clara had been perfectly well behaved since then. There’d been no fights. No talking back. No questions. The girl was seen doing what she was supposed to be doing. She was rarely heard, rarely bothering to give words to whatever thoughts were in her mind. Most adults would have been happy with that, but John itched while watching Clara through the shop doors day after day, sat there quietly at the table for hours as if moving from that spot or anything more than a forced smile or nod would bring holy hell down on her head.

Clara was still a damn kid though. There was no need for her to be worrying herself over the trouble Tommy had brought to them. There was no need for her to be worrying about Ada and Freddie and their communist leanings. What need did an eleven-year-old have for thinking about things like that?

She was meant to be having fun with other kids, playing in the lane like Finn or his own little ones. Some time with some other kids would do her good. Some time out of the house—without her putting on some sort of show for the adults’ benefit—would do Clara good.

John had been nudging his sister toward it for most of the day, their conversation since he brought her into his office a tit for tat of subtle suggestion and reminiscence that had Clara longing for passing the afternoon with Finn even though she’d been put off his company for a couple of weeks now.

He’d coaxed her to follow him into his office after lunch, tired of watching her alone at the table for the bulk of the day when there was a suitable spot in the room with him. With the shop closed up, everyone except John had gone off. He didn’t find any harm in it.

A ledger held John’s attention while Clara attended to the book in her hands, both of them settled with their feet propped up on the desk. Clara had been quiet when she reluctantly moved into John’s office, hadn’t planned to talk about anything special—not Ada or Flanders Blues or falling in love or any of the things she wasn’t meant to be talking about. Somehow John covered it all without her directly asking, something driving him to fill the silences Clara’s inquiries usually occupied.

There are communist rat holes all over the city.

Ada could be in any one of them.

Tommy told you to let it be.

Flanders blues comes and goes.

Arthur’s fine.

It’s being taken care of.

Tommy told you to let it be.

Nothing John said was new or novel and all of it was vague. And although Clara was interested in what John had to say about Ada and Arthur and Tommy, her mind kept coming back to Tommy’s words, the thoughts’ hold on her mind as strong as the copper’s grip on her arm had been as he towed her across Birmingham.

Even if Tommy had seemed to lighten up a bit, his concerns lying on business more than his sister, Clara remained caught up. She’d barely been able to escape her worries long enough to sleep at night, the imagination that effortlessly transported her to the world’s of her favorite stories instead painting for her the grim pictures of what could be if her brother’s words came true—if she was indeed taken from their home.

John watched Clara gaze out the window while she worried at her bottom lip. He took a shot, one more taboo subject broached without Clara asking after it.

“Lizzie’s sitting for the kids this week while I’m at the races,” John said as he scratched out the last of the sums.

John glanced up as he finished to see that Clara had lowered her book to meet his eye, some sort of spark nearly coming into them. A lazy grin settled on John’s face, a bit of relief coming over him as he finally broke through whatever wall Clara had set up between her and the world. Why hadn’t he thought of mentioning Lizzie sooner?

He was more than willing to talk to Clara about his dealings with Lizzie, something which Tommy wasn’t taking care of, the only thing Tommy seemed to not yet have his hands in yet, seemingly the only subject not sanctioned from Clara’s questioning repertoire because Tommy didn’t yet know of its existence.

Clara was his sole confidant on the matter. It was their little secret.

“Her idea, not mine,” he said.

“Surprised she wanted to after last time.” Clara held the book over her mouth, failing to hide a giggle.

John pointed his pencil at her. “We don’t talk about last time, alright?” he said though a smirk broke through. “And you probably taught it to them,” he said before looking back at the books a final time.

Lizzie had sat with the kids for John once before and it had ended with a frog in her purse, a souvenir for her afternoon which she didn’t find until she was back at her own lodgings. It certainly wasn’t the worst someone had ever gotten after spending a few hours with John’s lot, but John hadn’t appreciated it considering he’d been trying to make a good impression.

“Sounds like something you and Finn would’ve done,” John teased, only because he knew his sister wasn’t likely to ever do anything of the sort unless Finn dragged her into it.

“It was probably Robbie’s idea,” Clara offered. “He likes frogs.”

“And so do you, if I remember correctly.”

Clara turned her head away from John without answering. She heard Finn coming through before she saw him, his careless limbs banging into this and that, his mouth mumbling to himself or anybody within earshot, his feet carrying him straight through to the shop without much attention paid to who else might’ve been there.

“She’s not meant to be in the shop.” Finn leaned through the open door and studied his sister propped up in John’s chair, the one he usually took for himself and where he found himself most days that he didn’t stay out on the lane after school. “Tommy’ll be mad as hell.”

John snorted. “And neither are you, mate. He’d be mad as hell with all three of us.”

Finn shrugged. “Madder about her, probably. She’s the baby .”

John rolled his tried to remember if he’d been this way with Ada when they were small. For some reason, he didn’t think so. He couldn’t seem to remember anything more than a bit of teasing, a bit of scrapping. He couldn’t imagine Ada standing for much else. Ada had always been quick to slap or punch or kick. There were moments when he was surprised that Clara stood for Finn treating her as he did.

It was something about the lack of clarity in the family hierarchy when it came to the twins, something about the differences afforded to the two of them—differences in attention and affection and allowances, differences in ability and power.

It would have been easier if they weren’t twins, John thought, or if they had both been boys or both girls. He imagined he would spend a lot less time playing referee that way, but then he remembered age alone didn’t solidify anything. Sure, John had fallen into his rightful place well enough, but one look at Tommy and Arthur and it was clear that rules didn’t always fit birth order.

“She—”

“Alright, Finn, enough,” John said, before the boy could even get started again, “was nice and quiet in here ‘til you came in, eh Clara?”

“Can’t imagine how, all she does anymore is ask silly questions about love and—”

“Yeah, well, you can’t even rea—”

“Oi, Clara!” John warned as he shook his head once, his glance lingering on her for a moment. It wasn’t her usual way, an attack like that. She was usually more likely to encourage Finn, quicker to offer help with his homework than she was to call him out for his academic shortcomings. “Don’t.”

A lump settled in Clara’s throat at her brother’s tone and she reached for her book, shifting out of the seat and taking a step toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

Clara shrugged. She’d been waiting on Finn, but even just three minutes in she wasn’t keen on passing the afternoon with him anymore. And she wasn’t keen on John either after being chastised, nor was she interested in being around Tommy, or Polly, or even Arthur if he’d decided to show his face. Clara didn’t want to put on a show for any of them any longer.

Whether by habit or just a scarcity of places where a Shelby could find peace these days, Clara intended on heading up to her bedroom. She intended on setting the chair under the door handle to keep them all away until she was called down to dinner.

John glanced out the small dirtied window in his office before leaning forward on the desk. “Sun’s out. Why don’t you two go play out on the—?”

The grumbling started before John could finish, drowning out his question. John rolled his eyes at the excuses coming out of both of their mouths—Clara’s boot-stomping the floor as Finn groaned, the both of them whining out a harmonious chorus groaning his name.

“Alright, alright,” John said as he glanced down at his desk. “How about the two of you do a job for me, then?”

The groaning stopped as the twins considered it, Clara shifting towards rebuttal before Finn did. John cut her off before she could get started.

“You don’t worry about Tommy,” he said. “If I say it’s alright, it’s alright.”

Clara stepped up to John’s chair and leaned over the arm. “Are you coming with us?”

John shook his head. “The two of you can go…it’ll be a big help to me,” he said. “But you do it together or neither of you goes.”

Finn stepped up to the front of the desk trying to peer at John’s papers. “What kind of job is it?”

“Delivery,” John said, moving his papers about to find the envelope and letter he’d started work on earlier. John had meant to slip it under Lizzie’s door himself, but he’d gotten distracted having Clara all afternoon. John had a feeling a delivery from the twins would suit just as well. He smiled at imagining his deliciously cryptic and scandalous words sent there by a couple of unaware kids bringing a blush to Lizzie’s fine cheeks.

Clara glanced at her twin and Finn shrugged.

“How much?” he asked.

John dug in his pocket and set a shilling down on the desk though he thought he had little need to pay the kids. He was getting them out of the house and saving them the trouble of having Polly or Tommy get after them for their unrelenting bickering. That alone was worth more than a bit of coin in his book. “A shilling if the two of you deliver this letter and don’t kill each other before supper.”

Clara reached for the envelope and John pulled it out of her reach, raising both eyebrows as she met his eye. “And you don’t read the letter.”

Finn slumped into the chair Clara had been sitting in before, dropping her book to the floor. “Who’s it for?”

“Miss Stark.”

Finn nodded his head as if the admission meant something to him, but it didn’t. All Finn knew was that she was the woman who had watched John’s kids a couple of times. He knew nothing of John’s plans.

“How about two shillings?” Finn interrupted the conspiratorial smile passing between John and Clara. “Only fair since there’s two of us.”

John flicked a shilling toward Finn who caught the flying coin. “Half now, half when the deed is done.”

“And you sign this,” Finn added, pulling a crumpled paper from his pocket. “Teacher says an adult at home needs to sign.”

John raised an eyebrow. He was an adult, sure, but they all knew he barely counted in this case, all of them well aware that he wasn’t the intended recipient of the letter.

“And we can go to Hinkley’s on the way back,” Clara added.

John sighed, though his sister’s finally taking part in the conversation pleased him.

He set to signing Finn’s letter from the school before answering her, barely skimming over the note about Finn’s behavior.

“Fine, but you bring some back to share.” John pushed the papers back across the desk to Finn and set his own letter in Clara’s hands, He held it between his fingers even after she’d made to pull it away. “And you get this to Lizzie first. No opening it. No telling anyone you’ve done it for me, alright?”

Clara nodded and John turned to their other brother who had busied himself with rooting about on the shelves behind him. “Alright, Finn?”

Finn nodded, momentarily stopping his search for a cigarette among John’s things.

“Alright. You know where she lives?” John eyed the clock, trying to recall Lizzie’s supposed schedule for the day, figuring she ought to still be home. “Keep to the main road there and back. You can stop by Hinkley’s, but keep away from the Cut.”

John met Finn’s eye as he said it, but Finn protested the accusation.

“She’s the one always running off,” he muttered.

“Well, you’re the one—”

“Alright, enough. If you two don’t knock it off, I’ll take back the shilling and send you off to Aunt Pol. Then the only thing you’ll be getting is a bit of shouting and her boot.”

The twins knew it would take more than some bickering to have John follow through on that threat, but they quieted anyhow, listening once again to John’s directions, the letter gripped in Clara’s hands as they both promised to stick together and keep out of trouble along the way.

“Just cause you wear the hat, doesn’t make you a peaky blinder.” Finn scoffed, pushing the brim of the old cap down over Clara’s eyes as they walked the lane.

Clara shoved his hand away, rearranging the hat on her head though she didn’t move to put any real distance between them as they made their way down the street.

“Well, it's not like you’re one either.”

Finn shrugged. “More of one than you’ll ever be,” he said. “That’s why Tommy’s letting me go to the races. Little girls have no business at the races. You’d just get in the way.” Finn kicked at a pebble in front of them, sending it into a puddle left over from the morning’s rain. “Me and Isiah are riding up with the boys to help out.”

Clara chewed on that fact as she checked the faces of those passing them on either side of the streets. “He wouldn’t let you go if he knew you’d been misbehaving at school. Aunt Pol either. She’d—”

“Tommy still lets you out even though you’ve been bad,” Finn said. “And you’re not allowed to tattle, so—”

Finn let out a grunt as a body tackled him, pushing him down to the ground. Clara jumped to the side, her own body knocking into something solid, a strong hand reaching out to steady her as the letter was tugged from her limp hold.

Clara glanced over her shoulder to see Finn holding his own with Albie, the two of them rolling in the dir, passing punches back and forth.

Wally jostled her, pulling Clara’s attention back to him as her heels lifted off the ground. Wally laughed as he released her, sending Clara down to the dirt.

“Now, what do we have here?” Wally asked.

He slipped his finger under the envelope’s flap. Clara let out a roar as she pushed herself up off the ground, charging toward him. She made a grab for the letter as Wally continued to hold it away from her. More laughter tumbled from Wally’s mouth as he set his hand on Clara’s head to hold her back.

Wally’s palm and fingers settled with force against the hat that belonged not to Clara Shelby, but to her older brother John—a real Peaky Blinder—with a set of fresh blades sewn into its brim.

Wally let out a howl as he released Clara from his hold, dropping the letter as blood poured from his sliced fingertips. Clara grappled with the sight of the blood, frozen for a moment before she stepped away. She worked on pulling Albie away from her brother, the three of them struggling for just a minute before the lot of them tensed up, completely frozen by the sudden presence of an adult in their little circle of chaos, a timid gasp coming from the woman’s lips as she got a full view of the scene—the youngest Shelbys caught up in a battle with some other kids from another neighborhood—blood covering one of the kids’ hands, Finn Shelby still trying to pummel the other while Clara tried to separate the two.

Clara fumbled to pick up the letter left discarded on the cobblestone, avoiding Lizzie’s gaze. She stuttered on the woman’s name, unsure of how to refer to the woman though it should’ve been easy enough to just call her Miss Stark. Lizzie was the name on the tip of her tongue, the name Clara had been conspiratorially whispering with her brother for weeks now. Lizzie , the woman John was courting with a certain fervor, the one Clara was certain would one day become her sister-in-law, but it seemed too familiar under the current circumstances.

Finn glanced over his shoulder at his sister, frozen on the spot. He pulled his arm back and punched Albie again before pushing himself off the ground. He tore the letter from Clara’s hands. Finn handed it out to Lizzie Stark before grabbing Clara’s arm and moving them away from the scene.

The two of them made it little more than three blocks before they spotted their brother on the other side of the street, his feet carrying them in the direction from which they’d just come, his eyes catching theirs even though Clara and Finn had been keeping their heads down, whispering as they scurried along.

Tommy hadn’t called their names, had done nothing more than pausing his march to watch their movement down the lane. He took a long drag of his cigarette as he observed them. The twins diligently crossed the street at the gesture, the pair of them still holding hands, still whispering to one another, Clara patting the dust from Finn’s clothes as they closed the distance.

“Hi, Tommy.”

The words came in unison from both Finn and Clara, a shaky little chorus of a greeting as Tommy readjusted his hat to better see the twins’ faces.

“What are you two up to?”

There was no chorus this time, not a peep from either of them, actually. Tommy flicked the ash from his cigarette, letting the question linger while the twins fidgeted. Clara cleared her throat as Finn scuffed his foot into the cobblestone.

“Just playing, Tommy,” Clara finally offered, turning her gaze from Finn to Tommy.

“John said we could,” Finn added. “Said it was fine as long as we stayed together.”

Tommy hummed as he stared down at them. Then he reached out to dust a bit of dirt Clara had missed from Finn’s shoulder. “Looks like you’ve been fighting, Finn.”

Tommy’s gaze lingered on Finn’s swollen lip, the flush of both kids’ cheeks. Not a word came from either of them, just the sound of their slightly labored breathing.

Tommy reached out to wipe a smudge of dirt from Clara’s cheek with his thumb. He plucked the hat from her head as he finished, revealing a mess of a loosened braid as he inspected a few specks of blood against the otherwise clean herringbone.

“John let her borrow it,” Finn said, squeezing Clara’s hand a bit harder as Tommy’s eyes dragged over the fabric and the blades. Finn shuffled forward half a step, settling Clara just a measure behind where he stood, nearly positioning himself between Tommy and Clara.

Tommy nodded, rolling his eyes just a bit as Finn confirmed what Tommy was already thinking. It sounded like John—giving their sister a bloodied hat with the blade still in it like it was a toy, but he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn Arthur had done it either.

Tommy took another pull of his cigarette, deciding to follow up with the boys about it but to let the kids be for now. It was a delicate balance between getting after the twins for something suspicious and letting them be when they were getting along. He eyed their clasped hands, their sudden closeness. He hadn’t seen Finn and Clara like that for some time.

“Where are you off to now?”

“Hinkley’s?” Clara offered, her pitch rising at the end of the word.

Tommy nodded again. “And then you two head back to the lane to play.” He set the hat back on Clara’s head. “And you mind that blade. Wouldn’t want you to lose any fingers.”

Clara instinctively glanced down at her hands, flinching as she noticed a speck of blood smudged into her fingertips. She pulled her hand free from Finn and stuck both hands straight into her pockets, her heart beating hard in her chest until Tommy dismissed them both with a nod.

“Wanna go see the horses? Maybe Uncle Charlie’ll let us race.”

Clara shook her head again, same as she’d done at Finn’s offer to share the paper bag full of biscuits. She was too nervous for sweets or horses or her brother’s company, her insides shaken by the fight and the blood and their brother, and that was all before she realized the gravity of the fact that Lizzie Stark had seen if not all, certainly most, of their scuffle with Wally and Albie.

“What’s wrong with you?” Finn mumbled around a biscuit.

Clara looked up from her feet long enough to watch him swallow down the mouthful before removing the lingering crumbs with a swipe of his sleeve. She’d come out of the attack unscathed, unmarked except for the bit of blood on John’s hat and her fingertips, but Finn’s lip continued to swell.

“You’re never fun anymore. Always fighting with Tommy or being mopey and—”

“What if someone finds out?” Clara blurted.

“Who’s gonna find out?” Finn dug into the bag again. “No one saw us.”

“Lizzie Stark saw,” Clara said.

“Who’s she gonna tell?” he said with a shrug, popping a broken biscuit into his mouth.

Clara worried her lip. Sure, the woman might not say anything to a copper about their scuffle in the streets, but her stomach flipped thinking about the most likely person she would tell—John. If John found out, the information was just a short way away from the others’ ears. Clara imagined the information would all flow freely if John found out. Then they really would get Aunt Polly’s boot.

Clara wouldn’t have minded if the threat stopped there and she wished her brother understood that it didn’t. There were authorities bigger than their family, repercussions scarier than anything their family would do to them if Lizzie Stark ratted them out.

Because even if the woman didn’t talk Clara wondered how could they be sure no one else had seen them. How could they be sure there wouldn’t be some sort of backlash? How could they be sure that an old woman hadn’t happened to be looking out her window? Or that Albie and Wally didn’t head back home to their mother and father calling for some sort of retribution? How could they be sure the information wouldn’t end up gracing the ears of a copper or the parish?

How could they know?

“Tommy already saw you were out.” Finn talked around the biscuit, his mouth full of golden brown crumbs as he dismissed his sister.

Clara felt sick, the fear and worry bringing with it a wave of nausea that made Clara feel like her world was turning upside down. Part of her knew it was that easy. Her world could turn upside down just like that. For the first time in maybe her whole life, Clara wasn’t worried about her family’s reaction or what they’d do about her getting caught up in a fight again.

If Tommy’s words came true, Clara would be out of their reach—simply gone—like Aunt Polly’s kids had been, the ones Clara knew of but had never known.

Clara swallowed the lump in her throat, her question barely above a whisper. “What if someone takes us away?”

Finn laughed. “Don’t be silly, Clara.”

The confidence of his words was strong enough that Clara could almost believe him. She wanted to believe her brother, but she gave more weight to Tommy’s warning than she did to Finn’s empty confidence and Clara dismissed Finn with the very same line of questioning that had people dismissing her.

What does an eleven-year-old know about something like that?

What does an eleven-year-old know about anything?

Maybe everyone else was right.

Maybe she didn’t know anything.

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Chapter 30

Little Lady Blinder Masterlist

Please take a moment to tell me what y'all think! Reviews and comments are always appreciated. 😌❤️

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinder fanfic #tommy shelby #john shelby #finn shelby #lizzie stark #clara shelby #shelby!sister #shelby sister #little lady blinder

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autumnslance · 2 years

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I noticed you doing character bingos again! I’d like to see one for Zenos if possible. I had fun with him in Stormblood, but found that joy to drowned with how he was handled in Endwalker. By the end I just wanted to be done with that monster. If the game had let me walk away without fighting him, like he suggested, I would have.

Wild, we're about the opposite; I disliked Zenos a great deal in Stormblood--he was bloody useless and an annoyance out of nowhere--while I feel they finally figured him out and mostly hit their stride with him in Endwalker, as he gave up pretending to care about military and political matters and became the wandering blood knight he actually is.

Almost got a bingo, but let's be real; I always have too much to say about major characters.

I also won't say anything negative about folks' WoLships, which are by far the most popular Zenos pairing; folks have their fun and they're welcome to it. But fandom is a good chunk of the issue with Zenos. One either loves him or hates him, and both sides tend to take it to extremes and flanderize / mischaracterize the man rather than dealing with the canon portrayal.

In my opinion, he's not that deep. Yes I have read "The Hunt Begins" thank you I own a copy of Chronicles of Light. It told us nothing new about his history and personality, just gave us a glimpse of where he started to find his focus, exactly as the title tells us. The thing is, Zenos doesn't have to be "deep" (whatever one means by that) to be compelling and do his job as a character in the story. Given his straightforward viewpoints, especially in EW as he gives an answer to Hermes' questions, Zenos himself might scoff at the need to find hidden depth of meaning to his personality and existence.

I've also said somewhere, probably my other big Zenos write-up, that he's not quite tragic, though there's tragedy all around and through him. He chooses to not deal with it in any fashion, a creature of the present entirely.

I think he needed a better introduction, seeded over the HW patches, even just in discussion and rumors if we still didn't see him until that patch 3.55 shot. I think he should have done something in StB other than be a "lose the fight the right way" plot checkpoint and just handing Doma and Ala Mhigo back to the heroes without having to really work for them.

I really think a massive part of the dissatisfaction many folks have with StB's story is that the victories are hollow after so much misery in those lands, who are then each shorted due to sharing the expansion. And a lot of that comes down to the misuse of Zenos, whose attributes are mostly told to us as he sleeps on the throne and bullies his underlings. For a supposedly brilliant man, we never see it in his military strategies, and he's played handily by Fandaniel, who knew just how to pull Zenos's strings.

So yeah. I was ready to be done with him in EW; "In From the Cold" is horrifying but I see it more as Fandaniel's scheme that Zenos goes all into. My WoL stopped caring about Zenos the moment trial 1 ended and Fandaniel's scheme became clear. I eye rolled whenever Zenos came back onscreen, though I think the scene in Garlemald with Jullus and Alisaie were good for him and lead directly into the finale.

I know what I just wrote and that I checked "too much screentime" but honestly he got a shade too little in EW. I DID dread/expect some kinda 11th hour teamup, though the "how" made me laugh incredulously. It worked in its weird way.

The final fight he still didn't understand my WoL but she was done and wanted to make sure it was finally over and he wouldn't darken her door or threaten anyone again. The solo duel is not unknown in other FF games, and I rather enjoyed it and the final punch-out at the end as they exhausted themselves entirely.

Mileage varies, depending on one's WoL, feelings on Zenos, and on that tropey duel of mirrored characters. I've also already spoken to the gripes about him being truly gone per Word of God and while one can do whatever one wants in fanfic, there's a lot of reason it does, in fact, work to leave his corpse at the edge of the universe and I'm OK with it. His part in the story, and how that affects Assumed Default Warrior of Light's self-understanding, is complete.

Like the Ascians, he's done. Interested to see what's up with his Avatar, since we also got nothing on his being a Reaper (could have used more on that too!!) as we move into the 6.x patches and build up of the next arc.

#Final Fantasy XIV #Lyn Prompts #character bingo #memes #character analysis #Endwalker #6.0 spoilers #Zenos Galvus

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romanoffswifey · 4 years

Text

Stupid Sexy Romanoff

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Summary: Tony takes the avengers on a snowy retreat, where he finds out about your crush on Natasha. He and Clint convince you to do something a little bit stupid and it does not go according to plan. At least you get Natasha’s attention.

Contents/Warnings: Fluffy fluff, some dumbass energy from many people

Words: 1,539

AN - Yes, this was absolutely originally inspired by that one Simpsons scene and it would not let me rest until I had written it. Stupid sexy Flanders.

“Woah, Y/N, I didn’t know you could shred like that,” Tony says as you come skidding to a stop next to him and Clint on the alpine snow.

The billionaire had decided to take you all on a trip to a Swiss ski resort, in the name of relaxation and team bonding.

“There’s a dry ski slope about an hour away from the town I grew in, I haven’t been in a long while but I guess snowboarding is like riding a bike,” you offer. Plopping yourself down near Clint, who was currently sitting on Steve’s shield after he’d been using it as a sledge.

“Maybe now you’re here you can convince Stark to actually go down the mountain, instead of just standing here like a baby,” the archer points to the man’s skis, “you know they have instructors here to teach you how to use those things.”

Tony scoffs. “I don’t need any instructing, Barton. It can’t be that hard surely, I mean children can do it.”

“You could always ask our friendly god of hammers for some pointers,” you say, gesturing behind you as Thor shoots past, screaming with joy. The asgardian had turned out to be surprisingly good at the winter sport and was currently having the time of his life.

When the men next to you descend into bickering, you zone out. Letting your gaze wander until it lands on Natasha, who’s stood chatting with Steve further down the slope.

You’d had a crush on the redhead ever since you’d met her during the whole thing with Loki, but hadn’t said anything to her in fear of ending up looking like an idiot.

Clint was the only one who knew and he’d been pretty useless at helping. Simply teasing you about it, as he’d decided to be an adult, for once, and respect Natasha’s privacy on the matter.

You sigh softly as you look at her now. She was beautiful, and kind of cute, with her little bobble hat and her googles on top of her head. The tips of her nose and ears slightly pink from the cold, and her flawless tresses only highlighted by the white around her.

As you follow the fall of her hair down to her outfit, you inhale sharply, coughing as the icy air hits the back of your throat.

The assassin was clad in a black and red ski suit, with a close enough fit that you could see the lines of her muscles. Along with a great view of her assets. It was safe to say that it left nothing to the imagination, and your imagination was certainly running wild right now.

Your little coughing fit had gained the attention of Tony and Clint. Making them pause their argument and follow your line of slight.

“Well, Romanoff certainly isn’t bothered by the cold. You’d think she’d want to wear something more comfortable since we’re out of the office,” says the billionaire.

“Actually it is comfy, and warm, and incredibly aerodynamic. She got it for this one mission where she had to go undercover as a prospect for the winter olympics,” Clint explains, “I tried it on once. It felt like I was wearing nothing at all.”

That comment did absolutely nothing to help your thoughts, in fact it only made them less PG then they already were. You’re pretty sure the heat coming from your face could turn the slope below you into a waterfall if you put your head close enough.

Unfortunately for you, your flustered state draws Tony’s questioning gaze from the archer to yourself.

“Erm, Y/N are you okay? You look kind of...wait a minute,” his eyes light up as he interrupts himself, “Oh. My. God. You totally have the hots for Romanoff don’t you?”

“Finally, someone noticed,” Clint happily exposes you.

“Barton, you little shit!” you exclaim in shock, repeatedly trying to jab him in the ribs.

“Oh this is great,” Tony laughs before starting to sing, “Y/N and Natasha sitting in a tre-”

“Shut it, Stark,” you hiss. Taking one of his ski poles and smacking him around the back of the legs, causing him to fall on his back in front of the pair of you with a small ‘oof’.

“Rude. But since you’re like the little sister I never had, I’ll elect to ignore it in favour of being the annoying brother right now. Does she know about the little heart eyes routine you got going on over here?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

You roll your eyes. “Does it look like she’s even remotely interested in me?”

“I don’t know, have you tried asking her?”

“This is Natasha Romanoff we’re talking about here, you think I want to risk making a fool out of myself and ruining our friendship?” you sigh dejectedly and put your chin on top of your knees. “And don’t bother asking Clint about it, I already tried,” you add when you see Tony turn toward the man, who was suddenly very quiet.

The billionaire huffs when he notices his glare isn’t doing anything to crack the archer’s resolve. But when his eyes land on the ramps that sat on one half of the snowy incline, the gears in his head start to turn.

His smirk widens when Clint throws him an encouraging look, clearly thinking along the same lines.

“Hey Y/N, why don’t you do a cool trick or something?” Tony asks while nodding toward the ramps.

“What?” you ask in reply, “What makes you think I can even do a trick?”

“Well, it can’t be that hard. I’ve seen you do loads of complicated acrobatics in training, and what about that time you flipped your motorbike over that bridge?”

“I’m sure Nat would be impressed if you did it,” Clint murmurs, trying to be subtle while eating some snow.

You cut your eyes at them both, wondering what they were up to.

“Fine,” you say. Pulling yourself up and setting off down the hill after thinking about it, it would be pretty cool if you did manage to pull it off.

Once you hit one of the bigger ramps, you lock eyes with Natasha, and your whole mind goes blank. You can’t stop staring and you’re quickly reminded of all those thoughts you’d just had. Which was not ideal, considering you had just launched yourself about 20 feet in the air.

Shit.

Instead of doing some epic flip in the air, you just sail through it and start plummeting to the earth. But lucky for you, you’re an avenger. You’re also heading for a nice pile of snow.

Snow is surprisingly hard, and you groan as you lay buried there, regretting many of your life choices. Not only had you eaten complete shit, you had done it in front of your long time crush. This was the worst trip you had ever been on.

“Leave me to my shame,” you whine as you feel someone undoing your boots from your snowboard before pulling you out by your leg.

Your embarrassment only grows as you look up into green eyes that are filled with worry.

“Are you alright, Y/N?” Natasha asks. Checking you over for any sign of blood or broken bones.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you say, not quite meeting her eyes.

“You gonna explain what that was about then?” she asks with a hint of amusement as she helps you up.

You smile sheepishly and admit, “I was trying to show off.”

“Why?”

Being this close to her now, with her hands still lightly clasping yours and an adorable little frown on her face, you can’t find it in you to lie.

“I was trying to impress you. I really like you Natasha,” you confess quietly.

Her face slackens at your words, and you can feel your stomach sink. You gentle pull your hands from hers, letting out a long breath as you look down. Waiting for whatever her reaction might be.

To your surprise, a gloved hand comes up and cups your jaw. Tilting your head back up before a pair of soft lips land on your own.

You relax into the kiss as she holds you there. Blinking slowly when she pulls back with a sigh.

“I like you too, Y/N,” she says shyly. A smile tugging at her mouth and her face just a bit redder than it was before.

“How come you never said anything?” you ask, still not quite believing this was actually happening.

“I’m not really the best when it come to this whole feelings thing, so I wanted to makes sure that you might have felt the same about me before I did anything,” she trails off.

“Oh.”

The redhead hums. “And for the record you don’t have to impress me. I’ve seen what you can do, it’s pretty badass,” she says with a wink, before holding out her hand. “Now come on, I’ll get you a hot chocolate. Think of it as our first date.”

You can’t help the grin that breaks out onto your face as you take Natasha’s hand and let her drag you back up the mountain.

Maybe this trip wasn’t so bad after all.

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #black widow #black widow x reader #black widow imagine #natasha romanoff fanfic #avengers x reader #marvel imagine #avengers imagine #marvel

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scarlettaagni · 4 years

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Bhu’ja-Lulij a.k.a. Bhu’ja-Hulij (Mad Ghost)

Mad Ghost is M’hsi’s great-great-great granduncle and the third disgraced Odd Crest within recent history, as well as the oldest surviving member. He is also the only Odd Crest to be formally declared a Bad Blood, for his crime of partaking in tough meat, the cannibalization of another Yautja. He has since disappeared into the desert for the following 600 years, eluding capture.

Before committing the actions that led to that, he was named Mad Ghost in part of his split-strategies during Hunts- alternating being elusive and silent despite his massive size like a ghost, or charging like a bat out of hell as if gripped by an all-encompassing rage with his trademark axe. Mad Ghost was also named for his habit of sleepwalking and talking, which usually increased in frequency in times of stress. Wandering in the middle of the night muttering ominous nothings, with blank but open eyes and becoming violent when trifled with earned him a name befitting someone who acts like a restless spirit.

Mad Ghost was always eager to go on Hunts and relished in the bloodshed and recovery of trophies. In his free time, he either trained, observed and upkept his trophies, or played music. When he wasn’t slaughtering during a Hunt, he recorded human music he heard (typically church songs and choirs).

He was in his 300s when a Hunt on NV-39W resulted in a cave-in that trapped him in an air pocket with the already deceased body of his Hunt-brother Tieri. Presumed dead, the Hunting party (including a then-young Zazin) returned a few months later to retrieve the expected bodies, instead finding a starving Mad Ghost digging into Tieri’s disembodied leg next to his ravaged corpse. He was accordingly subdued, put under, and given medical attention while transported back to Yautja Prime for his sentence, either death or exile on a hostile planet.

Before a conclusion was reached, Mad Ghost awoke and escaped containment, disappearing into the deserts of Yautja Prime.

Over the following 600 years since his escape, Mad Ghost sought to demonstrate that his crime did not define who he was, never again partaking of tough meat and telling anyone he could have a conversation with that he only did it out of desperation. Believing that he was not the same as other Bad Bloods and to show he belonged back in normal society, Mad Ghost also tracked down and killed other Bad Bloods, especially those whose crimes were not as forgivable as his.

Spending the majority of his time alone in caves or makeshift shelters, he privately grappled with the trauma of the accident, being trapped with the body of a Hunt-brother he could not save, and being forced to eat it until his capture. He will not know rest until he knows if Tieri forgives him or not. Since the incident, Mad Ghost’s sleeptalking subjects have been exclusively about his experiences wasting away next to and eating Tieri’s body.

Enforcers and cocky Hunters had tried their hand at tracking down the legendary Mad Ghost, who typically avoided even being spotted. In the rare cases he was discovered, he easily won the skirmishes and purposefully left his assailants alive, just short on weapons. Careful not to take any weapons that could track him, Mad Ghost was seldom seen, never heard, but a popular urban legend among the clan in his absence.

Mad Ghost’s story was recorded accurately within records of the incident and the memories of those still alive to have witnessed it, but word of mouth has warped the story so heavily as to demonize Mad Ghost as Tieri’s murderer, a willing cannibal, or an unwilling cannibal warped into a beast who hungers for flesh and continues to crave and feast in the desert on stragglers. Even his attempts to garner support by killing Bad Bloods has been spun by mass opinion into him betraying his own kind yet again: first by turning on Yautja society by eating tough meat, and again by killing his fellow Bad Bloods. Some believe he has died given his obscurity, and some even doubt his existence in the first place, considering it a wild story to malign the clan’s resident punching bags, the Odd Crests.

The local plays have rendered Mad Ghost a sort of pierrot/harlequin/trickster stock character, with protagonists being lost in the desert as a fictionalized and flanderized version of Mad Ghost portrayed by an actor appears to lead them astray, terrorize them, or devour a side character. Few plays are actually about him, instead relegating a fictionalized retelling to a side plot, or feature him nearly contextlessly without dedicating a scene to his “backstory”. Even his name itself had been run through the mud, as the Yautja words for mad (angry), l’ulij-bpe, and mad (crazy), h’ulij-bpe, rhyme, resulting in insulting wordplay.

His time spent in the desert, through both sun-bleaching and age, has turned his hair and spines white. Though 900 years old and nearly an Ancient himself, Mad Ghost still clings to his wasted youth and as a result, uses the tar pits in the deserts of Yautja Prime to dye his hair black. His lack of spines and the dye cause him to look as young as he did before the incident. When he is seen with white hair, he is perceived as a spirit or crazed old man, and with black hair, regarded as potentially some kind of eternal supernatural being that Death has abandoned.

Mad Ghost constantly forgets his age and generally acts as he did when he was 300, with a few added behavioral tics such as a tremor, a perpetually unhinged mouth, and a lack of indoor voice. His true age is usually remembered when recalling the past, winning an argument, or making a joke.

After centuries of processing the grief and guilt, Mad Ghost finds himself secure enough to joke about his experiences, insisting he’s finally over it. When asleep, his grief and guilt manifest through his sleepwalking and talking.

When M’hsi returns from her trials, given Mad Ghost’s known slaying of Bad Bloods, sparing the lives of Enforcers, and the ambiguous nature of his original crime, her restoring the Odd Crest honor will revoke his Bad Blood status. Upon her return and recuperation, M’hsi will don her mask, and carrying his previously confiscated axe, find Mad Ghost to tell him the good news. Upon seeing her face and odd crest, he stops reacting with hostility and welcomes his new family with open arms and eagerly fawns over his niece and nephews as they house him. Zazin helps catch him up to speed with modern Yautja society (and providing him with the company of someone actually his age).

Given his streak of victories when barely armed in the desert, he spends his twilight years training M’hsi alongside Vosandi, under Halkrath’s guidance. Depending on how long Mad Ghost lives, he plans on training Lo’bane as well (wishing to wait until Lo’bane is old enough to stand a chance against him).

Mad Ghost’s biggest issue with his newly normal lifestyle is the repetitive debunking of rumors about him and his life. He is especially disgusted with how everyone has memorized his name, yet rarely speak of Tieri, whom he remembers well as a friend and real person (which the public treats him not). Enraged to the point of hilarity at their joint portrayal in the clan’s media, he pens his own account of events titled The Dark Well of Sweet Light in an attempt to set the record straight.

During his time in the well, Mad Ghost did not come close enough to death to meet Cetanu, unlike Halkrath. However, his survival, too, was a result of the whim of Cetanu, who chose to take Tieri’s life and spare the Odd Crest rather than the other way around. Mad Ghost suspects this is so but will not learn the truth and Tieri’s feelings until he himself passes. As he nears the end of his life, like an Ancient, he becomes more in tune with the abstract and spiritual as Zazin is.

#nerd stuff #my art #scarletta doodles #OCs #Mad Ghost #Odd Crests #yautja #predator

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byorder-fanfic · 4 years

Text

A Good Man

Summary: After all that she’s been through and all she’s done, Lizzie deserves a good man. She thought John could save her from prostitution, she hoped Tommy could see her as more than a whore. Soon she realises, she deserves better than a good man- she deserves a good man who loves her.

Word count: 1994

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of sexual abuse and harassment

Authors Note: Hi, this is my first ever fanfiction I’ve posted, so feedback would really be appreciated! Hope you enjoy it xx

Lizzie was tired. Tommy told her no more customers, no more lying down for faceless men and imagining she was anywhere else, with anyone else. She used to dream of finding a good man, one that would take her to bed with the only payment of love. So, when John proposed, she said yes. He was good. As simple as that. In truth, he didn't love her and she didn't love him. But he made her smile, and she would be a good mother. Mother. Kids in her arms and a husband at her side- it didn't seem real. But money wasn't easy to come by; her visible bones were enough to prove that. Her promise to John wouldn't pay for her meals or the rent on her leaking apartment and, as long as her last name was Stark, she would not take John's money. The only part of her flat that was safe from dishevelment was her bed, a bed she couldn't sleep on for the pain that still lingered in her memory. Bruises were easy enough to cover up (she'd learnt that young) but memories couldn't be so easily concealed with a splash of cheap powder and a cool spoon. She was a good woman, she repeated under her breath, Tommy's money still heavy in her coat, she just didn't do good things. It sounded fake, even in her thoughts. John had been calm when he broke off the engagement. She tried to leave with as much grace as she could. In different clothes, in a different life, she could've been a dancer, she thought. Her limbs were long and strong, even if she could count all her ribs when she took off her dress. But she walked with poise, a sense of dignity that had left her heart a long time ago.

Things seemed to be getting better. When Grace had left Tommy in pieces, Lizzie gave him company on lonely nights. He wasn't ever fucking her, she knew. Why else would she always be face down? She was just a thing for him to forget, but for her, she dared to dream he could save her. He was a good man, a good brother to John. Yet every night, after a smoke and a smile, he'd leave the money in her hands. She was still a whore to him. Then things seemed to get better: she traded in getting bent over the desk to being the one who types on it. It was finally her chance to make honest money, be a good woman. It was good, even if her reputation still buried its way deep into their hungry eyes. Only, this time, she could afford to say no. Then Tommy invited her to the Derby. Jeremiah had told her she looked like a proper rich lady, the type that belonged in these sorts of places. It made her smile the whole way there, as she constantly smoothed down her dress. It was nice, nicer than any she'd ever worn before, and virginial white. Maybe Tommy wasn't seeing her as a whore any more, she dared to think. Maybe he saw her as Lizzie Stark, the graceful lady in a pretty dress, who belonged at the races. Hope fell into betrayal as he pointed to the soldier behind her. No more customers, he had said. Unless it suited him, he'd forgotten that part- a fine print she skimmed over. Just as he had broken every other promise, he didn't save her. Her dress was torn, a purple bruise prominent on her thin cheek. When she waved that gun in her hand, she would've killed him. Tommy wasn't a good man, but she was a good woman. She was. Even when John cradled her face and looked at her with those sad eyes, she didn't tell him that his brother was the one who did this. He didn't have Tommy's cold eyes. John was a good man, and he had to stay around for Esme and those beautiful kids of his. She didn’t.

She didn't hand in her notice. She should've, but she didn't. Tommy finally had Grace for real now, so he wouldn't bother her. John and her were on friendly terms, and she'd even gotten close to his wife, Esme. The two dark-haired women were so similar in certain areas (i.e. hating the blue-eyed crook that they worked for), their friendship was hardly a surprise for the Shelby family. Polly still saw her as a whore, she knew, but that wasn't something she could fight. They all saw her as a whore before a secretary. Except Jeremiah, of course. Now, that was a friendship that shocked everyone. Lizzie knew she wasn't a Madonna, but the preacher seemed to be the only one that made her think she had more worth than how far she could spread her legs. Or, how well she could type. It was her pride and joy, watching her skeleton fingers hurry over the buttons with precision and speed. It was good work, work she was good at, work that she could proudly take the money from Tommy's hands. She'd moved into a new, clean flat, and got a new bed she could sleep peacefully in. It was becoming easier to look at herself in the mirror, easier to look at the blooming curves that were beginning to hide the taut skin stretched over bones. She was a good woman, she said with a smile, and she had saved herself.

She was focused on the typewriter most days, and that was exactly what she was doing when Tommy was having a meeting with the Italians. Bloody wops, Arthur had grumbled all day when he heard they were coming. John was no better. They still remembered the green, white and red from the wrong side of Flanders field. But Tommy had insisted. Business was business, he'd said. And business was all he cared about, Lizzie silently finished for him. The white haired Changretta sat with the three brothers, leaving a gaggle of hulking Italians in their fine clothes to wander around the betting shop under Polly's watchful eyes. But Lizzie was focused on her work. That was until a slam on her desk sounded over her rapid typing. With a sigh, she looked up. He was tall with the typical olive skin, dressed in a refined way that did not reach his eyes: wild, hungry eyes that she recognised with a racing of her heart.

"You're Lizzie Stark, aren't you?" He asked. She forced herself to look down from his lustful look, down to his broad hand on her desk, which covered up some paper notes. This was not the Derby, she chanted, she would not let him.

"Yeah, and?" Her rough, Brummie accent was so in contrast with her newfound elegance.

"I think this is your usual rate," his snarl was enough to get her to cringe. Nevertheless, she looked up at him with a determined fire in her brown eyes. He looked like the nasty kind. Before, she would just lie back and think of England for those sorts, but now? She was going to be nasty back. A gun was tucked away in her drawer, her fingers wrapped over the cold metal. Tommy was still conversing with Vincente Changretta just next door, and he would not be happy if Lizzie decided to put a hole in his office, or in an Italian lackey. But Lizzie would not let the Derby repeat itself. No more customers. If Tommy wouldn't save her, she would save herself.

"Unless you want a secretary, I'm afraid I can't help you."

"A secretary, huh?" He gave an amused laugh as he slumped back in the chair opposite hers, heedless of her violent glare. The paper money stood out amongst the brown wood of the desk. "See, I thought you were a whore."

Before she could snap back, a hand gripped onto the Italian opposite her. The sudden motion caused him to jump up, cocky snarl replaced with pale fear. The man behind him was taller, a long coat covering his broad figure. He was handsome, with a round face, and the same hooked nose as the older man, still in Tommy's office.

"Now then, Alberti," he began with a soft voice, thinly veiling his menace. "I'd hate to tell my father that you've been harassing the Shelby's loveliest secretary." He gave a flirtatious grin to Lizzie, who was watching him with furrowed brows, hands not leaving the gun.

"Sorry, Mr Changretta." The quiet stutter in his voice was enough to satisfy the Changretta, who let his grip on him go as he motioned for him to leave. The newly identified Alberti reached over to grab the money from in front of Lizzie, only for it to be taken away by the other man. "Call it compensation for the distress you've caused Miss Stark."

Miss Stark. She hadn't been called that before. He smiled as he watched Alberti trudge away, hands in his pocket.

"Miss Stark," he turned to extend his hand. It was polite, not the kind of introduction she was used to. Hesitantly, she let go of the gun and shook his hand. "My name is Angel Changretta."

"It's just Lizzie," she replied. Angel tried to pass the paper notes to Lizzie, but she shoved her palms against her desk as she shook her head.

"I'm not a whore."

"I know." He looked like he was being honest, although Lizzie wasn't too sure what that looked like any more.

"I can't take that. I won't."

"Fine." With a sigh, he placed it in the pocket on the breast of his coat. Angel looked up to her with another smile. "At least let me spend it on a meal for us."

"Us?" Lizzie froze. The drawer was still open, gun glinting in her peripheral. She didn't know if Angel could see it, he was just staring at her with his dark eyes.

"Yes, I'd like to take you to my restaurant." She looked him up and down for any hint of a joke, the slightest tinge of evil intentions. "If that would be alright with you?"

She bit her lip. Men never bought her food, especially not without expecting some sort of invitation home. Despite that fact that weighed down in her mind, she managed to force back a smile.

"As a date?"

Angel blushed a little, scratching the back of his dark hair. It was shiny under the lights, indicating he'd applied a fair bit of gel in there. She wondered, quite bashfully, how it would feel to run her fingers through it.

"Well...um...yes." With a shrug, he managed to regain the confidence he had been oozing only seconds before. "Lizzie Stark, will you go on a date with me?"

It sent a schoolgirl-like thrill through her chest to hear that. He sounded so polite, like she was one of those proper ladies he could be courting, or whatever the hell those posh fucks called it.

"Just dinner," she wagged her finger in warning, more teasingly than not.

"My lady," he bowed a little, hand on his chest in theatrical earnestness. "I am a man of my word." The grin gracing his handsome face was infectious, causing Lizzie to beam back up at him. "Is that a yes?"

"My shift finishes at five," she told him. A date, she was going on a date, just like normal people do. "Don't be late."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

His grin didn't leave his face as his father walked out of the office with the three Shelby brothers in tow, his dark eyes totally fixated on her as they all left. She found herself watching him leave too, not quite believing it herself. The boys were looking at her funny, as if they couldn't quite understand what was going on. To Lizzie, it was simple: she was a good woman, she deserved a good man.

Read Part Two here

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders fanfiction #lizzie stark #lizzie stark fanfiction #angel changretta #lizzie stark x angel changretta #lizzie x angel #tommy shelby #tommy x lizzie #john shelby #john x lizzie #esme shelby #polly grey #jeremiah jesus #vincente changretta #fluff #peaky blinders fluff #fanfiction

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suninagarajan · 4 years

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Governor - General

Twenty Seventh Day of February, In the year of our lord 1816

Honorable, my lord Allen, Lord Speaker

Director, East India Company

Leadenhall Street

England

Your Lordship,

Though I have been put asunder from our blessed plot these five years past and the endless exile of my doom has left me low of spirit and poor of ink I take my pen in hand and like an avenging angel with sword of justice held aloft, address those matters my lordship made fit to unburden himself of in your letter to me of the twenty seventh last.

My lordship makes further enquiries of your humble servant as to our progress among the Hin – doo and the Mussel – men, alas my lordship must first permit me to trespass on his patience a trifle longer and with dew stained eye, like Euripides before the Athenians, keep alive the light of justice.

My lordship is aware that it was in the fifty-second year of the glorious reign of his blessed Christian majesty George of the third that it first pleased my lordship to bestow upon me the title of Governor - General of Kangalhi. And though I may have sought and would have surely gained greater reward on the fields of Flanders, I have for my lordship’s sake forsworn mere mortal glories, which my natural sensitivities and talents would have of certain revealed in time, and like Pilgrim walked the harder road to salvation. My lordship will perceive my astonishment therefore, that word has reached your gentle ear of transgressions.

And that I, who as a babe forshew my home to march with brave North against the king’s enemies, should be so cruelly used.

It is suggested, by whom I know not, but surely some dog in want of a kick, that I did appear on parade sans perruque.

This is an accursed slander!

But my lord must, by virtue of being a man of some understanding, concede that Kangalhi is damnable hot and the European is not built to stand in the sun in such contraptions as is likely to send a man mad with wanderings and distract an English gentleman from his Christian duty. Further my lordship is perhaps unaware that such contraptions being comprised largely of hair, can in the Kangalhi heat heap such odours and substances of a diabolical nature down upon one’s head which might preclude a man from his senses.

I am at pains to press upon my lordship that the removal of said contraption was solely for the benefit of the Company and my lordship, and was done, if it was done, as ever in service of one’s duty to God, England and the King!

My lordship further requests of me to account for the Claret account as issued last.

My lordship will surely not expect any man of such strong religious feelings to comport himself in wig and coat without a small emolument to soothe the brow and becalm the raging thirst that hammers at his soul. For does not St Paul urge Timothy thus - no longer drink only water, but use a little wine for the sake of your stomach and your frequent ailments.

I am sure my lordship doth require no further account safe in the understanding that as an honest good and true Englishman I follow the example of our Lord and his Christian teachings. I throw myself on my lordships tender mercies and beg that he, in his wisdom, doth dismiss these cruel commentaries and allow your humble servant’s character to be bescumbered no more.

I come at last, with a heavy heart and burdened soul to the wickedest liable of all. I know not where my lordship has found out these defamation's but am comforted in the knowledge that all great men have their detractors.

I am accused of lewd practices, to whit – fornication!

And with a native

It is true I keep two mussel-women in my house merely to see to what little needs I possess and often think, perchance the compensations of serving a great cause may be better kept in one’s pocket than given to two such maids with so little to show for it. That such innocent understandings have been turned to slander is a matter for pistols – for my lordship must agree that while the practice of employing natives in one’s house is acceptable to society a man can hardly be hung for it!

And individuals who have so little to do but to question how a man of good character and judgement – and an Englishman too, spends what little leisure hours he possesses is beyond the patience of any man and I will trouble no more to besmirch my lordships ears with such offensives.

Having thus unburdened my conscience I shall protest no longer, confident that my lordship as a man of such sweet and tender understandings will no longer allow himself to be troubled by such piffling trifles.

Having slain the dragon of calumny and removed the cursed stain from my Christian heart I turn to the matters on which my lordship has requested an elucidation and assure my lord that such matters would have reached your ear sooner but for the want of decent ink and good paper.

I shall dispense with the items briefly for I know my lord is most pressing of time and is not disposed to spend endless hours on wanderings.

Item 1. My lordship bids me to report on the broader situation in India – my lordship is aware that of the five kingdoms, which for propriety's sake, my lordship has deemed fit to prefer provinces, three are now under operational control.

My lordship will remember the long and tedious war that did bring this Leonidas to these shores that saw the demon sultan torn from his false throne and will no doubt be keen to bestow such honors as befits a Christian warrior when I tell his lordship that Andhra - Gho with the benefit of a battalion of 400 loyal British bulldogs under the command of Major Hamilton remains loyal to the Company.

Equally the Raja of PoohoRi has brought his mind to the excellent understanding that those men of valor who have for so long traversed the oceans and brought reason and Christian charity to so many who might otherwise find themselves in want of a civilizing influence, and who finds himself beset by hill tribes and lacking protection has, after consideration signed the agreement which my lordship was at pains to resolve, and is now firmly attuned to our way of thinking. My lordship may choose to consider such progress has been purchased on the cheap when he learns that we have expended less than 200 men total in the endeavor and have gained a province!

The Nawab of Kul, who, when not in company, one might describe as an excellent fellow, though not a Christian or a gentleman, has given up the fight that so many are called to and so few can answer and agreed to the terms my lordship set out in his past correspondence. We have, at the Nawab’s request quelled the murderous hordes who would beset this kingdom province with the fire of a thousand hells and are, as my lordship will be comforted to hear, at present very comfortable situated within the Queen's Palace at the indulgence of the Nawab and with an excellent view of the harbor and ample room to house 500 in the barracks below.

As for Dadra-Bo, my lordship may be aware that the question of succession following the demise of the previous Nazim has for some time gone unanswered. Nawab Abdallah who is the older of the only living sons of the former Nazim has, one might determine correctly, claimed that title from his now departed ancestor. His situation however is confused as the Nazim finds himself bereft of male offspring and as peculiarities with Indian law require at the very least that a Nawab can do his duty, his brother Nazim Abbas who is the younger although both were brought forth from their mother on the same day, has had himself declared Nazim!

As he is, dissimilar to his brother in at least one regard, cursed with an excess of Adams.

Unsurprisingly those perfidious dogs and acolytes of La Bonaparte have attempted to exploit the situation to their own interests and favour the younger Nazim. The hated Dutch Company have, as your lordship is aware, hopes of a monopoly on pepper, and have for some time now backed a different horse. The situation in Dadra-Bo remains confused therefore and the port city of Barsaat remains a “freeport” – for neither Frenchie nor Hollander can agree on who should charge what fee for what packet and who should have which warehouse, and as your lordship was kind enough to express previously since Flanders field the French have found their ship is leaking and may perforce find that a client in India stretches their resources a little far. As neither Castor nor Pollox are able to gain the advantage my lordships excellent policy of patience, patience, patience remains the byword of every company man, myself included.

Item 2. My lordship asks for news of the province of Kuru – Panchala and what progress we have made in that regard. Alas our progress has been slowed by the damnable heat, the lack of water supply and that insufferable bounder the Maharaja of Kuru Panchala.

The ride to Kai Purija is of five days hence, and for a European to partake of such a journey without the Maharaja’s support would surely be madness and certain death. Kai Purija, as your lordship will learn from the enclosed maps, sits in the middle of a fertile desert and water in the region is controlled by the Maharaja through a series of irrigation structures erected by his ancestors which pepper the province.

Our excellent surveyors Colonel Rawlings and Major Maitland have been about the province with the aid of guides from Kangalhi and Kul in Dadra-Bo, and believe they may have stumbled upon an excellent situation, some two days ride from the very spot from which your correspondent now toils at his labors.

However, the situation in question, a remarkable palace (and according to Major Maitland a rather fine example of middle Mahariti architecture built by a Mahariti Maharaja, unknown) is serviced by a single well, the aqueduct which serves the palace having long since fallen for lack of attention. And if a man wishes to live long enough to see his maker or to spend any time in Kuru Panchala without expiring immediately from heat, exhaustion or thirst a new conduit is necessary and such matters require express permission from the Maharaja.

We have as requested made a number of geological surveys in the area of Kuru Panchala directly adjacent to the border with Kul and in Dadra-Bo in the south of Kangali going eastward, and I enclose copies of these for your lordships perusal.

I hesitate to suggest that my lordship may consider these achievements quite enough for any man and may be tempted to recall his Hector to spend his days in the Elysian fields to reflect on well won glory.

I close your excellent friend and humble servant

My lord I hesitate to amend this well-crafted missal with what my lordship may consider to be an irrelevant adjunct but am reminded that whence last we had occasion to correspond you did request of me those matters of a personal nature which might from time to time fall into the ear of your humble servant.

Colonel Rawlings who has just returned from a three-week sojourn in Kuru Panchala where he attempted to reach and survey the great forest, has reliably informed me that Prince Lakshmana is gravely ill. My lord will no doubt remember that Prince Lakshmana became heir to the throne when his elder half-brother Prince Indranil-Ghok along with a sizable number of court officials and members of the Royal family were struck down by the pestilence some years ago. This event occasioned the unusual and some might say unchristian practice of the Maharaja putting aside his then Rani (the mother of the deceased) in favour of her sister who is in fact the mother of the current heir! - What ways these people have!

I will endeavour to perceive more of the situation at what I hesitate to assume is your lordships pleasure but Colonel Rawlings informs that the news of Prince Lakshmana’s condition is well known amongst the common people and they make liberty to discuss the matter freely not knowing that Colonel Rawlings having spent some time in this land following the rather unpleasant events of the regimental dinner which shall as ever remain unspoken, has sufficient Hin – doo, a smattering of Persian and some Maharati which allows him to travel quite naturally amongst the natives. Rawlings informs that according to the common people the young prince has in fact been ailing for some time and Maharaja Riphender Narayan – Goi has now sent forth his palace agents and instructed them to find a cure.

They say none dare venture near Kai Puriji empty handed!

I make at liberty to add this news to my previous endeavors merely out of respect to your lordship

And now I close,

Your Humble servant

Brigadier – General William Spencer Harcourt

Governor- General Kangalhi

Queens Palace,

Hundyrabha

Kangalhi

India

#fiction #india #my writing #story #creative writing #books #bookslr #booksblr #reading #fictional history

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lily-of-the-eyrie · 5 years

Photo

Here’s that long-overdue revision of that cast sheet attached to my first info post on the 35th, featuring the Colonel’s team! 🍊

Extended character sheets & HCs below:

🍊 The Colonel

Born: 1700 Age (in 1750): 50

The fatherly commanding officer of the 35th. Known for the sincerity in his concern for the rest of his soldiers, from the oldest of officers to the newest of recruits, he’s well-loved by his men.

The type to regularly check in on his subordinates, he keeps a close eye on everyone to make sure they stay out of trouble. It’s not only about making sure everybody’s doing their job, though—if he notices a soldier looking like they’re down in the dumps for one reason or another, he’s never afraid to step in and talk to them. As such, he wound up knowing quite a bit about a lot of his men’s personal lives (but he wouldn’t tell another soul, you have his word on it). On the other end, said men agree that he’s a very approachable boss.

Generally a gentle teacher, he’s not a huge fan of using corporal punishment like it’s the one solution to every problem. But he is still quite the strict disciplinarian, and holds all his subordinates to high standards. While this means he wouldn’t flog anyone over an improperly-cocked hat or a sloppily worn coat, do expect those concerned to get advised about it (relentlessly, if they persist in their inattentiveness).

Through his eternally busy days juggling the regiment’s management with Templar work, he makes it a point to ensure that his soldiers are well taken care of. He took it as his obligation and duty to them as their leader, and a proper reward for their loyalty and the hardships they suffer through in the name of their service; however, he also inwardly also saw it as a way to make up for the unfortunate and worrying frequency with which his men seemed to, in one way or another, keep getting caught in the crossfire of the Templar-Assassin war, which follows him wherever he goes as a member of the Templar Order.

===

Through the years, the Colonel had accumulated something of a close team of soldiers within his own regiment whose members had, at some point in time, had an unfortunate run-in with the Assassins, and are therefore more aware of the shadowy war unfolding around them than the rest of their oblivious comrades. Not all of them are full time Templars, but if the Colonel needs a few extra hands to help him carry out some Templar duties (or even anything else outside work, really), they’re always ready to chip in.

Here’s a quick chart for everyone, sorted by age:

===

🍊 John

Born: 1697 Age (in 1750): 53

One of the veteran sergeants within the regiment, John’s the oldest member of the gang—older than even the Colonel himself, in fact (by 3 years, to be precise). Usually found somewhere near his boss, he’s the only actual ring-carrying Templar in the party, and serves as the Colonel’s personal aide in the Order’s matters.

Calm and even-tempered, he’s attentive to his charges, who in turn consider him someone they can easily talk to about their problems. He’s grown into a sort of mentor figure in the barracks, and as such, if there’s any internal trouble brewing among the soldiers, he’s often the first to pick up on it—he’s got eyes and ears on every wall.

A really, really old friend of the Colonel’s, he’s been standing at the man’s side for the last 40 years, serving as his assistant since the day Monro stepped into the barracks as a fresh-faced greenhorn no older than 16. The arrangement had been the work of the Colonel’s father, who’d wanted someone to help his son settle down into his new life with the army and the local Templar network—a request that John had volunteered to fulfill.

While that was the first time the two of them met, the story goes way further back. John's father was a soldier who had once fought alongside Monro Sr. in Flanders during the Nine Years War; coming along with the latter’s family when they moved over to Ireland, he’d been serving them as a guard. An Assassin attack targeting Monro Sr. at around this time ended up killing John’s father in the process; feeling responsible for his friend’s death, the Colonel’s father decided to help support the man’s widow and 5-year-old son even after the Monros moved back to Scotland. Eventually, when he got older, John joined the 35th Foot, and was only too happy to help when he heard that his longtime patron’s son was coming over.

Having stood side by side with the Colonel for literally his whole career both as a soldier and as a Templar, they’d been through a lot of shit together, and John knows a lot of things about his boss many others have no idea about. From paltry episodes like watching young Ensign Monro fumble with the regimental colours for the first time to life-or-death situations like covering for each other during clashes in Assassin territory, he’s been there and done it all. If you want to hear an interesting story about the Colonel, you can try grill John for one (he’s one tight-lipped fellow though, so it won’t be easy).

Given his circumstances, he’s got a good reason to not be very fond of Assassins, but doesn’t let it get to his head, and he’d long outgrown any leftover considerations of petty revenge. He’s more concerned about avoiding the same fate that befell his father now.

While it took him a very long time to get promoted to Sergeant, he has no intention of going any higher, since his current position puts him in the best place to still stick around the rank and file. The Colonel can approach any of the officers anytime and keep tabs on them himself, but seeing that there are things that most of the common soldiers would consider too petty or crass to talk about right in front of him, that’s pretty much John’s front to cover (though the privates, on the other hand, have somewhat noticed that whatever they tell John seems to find its way to the Colonel’s ear soon enough, and do use him as an unofficial multipurpose helpline from time to time).

Took a liking to muskets for their versatility, and makes it a point to get good at using one…which he did, earning the jealous glare of the resident self-proclaimed best shot, Philip.

🍊 Thomas

Born: 1726 Age (in 1750): 24

An easygoing fellow who takes things in stride, he believes the cheapest and most effective way to lessen any kind of misery is to let go of them ASAP. Though he’s incessantly chirpy for most part, his friends do appreciate his ability to keep people’s spirits up even in trying times.

Joined the army for the money—coming from a family on the verge of poverty with too many children but too little money to afford an apprenticeship for every one of them, and rather enticed by the idea of traveling around by joining the army, he took up soldiering instead (plus he thinks the uniforms look cool).

Very close with William, one of his older brothers who signed up together with him. While they’re polar opposites in terms of personality, they’re pretty much joined at the hip in everything else. You’ll see them going around together most of the time.

After an incident involving working together with the Colonel and John to save William, who had gotten kidnapped by some thugs in 1743 shortly after they joined the regiment, he’d grown to be quite attached to his commander, and is always ready to do anything for the man (yes, he always goes around camp looking like the Colonel’s biggest fan and isn’t ashamed of it). He’s usually up and about running errands for the Colonel.

Good at cooking, he seems to always know the right moment to flip a pancake or take the stew off the fire, or exactly how much salt or sugar to put on something. While most of the other soldiers considered cooking just another part of their daily routine, he approached it like a hobby (and will totally offer to run errands for you in exchange for some condiments he couldn’t obtain by himself). In the meantime, his mates are more than happy to leave cooking duties to him—especially William, who’s fully aware that he can’t cook for shit and owns it.

Always hungering for cooking ingredients, Thomas will often frequent the garrison’s gardens looking to trade materials with some friends, and spends a lot of time at the town markets. Once out in the wilderness in the colonies though, he’s often found wandering among the light infantry company in search of wild mushroom picking tips or the like... Or he might just go bug Gist when he’s around.

🍊 William

Born: 1724 Age (in 1750): 26

Thomas’ more responsible older brother.

Tries to keep Tommy out of trouble 90% of the time, but may be tempted to join in for the remaining 10%.

Aware of their family’s unfortunate financial state, suffering from difficulty in finding other kinds of work, and seeing joining the army as better than being a vagrant, he decided to go along with his brother’s career plans. Still, he’s hoping they don’t have to get sent right into the frontlines…

Got kidnapped while on patrol duty once. It turns out that the kidnappers were affiliated with the Assassins, and were paid to beat some information out of a particular redcoat which their sources told them could help with identifying a suspected Templar—except they got the wrong person (they were actually looking for John). He was eventually saved with the Colonel’s and Thomas’ combined efforts, but the incident did leave a few scars, the most noticeable one being the cut right across his face.

Needless to say, he came out of the experience a little worse for wear, but grew the same attachment his brother did for their commander. The Colonel was still a Captain back then, but still, seeing one of your higher-tier superiors come to get your commoner ass out of trouble in person is pretty powerful stuff.

While not as impulsive and/or courageous as his little brother, William is the more strategic of the two. He doesn’t get much credit for it as a foot soldier whose on-the-job effectiveness depends on how well he follows orders, but if you’re planning a sneak attempt into or out of an Assassin hideout and need someone who can think on his feet, he’s your man.

Very good at cards, so much that anyone who played against him will say that the only winning move is to not play at all. He jokes that it’s all because his bad luck is all getting used up elsewhere, but honestly nobody knows how he kept such a good win-lose ratio.

Not a very good cook. He can help with preparing the materials, but once they’re in the pan or the pot, it’s Jesus-take-the-wheel time.

🍊 Philip

Born: 1721 Age (in 1750): 29

A ladies’ man with a showy streak.

To his credit, he never brags about something he didn’t work to earn.

Joined the army primarily to impress a girl he was smitten with, and was always eager to drill, march, or anything “soldierly”. Unfortunately, the girl ended up taking off with someone else instead, which threw him off for a bit. The Colonel, noticing that the promising new kid everyone’s talking about seemed rather distraught, helped him get back up on his feet (…by taking him to go blow some stuff up together in the training field, but the point was that it worked).

He’s always trying to stay on top of the class among his colleagues, but is a good teacher to his juniors. He’s also got something of a friendly(?) rivalry going on with John.

When not on duty, he’s usually hanging out in the nearest pub, charming (or trying to charm) the local ladies over some drinks.

He loves the view from the guard towers, and will continue to loudly proclaim it no matter how many insinuations about intelligence and high altitude his friends lovingly toss at him (it’s something of a running joke at this point, yes).

A sharp-eyed fellow, he’d often be the first guard, if not the only one, to spot some shady hooded figures slipping around the base. The other guards seem to think that he was hallucinating or making things up because they never saw anything...but not the Colonel, who gave Philip a toned-down explanation of the hooded figures’ identity, and tasked him with keeping the base safe from them as well as he can.

🍊 Henry

Born: 1721 Age (in 1750): 29

The local stick-in-the-mud.

The second son of a relatively prosperous landowner, he lived a comfortable life growing up. Having dreamed of joining the army since he was a boy, he’d joined in as soon as he can, and had plans of paying his way up the career ladder quickly...until a string of bad business deals soured the family finances, rendering the plan unfeasible. Not keen on quitting halfway through (and more than a little in denial about his now flatter, lighter purse), he resolved to just earn those promotions with sheer hard work instead.

This did give him a bit of a complex about his superiors though, especially the lower-ranking ones, since he believed the only difference between them and himself is that they had money and he didn’t. Of course, he couldn’t talk shit about them openly, but he does fret about it a lot…

He grew to be a bit of penny-pincher, a trait he saw as common and inevitable among the foot soldiers due to their very meagre pay, but didn’t expect the higher-ranking, definitely better paid officers to have—which was why he was surprised to find out that the Colonel, unlike his presumably rich fellow commanders, seemed rather stingy himself. He turned up his nose at this in the beginning, until the Colonel took notice of his management skills and entrusted him with some of the renovation projects he’d been doing on the side. Having discovered that said projects were where most of his superior’s money had gone, his opinion of the Colonel took a turn for the better.

Eventually warming up to the job, he grew an attachment to the idea that it was a thing worth doing well, and had been pouring his full effort into it ever since. The Colonel’s quite pleased with this development.

His renovation-related errands often sends him right at Paul, one of the regiment’s grenadiers who had previously worked in construction. They became good friends pretty quickly.

Speaking of which, even outside his errands, Henry tends to hang around Paul a lot—since he’s a rather slight fellow, Thomas theorizes that he may have felt safer standing close to people who look like 100-year-old trees...

Tends to overthink things, needs to be watered with reassurance regularly.

Highly susceptible to the cold, he doesn’t do very well during winters. He’d really rather stay indoors when it’s snowy outside...

While he spends a lot of time with paperwork, he’s also an impressively fast runner, and could beat the rest of the group easily in a footrace—a fact that he’s inevitably rather smug about.

Since his involvement with the Colonel’s work mostly centers around his renovation projects, Henry’s the one least exposed to the Assassin Brotherhood among his friends. However, he does have an extensive knowledge of the Colonel’s friend network outside the army, and often wonders why they all wear that fancy ring.

🍊 Paul

Born: 1715 Age (in 1750): 35

The quietest of the bunch. Neither wordy nor loud, you won’t hear much from him while at work.

Formerly a bricklayer by trade, he joined in for a more stable, less seasonal income. He’s usually found quietly doing whatever task happened to be assigned to him that day, and probably one of the few people in the camp who isn’t bored to death by sentry duty.

It was during one such shift guarding one of the army’s storehouses during the regiment’s stay in Cork that he first encountered an Assassin. While by no means a careless fighter, he’d also never seen a hidden blade before—a disadvantage that nearly got him killed. Surviving the assault by the sheer luck of help arriving before he bled out to death on the ground like the rest of his comrades around him, he’d been wondering about the strange blade ever since—until he saw the Colonel going toe to toe with someone wielding one such weapon like he’d been doing it all his life. Naturally, he’s got some questions for his commander, who taught him just enough to keep himself and the other soldiers alive should they run into another wielder of this mysterious blade.

On a more informal level, he’s more or less the unofficial babysitter for the party, in charge of breaking up petty bickering between William and Thomas, playing Henry’s therapist, trying to make sure Philip doesn’t drink himself under the table when fooling around at the bar, etc. The Colonel’s quite thankful for his looking out for the others, since he often couldn’t do it himself.

He took a liking to fishing, seeing it as a hobby where he can sit alone in peace for a (rather long) while. During off hours, you might see him by the quayside or on the shore.

🍊 Extra HCs

Given their varying circumstances, all the boys have differing levels of awareness when it comes to the Templars’ and Assassins’ existence. ・John knows pretty much all the ground details of the Colonel’s Templar operations and sometimes even tags along with him on them, but he doesn’t sit in meetings the Colonel has with the Order’s higher-ups (Birch, Lawrence, Haytham, etc.) ・The Walsh brothers, given their close-and-personal encounter with the Assassins, kinda know that (1) there’s this thing called “the Assassin Brotherhood”, and (2) for whatever reason, they’re out for the Colonel and his friends. They’re not sure what to make of it, but they’re 100% certain they’re not going to let those shady guys have their commander. ・Henry has no idea whatsoever about the Assassins, and with his specialty being renovation-related desk jobs, he doesn’t really have the chance to run into them. ・Philip and Paul only know that if they see someone skulking around the base wearing a hood and has a knife strapped to their arm, they can’t be up to any good; however, the Colonel had ordered them not to engage these suspicious figures unless they get too close to the fort/camp, and be extra careful when they choose to fight them.

When it comes to splitting up into groups for work, John, Thomas, and William tend to work with the Colonel on out-of-base activities, while Henry, Philip, and Paul watch the base while they’re gone. However, when the situation calls for it, they can get swapped around; for example, if the Colonel needs extra help on the bone-crunching side, he could bring Paul instead of Thomas or William (though those two tend to get antsy if you split them up, no matter how much they deny it, so there’s that to consider too—team management is such great fun /s)

The Colonel originally had no plans to adopt so many people in his own regiment, since he risked tipping off the Assassins about a Templar’s presence in it if he did, but well, sometimes life doesn’t turn out the way you planned it to be. In the end, rather than repeatedly letting his men get stabbed for a war they never even knew existed, he decided to let a few of them know what they’re up against. He’s fully aware that he’d get in hot water with his Templar seniors if he starts handing out adoption papers to all his soldiers like it’s going out of style though, so he does keep a cap on it, even if it means he can’t always save them all—a fact that plagues him a lot.

That said, he does find his little accidental gang to be very lovable, even if some of its members do not have their shit together sometimes...but they’ll grow up eventually.

On the group’s end, knowing that their boss actually gave a damn about their problems and whether they lived or died did a lot to solidify their loyalty to him—or, as they like to call it, their “sense of teamwork”.

📝 Miscellaneous Notes

Thank you for reading! I’ve been toying with the idea of giving the Colonel some friends among his own troops, and well, it’s not AC until the Assassins get involved, so I tried writing in how the common redcoats under his command would have potentially interacted with the Brotherhood—something which we all know happens quite frequently 👀

When developing this crew, I made it a point to tie them into the Colonel’s story in one way or another—this ranges from callbacks to stuff us players had had to do (Henry w/ renovation sidequests, Paul w/ warehouse raids), bits of info in the Colonel’s lines (Philip’s story grew out of that gunpowder line at Ben Franklin’s place), and main story quest-type ideas (Thomas & William’s story was written as something that could’ve fit into an Assassin-related Templar mission). John’s a bit of a special case: his job is mainly to be someone who knows what’s really going on other than the Colonel himself, because otherwise the poor man wouldn’t have anyone to talk to 😂 Also I thought it’d be nice to give the Colonel someone who’s to him like Lee or Holden was for Haytham, so there he goes 😀

Given how this entire gang’s story happened pre-1750 and I haven’t fine-tuned all the details of that segment of the Colonel’s backstory yet, I might still change a few parts of that character data table (this is why their birthplaces are so vague 😂), but this is what I’ve got so far.

#⟪Portraiture 🎨⟫#⟪Muster Roll 👥⟫#after 14398 years the boys are finally #ready to roll out #😂#alright so #now if you see some redcoats wandering around in the background of my doodles #you can probably tell who they are #:3c

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goingsllightlymad · 5 years

Text

Blinded By Your Light - Part 3. On Changing.

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x reader

Summary: Y/N is the definition of ordinary. Studying at a medical school as far as she can get from her rainy hometown of Birmingham, she never expected to be shipped off the Flanders when the war was at it’s peak. Much less to meet a handsome young patient with the most beautiful pair of blue eyes she had seen in her life who as fate would have it would fall into her lap.

Word Count: 3474 (again, this one was getting really long so I split it into two parts, so this bit is pretty short and the other one is much longer. It’s pretty chaotic, actually. You can really see my internal screaming shining through!)

Warnings: uhhhhhh “blasphemy” (in that reader roasts Jesus and like three different people tell God to piss off)?? Me writing about Birmingham, knowing absolutely nothing about Birmingham.

A/N: You might think you’ve already read this and “Oh look, — is back on their bullshit” but no! You haven’t! (I was a right idiot and posted chapter 4 (which wasn’t even finished yet) instead of chapter 3 (which was finished), so you probably got a punch in the face with in-contextual angst and a whole lotta plot holes, amigo.

________________________________________________________________

When you could stand again, you stood and bought yourself a cup of coffee in the town square. Sitting in the mid-morning sunlight, smoothing down your uniform and watching the children playing football and laughing, you tried to convince yourself that this would be the end of things. In the clearer light it was easier for you to imagine that his face was already fading from your mind, becoming steadily little more than one of the faded posters on the boulangerie wall, yet another reminder of the past quickly disappearing into the morning air. By the time you'd finished your coffee it would have gone entirely.

Or so you tried so hard to believe.

Yet despite all this - despite the surprising warmth of the morning as you took a walk along the banks of the river, despite the flowers blooming beside the river that you picked and arranged in a little bouquet to lay upon your windowsill when you got back to the hospital, despite the way the sunlight looked upon the water and the way you could swear the face you saw staring up at you was anything but your own - the hospital when you returned to it seemed colder and lonelier than ever before, the empty shell that seemed all at once too small to hold you and large enough to drown you into its tall white walls and empty corridors that led nowhere at all now. He was not waiting for you at the end of those corridors. Nothing was waiting for you at the end of those corridors.

You tried to get back to work as normal, but even you could see that something had changed, and things could never be as good as they were before. Every morning was a little colder inside, even though the sun burst brighter and the flowers painted your windowsill red and pink and glorious yellow when you woke, still the days were longer and you went to sleep a little lonelier than when you woke up that morning. It was becoming increasingly clear that there was nothing to keep you here now that he was gone, and you hated it.

You hated the way you still saw him when you walked into the west ward to change the sheets of the last few patients, spending longer and longer in your chamber, waiting listlessly for orders that never came because there was no one here anymore. The war was over; you had won, so why did it all feel so tragic?

And so it was not long before you handed in your notice, taking those last four lonely weeks to wander around the grounds aimlessly, taking in the trees in bloom, the birds that wheeled overhead at dawn when every night you could not sleep for wanting to leave so badly. You'd never seen it all before, all the colours of the sky when the long nights were finally over and the endless days began again as though they never left. Four weeks was all it took, to stand by his bed more than you would like to admit, trying to conjure him back up as he whirled through your mind like the happiest thought that you would never have again. The taste of his lips as he left you, the way he laughed and the sight of him watching as you walked up the hospital aisle every morning, regular as the sun and you loved him a little more every day.

When those four weeks were over at last you packed your bags and left for good, casting one last glance over your shoulder as you resigned those last memories to peace as he cast no letters across that boundless ocean to you. Almost a month, and not a word had come your way. A smarter girl than you might have been over him by now. And as the train carried you out of the station and the nowhere town you left behind, you wondered if the view had been so sweet to him.

________________________________________________________________________________

Quitting medical school had been the easy part. Stepping off the train in Kent, it only took a matter of days before you had had enough of the quaint little villages, so much like the lonely town now far into your past, with their thatched roofs and old boarding schools. Soon enough you were on another train, this time further North, watching the forests of bluebells slipping past out of the train window, becoming grayer, flatter, towns where there was no sun at all as you came closer and closer to where you knew you must now go.

And late that night you were there at last, leaving the station and making your way down the familiar backstreets to the church as you took in once again the dark and dirty streets and drab buildings. The little neighbourhood you knew better than any - Small Heath, Birmingham.

It had been a shock at first - even to you, long away as you might have been, the change was brutally clear and unnerving. Outside the station the buildings were faded now, hung with washing dripping red water thick with the traces of blood onto the street, and you could see the marks of bullets on the walls and drainpipes, shots missed in fights there rarely were before. The town was a shadowy reminder that all the world had changed a little for the worse.

"Ma'am?"

You were shaken out of your dark thoughts by the sudden voice of a station steward, a young boy with deep worry-lines on his face that made you wonder what he'd seen that you could not even imagine. It wasn't good for young boys to look so old. You smiled down at his briefly, and he gestured to the heavy suitcase you were carrying.

"Sure y'got the right stop?" he sounded genuinely surprised, and even before when there was trouble in the streets you had never heard that telltale strain of concern in his voice. It struck you like a slap to the face - he was afraid for you. You felt like you were walking into hell itself.

"Yeah, quite sure. This is Small Heath, right?" you joked tensely, forcing a reassuring smile but he seemed not to register or not to find it amusing as he frowned at you calculatingly, trying to figure something out about you. You tried not to shrink under his gaze, unused to such unusual behaviour and trying to remember something about this from before. Had it really been so cold here before? You couldn't remember being so uneasy.

" 'Fraid so. Y'got anywhere to stay?" he stood beside you, facing the street, but you could see him sneak a glance at you out of the corner of his eye as he said it, as if waiting for your answer with a great deal of interest. Concern. You convinced yourself that you were not unnerved.

"Yeah, I... the church." The words slipped out before you could stop them, the hasty plan concocted on the train even as it was nearing the station. You thought perhaps you had known all along what you had to do, still it seemed unreal to say it out loud, like trying to talk about a dream and having it come out as empty words and the promise of it being greater, grander in your mind when it was yours to live alone. There was some darkness, some curious depth in those simple words that made you wonder if there were some untold fate yet hanging in the stars for you, the promise or the warning of some unseen path stretching before you as you left the train and began again somewhere new. This was only the beginning of things. "My father is the priest."

"Ah." he grunted, nodding and you wondered if it had eased his mind or burdened it. You hadn't been home in so long that you doubted he even remembered you as he pretended to. He couldn't have been more than sixteen, still just a child and working already late into the night. "Two lefts and a right down the back alley." he pointed away and you bristled, his patronising tone getting on your nerves.

"Yes, I know where the church is!" you snapped, exhausted from the journey and exasperated. You couldn't wait to get out of the cold and put down your bags in your childhood room, get some sleep and find it all brighter and friendlier than tomorrow, the Birmingham you remembered instead of the harsh city you somehow seemed to have fallen into in its place.

"Right, right. Meant no harm, just that yer" at this he scratched his head pensively, trying to find the right words to say, "just don't look like yer the sorts that's from round here, s'all." he looked you over once again, and this time you rolled your eyes and, picking up the suitcase barely filled with all that had been your life for the past years, set off down the street.

It was only late afternoon, still you had missed the sunset and found yourself now in the midst of a hazy evening gloom, blueish and thick with smoke and the smell of rain in the distance, threatening and homely and a million other things that you couldn't quite find words for. The streets around you were no warmer than you had feared, the windows shut up against the cold and barred for good measure, doors locked and padlocked. The whole tcity resplendent in its grime and fear and darkness, and you could taste the foreboding like a sore upon your tongue, soiling those chapped lips where once his kisses gave you the truth you had so long been seeking, and once took it away. You found yourself hurrying slightly as you walked down empty streets where you could have sworn there had been life, been light, before. Shivering a little against the icy cold, you could not help your mind straying back to the sunny mornings in the hospital where you had been so sure that summer would come earlier, bring lighter days and brighter hearts but here the cold wold last forever.

And, turning a sharp bend in the street, there it loomed before you - the tall brick walls of the church, single spire pointing up into the starless sky in vindication of some god turned away from this personal hell of a town. You reached around in your pockets for the keys from a lifetime before. In case you ever came back, and here you were before the tall doors, looking on at what you were beginning to fear was a very bad decision. You should not have come back here; you should have stayed away while there was still memory enough to convince you that this city was more than just this mass of shut-up shops and bullet-marks and stories behind every brick and muddy cobblestone that seemed more blood than words to tell.

With that thought still burning in your mind, you unlocked the doors and pushed them open with no small effort, shuddering at the loud groan as they jolted open. Before you the church was dark as night, a single candle at the altar the only sign that here was life at all. You thought you could remember a time when the nights were alive with candlelight, warm and welcoming as though here was some heaven sent down to you in that time when you could still be forgiven. There was no forgiveness here, only the cruel reminder that if there was a better place this was not it, and you doubted you could ever reach it at all. The war was over, and for the first time in your life you had sins enough to atone forever.

You stopped in front of the altar for a moment, looking up at Christ on his cross in the faint glow of the candlelight, shadows like ropes upon his wrists and playing upon his face, and through the half-light you could make out those disappointed eyes staring down at you, distant on his sad height. Once, when you were so much younger, you had asked your father why he looked so sad. Your father told you he was dying, that he loved the world and so he had to die for it. You hadn't understood and he had told you that sometimes when you love something you have to let it go, and let yourself be hurt by it to let you know you really love it. There are somethings you can't not love, no matter how many times they let you down. You thought perhaps you never understood that until now. You took a tea-candle from the rack beside the altar, lighting one carefully and setting it beneath the cross with a quick prayer under your breath and a last glance up at the messiah in his glorious death before your eyes.

You picked up your suitcase again and went on to the door in the back wall of the church, half-concealed behind a thick purple curtain. Taking a deep, shaky breath, you lifted a hand and knocked once, twice, upon the worn wood. A minute or so passed and you considered knocking again when, from somewhere in the backrooms behind the door, there came the sound of heavy footsteps, and promptly a low sound as of the tapping of the door, followed by the clicking of several locks. A compartment in the top of the door slid open, a small opening appearing through which you could see a flash of white hair.

"Who is it."

Your father's voice, but old and tired and with a strain that was more of guilt than of age, so changed it took you a moment to recognise the man you knew behind the door.

"(Y/N)." you murmured, biting your lip to keep from bursting out with emotion at the tired man who came suddenly into view through the window. He looked up at you then, and his eyes met yours, clouded and white and unseeing entirely.

"(Y/N)." he repeated softly, more to himself than to you, reaching up to rub his blind eyes with a trembling hand. "(Y/N)." he shook his head and smiled sadly, and for a moment you wondered if he would turn you away, for even in the blurred white of those eyes you could not miss the shadow that passed across his features, as though he wished you anywhere but here.

Then the shadow passed, and he reached out for the door again. You heard another lock break open, then one more, then the door whined as it opened out. You had not remembered there being so many locks there before. You could not remember there being any there at all. Why would you need locks in a church? You squeezed through the low doorway, bursting out into the small anteroom beyond. There, upon the old kitchen table, were laid out the remnants of a meagre dinner, one place setting and a half-filled glass of whiskey. You couldn't remember your father drinking. You tried to ignore the sound of the locks clicking back into place behind you, the way your father checked them anxiously to make sure they held. You tried not to wonder what he was keeping out.

"Didn't expect yer." he muttered, wheezing a little as he felt for his chair and sat heavily.

"Sorry. Didn't expect to be back. Just sort of happened." it wasn't entirely a lie. You had thought for some time that maybe you should go home, try to start again like you did when you were small. You had thought perhaps that here, where everything had been so easy and free, you could set things right, forget about your winter in Flanders and leave the past to rest. It was only as you were on the train, heading further and further from Kent with every passing second, that you knew that, conscious decision or not, you were on your way to Birmingham. It had seemed almost that fate had a plan laid out for you, though you did not know what it was.

"Glad yer back. Been... different without you. Wish things were better 'ere for yer." his eyes wandered around the room, then snapped back to you as his expression grew more stern and wistful.

"What'd'ya mean?" you smiled at your own accent coming back a little. The longer you stayed here the stronger it became, and it always amused you to hear it slipping through when you least expected it. The american patients at the hospital had used to like the clipped Kentish voice you had got used to using, and you had always laughed at that. If they only knew what you Brits were really like, you bet they wouldn't be quite so impressed.

"Ain't exactly how you left it, thought y'would have seen it by now." he reached for his glass and you pushed it into his hands. He grunted a thank-you and took a long, slow sip of his whiskey. Finishing the glass, he set it down and stared off into the distance with a drawn-out sigh. "It's getting worse out there. People are dying, and there ain't nothing God's got to do about it. 'S evil. 'S getting more and more evil."

You shivered involuntarily at his words, and at the late-March chill that had crept in without you noticing, tugging your thin cardigan closer around you. All of a sudden you wished you hadn't come here. The cold, the darkness, the streets with their laundry soaked through with more blood than water, there was something about it that made you want nothing more than to run away like you did all those years before.

"Church is quiet. Didn't see anyone in there tonight."

He sneered at the wall, laughing bitterly into his glass and tugging at the neck of his wrinkled robe, the figure of a saint abandoned to his God alone.

"The world daren't need a God when they got guns inside their pillowcases. There's no God out there, only hurt and more blood every'day. En't no one in church for days now, and when they are, en't no forgiveness for them too. There'll be darkness coming, judgement and just you watch, none of 'em will be spared. None of us at all."

You bit your lip hard, looking on at the man in front of you as one might look at a spitting serpent, just a little more dangerous and a lot more worrying than you remembered. But there was a moment in his anger that soothed you, because this was exactly the man you had always feared him to be, in those days when his anger would get the best of him and he would come raining down upon you like the hellish words of God turned vengeful. He was quiet, but he was and always had been a little crueller than was normal for a priest in a town of sinners, and you had spent the best part of your life wondering which of him he was entirely - the anger or the sadness that came after. And now you knew exactly, that he was the vengeance of the righteous man that is inside unholy.

"Is my room still here?"

"Course. Didn't know if you'd want it when y'came back." When you came back. He had been waiting for you, knowing you'd come back eventually. No one ever left here, and you were no exception. This grim, grey city had an unusual way of pulling you back in every time you ran away, reaching out with shadowy fingertips to snatch away whatever daydream of a life you had built before you. "Go on. I'll be a little longer."

You went to the stairs, looking back over the bannister and through the hallway doorway to see him sitting alone in the kitchen, staring off into space, his expression a murky mess of turmoil and troubled conflict. Even after so long you could still read him like a book. From a distance he looked so small, a tiny figure hunched over in gowns that were too big for him. The same gowns he used to command a room in, stately and tall. The years had changed more than just you.

"Dad."

He lifted his head in the direction of your voice, blinking as you tried to find something to say to let him know that you had not missed him, but that you loved him so much in that moment that you thought perhaps if you would leave again now you'd miss him this time around.

"It's not so bad."

You smiled and went upstairs.

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voidsettle · 6 years

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Warm Flanders

Indulging our traveling desire and continuing the newly developed tradition of European Christmas markets, we bought tickets to Belgium. This trip had its peculiarities - and a unique aftertaste. Welcome to the capital of Europe!

Panorama of Bruges from Belfry (I assume, the point where Brendan Gleeson's character jumps off in the movie 'In Bruges'

I don't know how we chose Belgium - but it all started with just Brussels, and then grew to another three towns. I suspect we may have a psychological condition.

After Brussels, Bruges was an obvious addition to the trip. Possibly the most well-known of tourist destinations in Belgium, it features a well-preserved medieval town so quaint like it crawled out of a fairy tale.

The movie 'In Bruges' (a nice piece of popularized arthaus) added to the fame of the place. The town in this flick is a character of its own - it serves as the premise and the plot twist, it helps to make hard choices and aids the protagonist. Besides, the film has gorgeous cast. Seriously, look it up if you've never seen it - or rewatch if you have.

Being in Belgium (and, more importantly, its northern part, Flanders - probably the most history-heavy region), I absolutely had to see Antwerp. Ghent was a curious little addition that we didn't plan - but that happened between Bruges and Antwerp just because we had time and opportunity. Stay tuned for more.

Brussels: Art and Chocolate

Rue de la Chaufferette/Lollepotstraat, LGBTQ art street in the inner City of Brussels

Brussels is a weird city. Commonly I enjoy places that don't mind you roaming the streets (think Rome, Bangkok, New York). Brussels is however different. It etched into my memory as grey and rainy (I barely got a chance to snap a photo), and multifaceted to the point of utter incomprehensibility.

That is partly on national communities. Our free-tour guide mused on the immigration agenda of the city: nearly 80% of the current population (first and second generations) are not native to Belgium. The city, being the administrative and political center of Europe, is the very definition of a cultural melting pot.

Only a day before we arrived, French workers had a strike against ever-growing prices - thus all of Brussels was covered in barricades (not sure about the name, but something like Cheval de frise or knife-rest (aka Spanish rider) obstacles; all cold metal and barbwire, brutal).

But Brussels also flaunts its historic heritage and celebrates its art. The whole city is covered in street art - most notably scenes and characters from comics and statements in favor of LGBTQ community. Street decorations and overhead lamps of different designs and splendor turn the city into an exhibition of light.

Altmejd, 2015. Musees royaux des Beaux-Arts de Belgique/Koninklijke Musea voor Schone Kunsten van Belgie

The more traditional artistry is spread within the cluster of museums of Mont des Arts/Kunstberg, most notably the Royal Museu of Fine Arts that features both old masters (David, Rembrandt, Rubens - and a whole hall and Google-partnered tour program dedicated to Bruegel) and new masters (some of my beloved Impressionists including Van Gogh, Serat, Gaugin, and a couple of Rodins). Another pearl, Magritte's museum is just down the stairs.

We've also followed one of the most bizarre quests I've ever had, looking for all three pissing monuments of Brussels - the symbol-status Manneken Pis, his female version Jeanneke Pis and a non-fountain canine variation Het Zinneke. Belgian people are weird.

We had some hysterical fun trying to decipher one of the ads on a bus stop. It claimed certain Subea was the best gift for your loved ones on Christmas. Passersby undoubtedly believed us crazy as we tried to identify the thing - and never came close to guessing. Look it up, it's hilarious.

Blue street art, Brussels

Built on the time-tested principles of trading cities, Brussels preserves the tradition of market squares. In early December, the downtown is covered in Christmas towns and motley crowds, framed in softly shimmering lights. It's full of flavors of waffles with cream, and frites, and gluhwein, and seafood, and sausages.

Brussels is full of cyclists (even more so than Copenhagen), full of churches, and homeless, and nationalities - cuisines, skin tones, languages. The signs duplicated in French and Dutch do not help location purposes in any significant way.

Nevermind the confusing feelings I developed for Brussels, there is one thing I should mention with firm praise - chocolate. Walk the streets and have a cup of hot chocolate - it's literally chocolate of your choice melted in hot milk. Eat warm Liege waffles topped with chocolate and cream. Buy a set of (regular) chocolate boxes with discount - or pay a visit to Galeries Royales Saint-Hubert to learn about chocolate as art. It's expensive, yes, but oh is it worth every cent!

Break a chocolate bar of preference - dark works best - into pieces, add to the cup and pour with hot milk. Stir until it melts. Enjoy the taste of Belgium.

St Michael and Gudula Cathedral, Brussels

What to see in Brussels:

Grand Place

Brussels Town Hall

Residence of the Dukes of Brabant

Maison du Roi/Broodhuis

Manneken Pis

Jeanneke Pis

Het Zinneke

Bourse/Beurs (stock exchange)

Galleries Royales Saint-Hubert

St Michael and Gudula Cathedral

chapelle de la Madeleine/Magdalenakapel

Mont des Arts/Kunstberg

Musees royaux des Beaux-Arts de Belgique/Koninklijke Musea voor Schone Kunsten van Belgie (Musee Oldmasters, Musee Magritte, musical instruments museum)

Royal Palace

Parc de Bruxelles/Warandepark

eglise Notre-Dame au Sablon/Onze-Lieve-Vrouw ten Zavelkerk

eglise royale Sainte-Marie/Koninklijke Sint-Mariakerk

National Basilica of the Sacred Heart

Atomium

Royal Palace of Laeken

Bruges: The Belfry and the Waffle Houses

Rozenhoedkaai, Bruges

Belgian capital is the least Flemish city among those I've visited. Bruges, on the other hand, seems to bear the imprint of one of the richest regions of medieval Europe. The town is neat and cute, full of waffle houses with stair-step facades, all red brick and yellowish stone. The streets are carefully crafted and well-groomed; they stretch in slow curves, and the houses crowding each side chant their stories to the tourists in a never-ending lullaby.

Houses plaster all over each other - it feels like each street has only one building that was actually constructed with 4 walls. The rest figured 'hey, here's a perfectly good empty wall right there, with nothing attached, why not stick to the side'.

The whole country is like that, one of the signature traits of Belgium, alongside angry cyclists and painted waffle houses.

Before walking to the main attraction (Belfry, naturally), we've decided to have a glass of beer in Halve Maan, one of the oldest breweries in town. We were pleasantly surprised by the sleepy emptiness, the fireside couches and craft beer (I've never had an 11° beer before, it felt almost as a shot of whiskey). In a slumbery, sheepish haze we walked around the Minnewaterpark with its swans and gardens dipped in green moisture.

Minnewaterpark. After the rainy, grey-ish Brussels, Bruges met us with sun-through-the-clouds and warmth worthy of mid-October. I finally got out my camera and snapped my way through the cute medieval city

The territory of Bruges is covered in canals - no wonder it's called the small Venice of the North, and the centuries-old architecture covers the town in a romantic blur. Even the long queues of Belfry (one person in, one out, and around half a hundred waiting for their turn) didn't disturb our dreamy mood. The view from above maps the whole town on the palm of your hands, and the stone parapet is covered in numbers and names of cities with arrows pointing the direction.

Carillon, a fascinating musical instrument that has several dozen bells connected to play melodies. The Belfry carillon plays a different melody every quarter of an hour

Belfry is gorgeous at sunset, especially observed from Grote Markt - towering, starkly contrasted against the fading skies.

Bruges is probably best-known for its streets - after you've seen the main attractions, there's no clear itinerary, but just wander around and get lost in the medieval brick labyrinth. You can visit the old windmills - each with its own unique name - and the corner of Groenerei, which is less romantic in winter but still a nice place for a romantic rendezvous. Or just roam the streets and inhale the ambiance of this old town that looks like it jumped straight out of a fairytale with enchanted castles, simplistic plotline where good always conquers evil and a set of enjoyably cardboard characters.

Sometimes it's fun to experience something so far from real life. Can't disagree with the philosophic view of Fiennes's character from 'In Bruges'.

What to see in Bruges:

Kasteel de la Faille

Sashuis

Minnewaterpark

Sint-Janshospitaal-Memlingmuseum

St Salvator's cathedral

Church of Our Lady (featuring Michelangelo's Madonna met Kind)

Bonifaciusbrug

the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse

Rozenhoedkaai (the most photographed spot in Bruges)

't Brugse Vrije

City Hall

Basilique du Saint-Sang

Brugge markt

Belfry and Market Halls

Provinciaal Hof

Jan Breydel en pieter de Coeninck memorial

St James's church

Jan Van Eyck memorial

windmills (de Coelewey, de Nieuwe Papegaai, Sint Janshuismolen, Bonne Chiere)

Sint-Annakerk

Gronerei

Train Tales

Belgium is unexpectedly bad at doing trains. We heard the first bell as we tried to get out of Brussels. The Northern train station has a clear division between two worlds. The ground floor belongs to hobos and (most probably) unemployed immigrants - this is the world of half-light, scary coughs and little noises, empty food wrappings, garbage, people wrapped in multiple layers of dirty blankets and coats. The upper floors are obviously European, well-lit, with shops, 24/7 information desks and wending machines. The contrast is so stark that it's frightening.

(Under)ground floors of Antwerpen-Centraal

Yet this was but a warning. For some unknown reason, the schedule of Belgian trains is really complicated - we couldn't make sense of it using just timetables and scoreboards. This was a shock for me specifically - I just went to Italy a month prior, where I didn't even need to talk to anyone to understand where to buy tickets and how to get from point A to point B.

Obviously we were not alone confused by the whole system - by the machine selling tickets, a nice lady was spending her working hours explaining stupid tourists how this works. She offered us a ticket we didn't consider - it could take us to 10 destinations (we needed 6, and decided to spend 2 more for a short detour to Ghent before Antwerp; profit).

The complications started when we failed to notice the class of the coach we were boarding. Truth to be told, there was a number '1' on the side - but the inside didn't look any different from second class, so I'm not sure what's the deal. 10 minutes into the ride, a railway employee walked in and aggressively started to demand extra payment to 'upgrade' our tickets - about 10 euro per person. None of us were allowed to leave the first class coach for the second.

The thing about that whole situation was: of all the people in the coach, only one woman was aware of its first class status. The rest were bewildered and looked like lost tourists (some of us surely were) who forgot to check the number on the side of the carriage. Which, frankly, didn't feel like the people's fault. A Spanish family nearly started a brawl with the guy - which earned my compassion but also a portion of solid mirth.

Hilarious experience - but also quite frustrating. Not too fond of Belgian train system.

Ghent: The Castle and the Histrionic Weather

Gravensteen, Ghent

I didn't expect this short detour would turn out this satisfying. Don't get me wrong, there's not much to do in Ghent in the evening. In a manner traditional for the whole country, life dies away after 6PM. As nightfall covers the streets, the shops and restaurants close, and the whole city seems deserted. There are some late passersby, some groups of youth and random tourists but they're not common, especially further from downtown.

But the architecture is spectacular nonetheless. Korenmarkt (basically, central square) with Church of Saint Nicholas is the heart of the city. The sites are mostly all on the same line - Stadhuis Gent and Belfort, Saint Bavo cathedral and a couple of nearby 'palaces' that were actually residences of (very) wealthy merchants, and Saint Michael's church on the other side of Korenmarkt, across the Leie river.

It was enjoyable to just wander the empty streets quite aimlessly, bumping into architectural sites curious things here and there

Gravensteen is exactly the prototype you imagine when someone says 'a castle'. It's the type of medieval structure you drew as a kid, with the battlements and turrets. This is where a valiant knight came to rescue a fair maiden from an evil king. It's The Ultimate Castle.

In yet another plot twist, the weather in Ghent was unpredictably fun. It made us giggle at its hysterical fits.

Rain, wind and damp autumnal warmth changed each other in bizarre epileptic seizures.

One moment, it decided to rain - and the downpour started as soon as we opened our umbrellas. 2 minutes later it all stopped as if nothing happened. Ten minutes passed - and terrible gusts of wind that nearly knocked us down. Sure enough, soon it was warm and mellow again. Best advice when the weather is in such a theatrical mood: keep an umbrella with you at all times.

The walk from the city center to the train station is quite long, about an hour. But at least the building of the train station is worth exploring - it has great inner decorations all over the ceiling that imitate medieval style. Outside, by the largest bike parking I've seen after Copenhagen's sleeping districts, a sad man was playing his wistful sax; there seems to be something about Belgium and saxophones.

What to see in Ghent:

Korenmarkt (basically, central square)

Church of Saint Nicholas

Saint Michael's church

Gravensteen

Stadhuis Gent

Belfort

Saint Bavo cathedral

Antwerp: The Train Station and the Sky

Antwerpen-Centraal Train Station, Antwerp

After the grey cold rain of Brussels and the crazy run of tourist-packed Bruges and (devastatingly) empty Ghent, Antwerp was all sunshine and warmth. Easily the most enjoyable time I've had in Belgium.

Antwerp is a mild, soft city, quite self-indulgent - it has less tourists than either Brussels or Bruges - and completely immersed in its own thoughts. Traces of the eternal, undying energy that preserves big cities can be found everywhere.

First things first, we went to see the jewel of Antwerp's sightseeing itinerary - Antwerpen-Centraal, the main train station of the city. It has 4 floors, with trains arriving on each of them - it is really impressive, especially as the whole structure is sunlit through the ribbed glass roof and the underground floors are dipped in orange-and-purple lights, the true impressionist study of light and color.

Antwerp has a clear itinerary, as if the city was built with the idea of easy navigation in mind. Starting from Antwerpen-Centraal and past the diamond district, the shopping streets of Antwerp start and run right to the heart of the city, Grote Markt. The walk there is short if one ignores the detour sites like the beautiful neoclassical Bourla theater with round-ish colonnade façade, the house of Rubens turned museum, the oldest house in Antwerp build circa 1480, completely wooden and still inhabited, or the baroque St Charles Borromeo church, which simplistic interior is decorated with astonishing woodwork.

The notorious diamond district of Antwerp is located right beside the train station. History has it that it all started with shops opening here so that rich people coming to Antwerp to buy diamonds could keep their incognito and leave as soon as the deal was sealed, without the need to visit the town.

Grote Markt and the nearby Groenplaats are connected with a short street that features another pearl of Antwerp, the Cathedral of Our Lady. This majestic Gothic temple is narrowly surrounded by the old houses of trading guilds glued to its every side. You cannot actually see the side walls of the Cathedral (which is another trademark feature of Flemish towns - a dead giveaway that trade was of utmost importance, and that secular and religious matters were closely connected).

Grote Markt itself looks just like other main squares in Belgium - a lot of space adapted for Christmas markets during this time of year, crowded by waffle houses with gilded statues and inscriptions dating back to the Autumn of the Middle Ages, and towering Brabantine Gothic spire, the cynosure of the city.

Stroh violin player. Stroviol is a popular instrument of street musicians, seen all over Flanders

The next thing I was agitated to see was Sint-Annatunnel - a 1/2 km tunnel under the riverbed, fully built for walking on foot, riding on bicycles and even for motorized vehicles. The escalators are wood-paneled and lacquered, the photos on the walls tell the history of construction of the tunnel as one descends.

Quay along river Scheldt, shipyard and windmills

On our way to MAS, we've taken a turn into the Antwerp red lights district. As I was quite shamelessly staring at the girls (literally) displayed in the windows, my friend surprised me, hilariously paying attention to some nesting boxes on a random tree instead. Some way to explore the city.

Don't miss on the chance to visit MAS museum. For a tourist, it's a golden opportunity: free entrance to the rooftop with stunning night panorama of Antwerp lights. From up above, the lights on the windmills twinkle red, painting an ominous image in the night skies. The walls of the interior are covered with posters of modern art (sometimes inspiring, sometimes hilarious, sometimes frightening). Besides, MAS is open till 10 PM, a rare case for Belgium.

MAS pays the oddest homages, and one of them is to Harry Potter franchise: the building features floor 9 and 1/2.

While on the roof of MAS, the pragmatism and commercial genes of Flemish people deliver nothing but pure delight. The nearby houses host advertisements for the visitors of the museum: cafes and restaurants ornament their awnings with offers of hot drinks and rich meals.

What to see in Antwerp:

Antwerpen-Centraal

diamond block

Leysstraat 32-34 and 27 (twin buildings)

Meir (shopping street)

Rubenshuis

Bourlaschouwburg

Boerentoren

Sint-Carolus Borromeuskerk

Groenplaats

Cathedral of Our Lady

Grote Markt

Brabo fountain

Stadhuis Antwerpen

Het Steen and Lange Wapper memorial

Sint-Annatunnel

Stoelstraat 11 (the oldest house of Antwerp)

Sint-Pauluskerk

Schipperskwartier (red lights district)

MAS museum (rooftop viewpoint)

What to eat:

chocolate (in all forms, whether it's box of finest pralines, a chocolate bar, or a cup of hot chocolate)

waffles (fillings vary; I personally prefer dark chocolate and whipped cream. Belgian people however have plain waffle with sugar powder)

beer (one of the oldest and most important produces of the region; brewing beer is fine art here)

frites (basically French fries, but don't call them that - it's offensive, given the fact they were not invented in France; the locals still hold their grudge over the matter)

mussels (Brussels specialty, usually go with frites on the side)

Flanders As It Is

Wandelterras Noord, quay of Antwerp, near Sint-Annatunnel. The sun gave us its last warmth of the day as we strolled along the Antwerp quay, the dark silhouettes of seagulls scattering sunbeams as we scared them off the railings

The towns of Flanders are easily recognizable. The main square is always called 'Grote Markt'; the combination of a cathedral (usually of Our Lady), a stadhuis and a belfry impending over the town is mandatory. Old houses of stone (and sometimes even wood), with stepped roofs and intricate ornaments. Waffles and chocolate on every corner, infinite varieties of beer in any pub. Add cyclists during the day or bicycle parking at night, cobblestone streets, a culture co-depending with trade - and you have a perfect portrait of a Flemish city.

It was a little vacation we all need from time to time - not spectacular but fun, warm and surprisingly full of color in this grim, gray time of the year.

#belgium #brussels #bruges #ghent #antwerp #flanders

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ninjakitty15 · 3 years

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Chapter 17: Bigger Fish, Doo Doo Doo Doo (Loki x OFC Pairing)

No matter how many times I visited Salem in the past, I never got tired of shop hopping every touristy store or authentic wiccan shop in the city. Of course with it being so close to All Hallows Eve, that wasn't what ended up happening when the streets were packed with street vendors and all their beautifully handcrafted delights. Under normal circumstances, I'd abhor walking through so many crowds of people but this was the only time of year I really felt strong and alive again, with the veil between worlds being so thin it was like Ned Flanders ski suit. Of course even before all the necromancy stuff I loved the holiday, there was nothing more liberating than dressing up as whatever the hell you want and no one judging you for it or making you feel less for doing so. Plus free candy, you can't go wrong with free candy despite all those urban legends about drugs or razors being mixed into that. Just don't go trick or treating to places/neighborhoods you aren't familiar with, it's common sense people!

"Steer clear of the fake psychics while we're here, they don't like me much," I warned Loki as he eyed a palm reader tent.

"Why, what did you do?"

"Called them out and made them lose clients, it's their own damn fault preying on desperate people who just want to talk to their recently deceased loved ones and capitalizing on it. For just this amount of money I can get them to talk to you, even make them solid so you can see em one last time. That's fucked up, you're giving them false hope and a bigger hole in their wallet. The real ones also charge you for it but they're not as over the top."

"Is there a way to tell a difference between them without being sucked in by their claims?"

"I can tell them apart, one is actually linked to the dead, the other is just greedy bastards. But I kinda doubt others can tell them apart and that's how they lure em in. Like an angler fish."

"Hideous beasts those creatures are from what I've seen of them, hope you don't go fishing for them like other big fish," Loki muttered.

"We tend to not go for deep sea creatures because as you said, the deeper they are the uglier and freakier they get and that's not remotely appetizing."

"You'll eat squid and those crustaceans though and they're not that pretty either."

"Because they're not deep sea and they're fucking delicious, I will fight whoever says lobsters especially aren't delicious, that's my favorite food in the whole multiverse."

"I have a strong suspicion you haven't even been off this planet let alone another universe."

I glared playfully at the cocky god and scoffed. "Minor details, it's still the bees knees."

We wandered and splurged till the evening and returned to the field by the sea while there was still sunlight, enjoying the quiet as vendors started to simmer down before the night festivities started up.

"You really wanna stay here? With me?" I asked him quietly as we watched the skyline.

"I take it you're surprised I've suggested such a long term commitment to someone I've not known that long and it's understandable your reaction but I meant it."

"You know we can't have a family, well I can't, apparently you can if those myths about you were true."

He gave me an unamused, pointed look, knowing full well that I knew they weren't true as he himself made that clear. "All I want is to be with you, in the end. What comes after that, whatever it is, we'll handle it together."

"Bring it on," I agreed.

"If you say so," a new voice interrupted.

I spun around just in time to feel something big and burning strike me right in the chest, knocking me back off my feet and several feet away from Loki who's face went from horror to furious and instantly went back to his preferred form of black hair and green Asgardian attire, a dagger in each hand. I scrambled to my feet only to be shot at, not by magic this time around but by rock salt, not just good against ghosts like in Supernatural. Black blood instantly spread from the chest wound and up my throat as I coughed to clear it, still stunned from the magic punch and weakened from the salt. "Motherfucker!" I couldn't see from where I lay which rat bastard of the traitors knocked me down but I could definitely see the Hydra agents closing in on us. I looked over to where Loki was and his eyes locked on mine and he instantly knew what I was trying to convey, we couldn't fight them when I'm down and out, and I didn't wanna fight them in my happy place anyway, we needed an out. He didn't hesitate on the idea and created a thick green smokescreen around us as he rushed to my aid, picking me up in his arms and teleported us away from the oncoming chaos.

We were suddenly in NYC, Loki still holding me in his arms, surrounded by buildings in one of the parks, probably Central.

"We can't be out in the open," I gasped, turning my head away from him to spit out more blood.

"And we don't want to draw the Avengers attention either, I assume, so where?"

"Do you need an address? I don't know where exactly but I have an idea of where."

"Think of it and I'll get us there."

So I did and green magic took us into a set of apartment buildings in a rough part of the city.

"You sure this is a good idea?" he asked me softly.

"I just need a place to lay low till I can get all the damned salt out of my system, its hindering my ability to self heal."

Loki carried me to the first door we could find that I felt would be the safest bet and knocked on it softly.

"One second!" a familiar somewhat squeaky voice called from the other side before hurried footsteps were heard coming to the door and it was pulled open. "Mr. Loki! What are you doing here? Oh my God, what happened?"

"I got shot, can we come in, please?" I asked the kid in front of us.

"O-of course, man, it's a good thing May's out having a date tonight though, good timing there," he muttered. "Why here though?" He stepped aside to let Loki carry me in where I was gently placed on the couch, my head propped on a pillow propped on his lap while the host propped on the farther armrest.

"I needed a place to lay low and away from the Avengers, so you can't tell Tony I'm here, like at all, same for Loki."

"O-ok, but wouldn't he be able to help you, there's nothing I could do here, he'd have more experience and resources."

"None of which can help heal someone already dead, hun, all I need is a place to hide that's off the radar and seeing as none of your enemies know where you live, I kinda suspect your place is my best bet right now. I won't stay long, just gotta recover and I'm off like a herd of turtles."

Peter looked at me with an expression between concern and curiosity. "Who shot you? I thought you said most weapons don't work."

"Hydra are on my tail again and they have people, my people helping them track me down. Most weapons don't work on their own, I got hit by something else first that weakened my defenses down to a normal human's so I wouldn't be able to heal myself when I got shot after." I looked at Peter then, really looked at him, I didn't need ghost vision to see he was a good kid, insatiable curiosity and all. He worshiped Tony without question or hesitation, stuck to his morals, and did his best in all he could which couldn't be easy as for a kid, he could do a hell of a lot.

"Are you going to be okay?" he asked me.

I wanted to shrug but pain didn't allow much movement. "What's good for flushing salt from a wound?"

"Water and foods rich in potassium, um sports drinks with electrolytes in them."

I wrinkled my nose at the last one. "Of all the choices Tony made, the one he made on you takes the cake. I think you need to submerge me in water, you do have a tub right?"

"Of course. Do you need help with that or...?"

"I've got her," Loki assured him.

"What he means is I'm about to get naked and he doesn't like sharing the view," I joked. "Ain't that right, babe?"

"Even when you're bleeding out, you still manage to tease me over this," he growled. "Maybe I should just drown you."

"You're welcome to try but I should remind you first that I don't breathe so that kinda won't work. Pete, lead the way and thank you."

I let myself sink to the cold porcelain bottom of the tub, staring up through the water at Loki who watched me worriedly as the water started turning dark with blood. To lighten the mood, I started singing Singing in the Rain like Alex in A Clockwork Orange, as after this bath I'd be cured alright.

Peter knocked on the door during one point, making sure I was doing okay without peaking in, being the little superpowered boyscout he was. While I was flushing out salt, he was nice enough to clean and dry my clothes for me at nearest laundromat which I was thankful for and also surprised he got out the black blood stains, maybe I should just wear black for the purpose of hiding blood but then it wasn't often people made me bleed my own blood. Once I was strong enough to move without crumbling, I allowed Loki to pull me out and dry me before he returned my clothes fresh out of the dryer and I sighed at the warmth before collapsing back on the couch as Peter insisted there was no rush to leave.

"What could've made your defenses that weak?" Peter asked.

"Not a whole lot actually, I wasn't brought back from the dead just to die by any ordinary means."

"It had to be mine," Loki murmured.

"What?"

"The color of the energy blast was green when it was fired at you and you flickered to your old form when you got hit by it. They must have gotten it from me while I was contained with you back there."

If I wasn't already unnaturally pale, I would be now. "They're getting smarter, those bastards, how the fuck did they figure that out?"

"Does it matter? They know I'm your weakness more than metaphorically now, while I doubt they can keep using what they got from me initially, as long as we're both still around they'll be after us."

I groaned and dropped back on the couch dramatically. "This is why I wanted more power to begin with, to stop being a target and level the playing field or wipe out competitors. Should've kept the receipt on that deal."

"There's always a bigger fish," mused Peter.

"Yeah well I was promised I'd be great white status and Hydra ain't remotely close to Megalodon so I shouldn't be dealing with them like I'm forced to."

"Megalodon?" questioned Loki curiously.

"The biggest shark to exist on this planet, could swallow the biggest animal easily if it were still around but it presumably died out with the other prehistoric monsters of earth. Could eat a whole pod of whales and still have room for more."

"Hold on, what do you mean presumably?" squeaked Peter.

"There's speculation they're just napping at the bottom of the sea somewhere, I mean it makes sense since sharks are still around when all other prehistoric beasties are out of existence, they're survivors. I mean yeah there's relatives of them walking around now but sharks stayed sharks, just smaller over time. Much like people, they too shrink with old age."

"Is that why you're so short?" teased Loki.

I opted to simply punch him in the arm but as I hadn't completely recovered, while the bleeding and flickering had stopped and the wound was closing, I apparently still had mortal strength and the very audible sound of fingers breaking happened as a result. "My me-time hand!"

"That shouldn't be an issue when you have me," Loki noted.

I scowled. "Yeah well that ain't happening anytime soon, my moral compass might not point north but I'm not shagging in a tiny little apartment as a guest, we'd destroy the place and the host's sanity and innocence in the process and then Tony will really be after us."

"Have it your way, oh wait you can't as your good hand is broken," he retorted.

"Peter, how strong are your webbings, could they muzzle a god for instance?" I asked the hapless kid watching us.

"I-I'm not sure that's a good idea, Nell. I think with you being injured and him being an actual god, he might actually be the strongest here."

"Nah, give him to Dr. Banner on a bad day and he's just like the rest of us. You on the other hand, you're young and super strong and can stop a speeding bus with your bare hands or hold a ferry together. I can see why Tony has such faith in you, you got some serious potential...don't fuck it up."

"I won't...and thanks."

"You're a good kid, Pete, with a big heart and a serious case of wounded puppy look, don't let anyone change you, you've no idea how rare someone like you is in this world."

"That's-that's really...are you okay? I mean, I kinda thought you didn't like me and now you're..."

"Nah you're okay, just before when you were at the compound, you were a fucking moment killer, pun intended and that insatiable curiosity can get on my nerves when I'm already in a mood by you ruining my good one so you kinda had it coming then but seeing as I interrupted you this time around, we good." My hand bones began to fix themselves as my body was slowly returning to it's dead stasis state of unbreakable but not alive either. I wiggled the fingers once they set themselves back properly and sighed happily. "It's good to be dead."

#loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #loki romance #peter parker #avengers #zombies #necromancer #necromancy #nell the necromancer #loki x OFC #loki x original female character #loki x nell

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miindframe · 7 years

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Repost & BOLD which lines of famous poetry apply to your muse:

Tagged by: @fictionborn

Tagging: @mikhailis, @selfdefiined, @actresque, @dressedforcomfort

[ evelyn ortensia molinero / original character ]

i saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness // starving hysterical naked // tyger tyger, burning bright // i have done it again // do not go gentle into that good night // the sea is calm to-night // let us go then, you and i // april is the cruelest month // pretty women wonder where my secret lies // there is a place where the sidewalk ends. // i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart) // two roads diverged in a yellow wood. // whose woods these are i think i know // let us twain walk aside from the rest // once upon a midnight dreary, while i pondered, weak and weary // i will show you fear in a handful of dust // and how shall I presume // i taught myself to live simply and wisely // it so happens i am sick of being a man // i wandered lonely as a cloud // does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? // o my love is like a red, red rose // o captain! my captain! our fearful trip is done // out of the night that covers me // it was many and many a year ago // tread softly because you tread on my dreams // you may write me down in history // do not stand at my grave and weep // some say the world will end in fire // some say in ice // hope is the thing with feathers // the wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees // no man is an island // remember me when i am gone away // i met a traveler from an antique land // ‘twas brillig, and the slithy toves // this is thy hour o soul // when we wear the mask that grins and lies // death be not proud // and death shall have no dominion. // laugh, and the world laughs with you // the art of losing isn’t hard to master // to see a world in a grain of sand // carries in itself the light of hidden flowers // is there anybody there? said the traveller // nobody heard him, the dead man // that crazed girl improving her music // come to me in the silence of the night // where the mind is without fear and the head is held high // when you are old and grey and full of sleep // in flanders’ fields the poppies blow // i thought of you and how you love this beauty // life, believe, is not a dream // it may be misery not to sing at all // if tarry space no limit knows // the shore of the heart where I have roots // come live with me and be my love // had we but world enough and time // my heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense // bright star, would i were stedfast as thou art- // thou still unravish’d bride of quietness // what spring does with the cherry trees // how do i love thee? let me count the ways // heaven is what i cannot reach // my dear, my dear, i know // in visions of the dark night // shall i compare thee to a summers day?// break, break, break // she walks in beauty // i had a dream, which was not at all a dream // he clasps the ring with crooked hands // had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths // but I, being poor, have only my dreams // I have spread my dreams under your feet // I went out to the hazel wood // with apple blossom in her hair // though I am old with wandering // I will find out where she has gone // the golden apples of the sun // and nodding by the fire // loved the sorrows of your changing face // and hid his face amid a crowd of stars // behold me, for I cannot sleep // though rose-leaves die of grieving // a little bit of everything // oh, never by way of advice // the reveille sang out in the yards of the barracks // he is not here; but far away // your hand upon my chest is my hand // as certain dark things are to be loved // your hands the color of a savage harvest // as if you were on fire from within // the plant that never blooms // vines on melancholy walls // alas it is a boring song but it works every time // those scattering blossoms don’t belong in this world // my heart, all of a sudden // shatters into a million pieces // rotting at the water’s edge // the moon has become hazy // ( also feel free to add lines when applicable )

#{ ;about | evelyn }#{ ;dash games }

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gaylord-nelson · 7 years

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Okay let’s get right to it: in this essay I will argue that elves of the Tolkien-inspired variety (Immortal, connected with magic/nature, “wise”, graceful, etc) would be absolutely terrible poets compared with humans. They might be better at other stuff even other artistic stuff but I am going to prove that they would never be able to write better poetry than humans. The fundamental point of my argument is this: the best or at least most meaningful parts of any poetry, especially really good poetry, springs in one way or another from the concept of and the experience of mortality, which elves do not possess. All this is my opinion but here we go.

Let’s start with a cheerful subject: death. Some of, in my opinion, the best poems of all time are about death. (Examples: Crossing the Bar, Tennyson; Birches, Frost; “Because I could not stop for death” , Dickinson, Provide, Provide,Frost) Elves, being immortal, might be able to write poetry about death in battle or from whatever else they die from, but they live without the shadow of a mortal death hanging over them, so they wouldn’t be able to connect to that shadow to produce art. On the flipside, the ever-present shadow of mortality also gives rise to a lot of poetry about life and its beauty, and all those poems assign life a sort of urgency that I don’t think elves would feel. (Examples: The Darkling Thrush, Hardy (my personal favorite poem of all time); The Tuft of Flowers, Frost)

What about the other main genres of poetry? The biggest one that comes to mind for me and probably for you is love poems. Well, I still argue that elves couldn’t do it. Why? Because it seems to me that passion and strong emotion comes from the sense of urgency that mortality creates. In most depictions of elves, they are depicted as being calm and rational. It’s not a surprise, since they have more or less all of eternity to think things through. Humans, on the other hand, don’t, and that applies to romance as well. Many famous love poems incorporate themes of urgency or death that connect them to mortality, (Examples: To His Coy Mistress, Marvell; Annabel Lee, Poe) and even poems that are about the nature of love itself frequently incorporate aging and mortality into them somehow. (Example: Sonnet 116, Shakespeare)

You could argue that there are still several big genres of poetry left to elves. War poems, maybe. But even war poems, I think, incorporate mortality. Humans face war with a sort of inevitability that I don’t think elves would have. They also regard war on firstly, a massive scale instead of an individual one and secondly, something requiring personal sacrifice outside of the specifically trained professional warriors that we usually see in elven armies. (Examples: Dulce et Decorum Est,Owen; Charge of the Light Brigade, Tennyson; In Flanders Fields, McCrae) Nature poems are another one that elves, as exposed to the eternity of nature, might be adept at. But I still think that a lot of nature poems have a very human element to them. Namely, the theme that there is something beyond humanity and beyond mortality that we can take solace in, or the theme that everything dies and must die for change and improvement. Even the appreciation of beauty is in some ways something mortal, since humans must appreciate it as much and for as long as we can in our limited lives. (Examples: Birches again, Nothing Gold Can Stay, Frost; “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud,” Wordsworth)

Epic poetry, however, I will give to elves. Not only because they would certainly be fine historians, but because in their eternal lives they could probably figure out the best way to use language to make it sound beautiful. There’s a catch there, though: they’d lose efficiency. I bet elves would be great at long, rambling poems that are easy on the ears, but as humans prove, some of the best poetry says everything with only a few words. (Examples: Fire and Ice, Frost; This is Just to Say, Williams; Invictus, Henley)

Maybe, you say, elves would just write poetry about different things. That could be, I won’t deny it. But I will say that humans have already cornered the market on poems about immortality, and even those poems are made great by connecting them to immortality. Human poems about immortality speak of the pain of watching the world pass you by, watching everything else fade, and slowly being worn down by the years themselves. (Examples: Ozymandias, Shelley; Tithonus, Tennyson) To summarize, being immortal would suck, and personally I am extremely grateful for my mortality which allows me to see the beauty of the world and of life in a way that I couldn’t without the shadow of death hanging over us all.

A/N: This is a personal essay with no research done except to find the links, and I am absolutely not a scholar of poetry. Furthermore, if you couldn’t tell from the obvious bias towards Robert Frost, all of these poems came from my personal reading experiences and don’t cover a very broad scope. I may be thoroughly wrong about all of this, but here’s a challenge: Show me a poem that you believe to be meaningful and I will find how its meaning stems from the mortality of the author. Also, for the love of god, tell me if the links are broken.

#okay here you go #sorry it sucks #long post #text #mine #uhh even if you hate it all at least click the links because these are some damn good poems my dudes #TUMblr fucked up my links I'm going to fucking lose it

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