#i am starving for more sea beast content

[insanleyyyyynormallittleguy]

THIS SCENE IS SO CUTE. THATS A DAD HUG. A DAD SHOULDER RUB. I LOVE THEM. BEST FATHER DAUGHTER DUO 💗💝💞💘💓💝💞💘💞💓💘💓💝💓💝💓💝💞💘💘💜💝💞💝

[hysterialevi]

Hjarta | Chapter 6

Fanfic summary: In an AU where Eivor was adopted by Randvi’s family instead, he ends up falling in love with the man his sister has been promised to despite the arranged marriage between their clans.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male Eivor

This story is also on AO3 | Previous chapter | Next chapter

A WHILE LATER

THE TAVERN

“Skål!” Eivor and Sigurd said in unison, knocking their tankards together before taking a swig of their drinks. It had only been a short while since they departed from the temple, but the pair of them were already knee-deep in merrymaking and storytelling, chatting away with each other as if they had been conversing for the entire afternoon.

The tavern was rather busy with numerous folks looking to have a quick break from their lives -- whether in the form of a meal or a pint -- and was filled to the brim with vibrant carousing, giving the place a nice, warm feel to it.

A bard entertained customers with a series of enchanting songs from her lute, and tamed the wildness of the tavern with her soothing tones. She plucked the strings in a manner so effortless that it seemed like second nature, and harmonized with its melody using the music of her own voice.

Meanwhile, a lone man sat in the back of the building, waiting patiently for anyone to join his quiet game of Orlog. He fidgeted with the tiny cubes in his weathered hands, and slowly made his way to the bottom of an impressively tall tankard as the light of a nearby candle kissed the wrinkles on his face.

Overall, it was a typical day in the tavern despite the handful of unfamiliar faces dotting its crowds, and there was nothing that could’ve put Eivor off his drink -- including the incident he and Sigurd experienced in the woods.

He just hoped he wouldn’t regret this later.

“So,” Sigurd said after taking a sip, “you mentioned you had a pet raven?”

“Well, Synin’s not really a pet,” Eivor corrected. “She’s more of a companion. That bird’s been at my side ever since I was just a child. She was actually the one who saved me from the wolf that gave me this mark.” He turned his head to the side, revealing the marred skin on his nape.

Sigurd seemed fascinated. “Is that so?”

The other man nodded. “Indeed. It was as if Odin himself sent Synin to rescue me. I don’t know where she came from, but she swooped in just before the beast had a chance to kill me.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if she really did come at Odin’s behest. The gods seem to have their eyes on you.”

Eivor chuckled. “Our seeress would agree. She believe the gods spared me that day for a specific reason. I have yet to discover what it is, though.” He downed a portion of his drink, flipping the subject to Sigurd.

“What about you? Have you ever had any animals like that in your life? A companion that you could always trust?”

The prince shrugged. “In a way. They weren’t quite as loyal as Synin, but I befriended a wolf when I was a boy.”

Eivor couldn’t help but be amused by the irony of that statement. “A wolf, you say?”

Sigurd laughed. “I know. Out of all animals. But it’s true. I came across this pup when I was, what, roughly twelve winters old? It was alone in the woods, and nearly starving to death. I think it was abandoned. I didn’t really know what to do at the time, so I simply gave it some food and then left. The wolf must’ve followed my scent back home though, because when I woke up the next day, I found it waiting outside the longhouse, begging for more food.”

“Did you take it in?”

He sighed in disappointment. “Sadly, no. My father wouldn’t allow it. Too much trouble, he said. But that didn’t stop the little thing from visiting me everyday. It would always be waiting just by the entrance, wagging its tail like a dog greeting its owner. I’d place some meat at its feet, and it would run back into the forest to enjoy its meal. This routine carried on for a few weeks, until eventually... it just stopped showing up.”

Eivor could sense the disappointment in Sigurd’s tone. “What happened to it?”

“No idea. I remember setting some food by the door to see if that would lure it back, but the wolf never returned. It either died or just... wandered off.” A humorous glint twinkled in his eye. “...Maybe it was the same wolf that you encountered.”

The younger man smirked. “I wish. Perhaps the scar would’ve been smaller.”

The two of them snickered at that and took a moment to finish their drinks, leading their conversation to reach a temporary halt. The music of the tavern filled the gap in between their silence, and only brought more emphasis to the cluster of different voices around them.

When Eivor’s eyes landed on the flesh sitting just above Sigurd’s collar however, the man suddenly felt the need to bring up another question. He wasn’t exactly sure if this was a subject he should’ve broached, but he found himself curious nonetheless.

“Hey, Sigurd,” Eivor said, “may I ask you something?”

The prince extended a permitting hand. “Of course.”

“Well, since we’re on the topic of strange marks on our necks,” he nodded his head towards the one resting under Sigurd’s ear, “do you mind if I ask about that?”

The older man instinctively rubbed the mark upon hearing Eivor’s observation, admittedly surprised that he was able to notice it.

“Ah, you caught that? You have a keen eye. I’ve had it ever since I was born.”

“It’s a birthmark, then? It looks very unique.”

Sigurd smiled proudly. “Indeed. The seeress of our clan, Valka, believes it was put there for a reason. She says it’s a fingerprint of the gods.”

Eivor examined its intricate shape. “I can see why. It’s a peculiar design, even for a birthmark. It seems I am not the only one being watched by the Allfather. Not that I would want to be, anyway.”

“You don’t want the gods’ favor?”

The younger man let out a breath, casually leaning back in his chair. “Perhaps it sounds ungrateful, but I’ve never fancied the idea of being a chosen one. I feel perfectly content living within the confines of Midgard. If I have a place among the gods, so be it. But I don’t wish to spend my mortal life chasing it. I’d rather create my own path.”

“Ah, but that’s the thing,” Sigurd replied. “The life we desire is very often the same one the Nornir have chosen for us. If there is a certain path you wish to take, it’s probably because the gods placed it there for you.”

Eivor gestured to the prince. “And what about you? The gods have led you to Bjornheimr for the sake of a marriage, but... is that what you desire?”

Sigurd came to a pause, hesitant to offer any candour. “I... I don’t know, if I’m being honest. Randvi seems like a good woman, but it’s difficult for me to envision the rest of my life with her. I mean, what are we supposed to do when the wedding is complete?”

His friend shrugged. “What every prince does, I suppose.”

“What, prepare to become king? Start a family? Have children purely for the sake of ensuring that you have enough heirs?”

It didn’t take long for Eivor to pick up on Sigurd’s frustration. “I take it you don’t approve.”

The older man placed his tankard down, staring blankly at the table’s surface in discouragement.

“...No. On the contrary, I eagerly wait for the day that the crown gets passed to me. It’s the only time I’ll be able to make any difference in this world, or do some good. But... being a father? I’m not certain if that’s something I want. Or if I’m even ready for it.”

Eivor found himself intrigued. “And what do you want?”

Sigurd gestured loosely at the environment. “I wish to travel. To see the world. To bring glory to our clan. I wish to ride the seas to my heart’s content, and explore the kingdoms that lie beyond the horizon. But... I’m aware it’s an unrealistic goal. I have responsibilities, after all. And I fear my time for daydreaming has come to an end.”

The younger man took his words to heart, admittedly pitying the prince. He understood the love for adventure, and wished to sate Sigurd’s thirst for wandering.

He thought for a moment, offering a suggestion to him. “...What if I take you fishing tomorrow?”

Sigurd’s curiosity was piqued. “Fishing? Where?”

“We wouldn’t go too far from the village,” Eivor reassured. “We’d still be within arm’s reach, but it could be a nice break from all this chaos.”

A look of regret spread across the man’s face. “I’d love to, but I’m afraid I have a busy day tomorrow. My father is eager to set things in motion. Perhaps some other time.”

“Have no fear. We can--”

Interrupting their talk, a firm thud echoed from the tavern’s door as another customer walked in, drawing both Sigurd and Eivor’s attention. A gust of wind blasted through the open frame as the man entered the pub, and the candle standing by the Orlog game flickered sporadically.

Meanwhile, Eivor saw none other than Ulfar himself stepping into the cozy atmosphere of the tavern, allowing the warmth to settle into his chilled bones. His cheeks and nose were tinted red from spending so much time outside, but strangely enough, it didn’t look like he had any intention of staying.

Instead, his iron gaze simply landed directly on Sigurd, and he strode over to the man, speaking as forwardly as ever.

“Sigurd, there you are.” Ulfar greeted. “Your father is looking for you.”

The prince exchanged glances with Eivor, seemingly unsurprised by the summon. “Like I said, he’s eager to start.” He turned to the other man, giving him a nod. “Thank you, Ulfar. I’ll find him right away. And Eivor, thank you for the drinks. I enjoyed spending the day with you. Hopefully we can meet again soon.”

Eivor raised his tankard in a cordial manner. “Good day, Sigurd. You always know where to find me.”

Standing up from his seat, the older man parted ways with his friend despite his reluctance to do so, and made a swift exit from the tavern, leaving the Wolf-Kissed to his thoughts.

As for Ulfar, the weathered warrior stayed in place and watched as Sigurd took his leave, not even bothering to say another word. His arms were crossed in a serious fashion, and if Eivor didn’t know any better, he would’ve said that the man was annoyed.

“Ulfar?” He asked, pointing a hand to the chair across from him. “Care to join me for a drink?”

Ulfar’s expression immediately softened at the young man’s invitation, and a light chuckle fluttered from his lips.

“How could I say no?”

He took a seat at the other end of the table, filling the absence that Sigurd left behind. In the meantime, Eivor poured Ulfar a fresh cup of mead and slid it over to him, eager to get the ale flowing once again.

“Skål, my friend.” He said.

Ulfar grabbed the tankard’s handle and lifted in the air, smiling at him. “Skål, Eivor.”

Bringing the cup to his mouth, the man downed a decent fraction of his drink and let the alcohol loosen his mind, clearly worn out from all the stress that had been piled on him in the recent days.

His eyes sagged slightly with a hint of exhaustion, and the skin on his head glistened somewhat due to the beads of sweat that rested on the surface. It looked like he had just run a lap around the entire village, and the manner in which he slouched told Eivor he was in dire need of a break. Though, that didn’t stop Ulfar from striking up a conversation.

“...So, you and Sigurd seem to be growing close.” He remarked, his tone stiff with skepticism.

Eivor felt a pang of anxiety gripping him in the chest. Why did Ulfar sound so annoyed?

“I wouldn’t say that,” he disagreed. “We’ve only met twice thus far. We hardly know each other, in fact.”

“And yet... Sigurd hasn’t bothered to see Randvi at all. Meanwhile, he’s been here with you, chatting about frivolous subjects for hours on end.”

Eivor paused at that, picking up on his last words. “Hours? Has it really been that long?”

“Yes. Where else do you think I’ve been this whole time? Before I came here, I was carrying out your father’s orders and scouting the woods. Roughly three hours have passed since you returned to the longhouse.”

“I...” the young man stumbled over his thoughts, shocked by the realization, “...I didn’t even notice. It feels like mere minutes have flown by.”

The warrior’s response was painfully short. “I can imagine.”

Eivor tilted his head to the side in confusion, puzzled by the unusual shift in his friend’s mood. “...Is something wrong, Ulfar? You seem... upset.”

Ulfar let out a deep sigh and fell silent for a second, gazing out a nearby window as he spoke. His brow was crinkled with a profound sense of disapproval, and his lips remained flattened in a stern way.

“...Sigurd almost got you killed today.” He finally uttered.

The younger man instantly denied the notion, quick to defend Sigurd. “It wasn’t his fault, Ulfar. He had no way of knowing that Kjotve’s men were traipsing in the woods. There was no sign of danger when we first entered the forest.”

The raider wasn’t convinced. “One of the primary skills a leader needs is to be able to predict danger. Just because you didn’t see anything worth noting, doesn’t mean there wasn’t anything. The fact that we’re tangled in a war with Kjotve should’ve been enough to inform his decision. What Sigurd did today was careless, and it nearly cost you both your lives.”

Eivor tried to offer some perspective. “Well, look at this way. Despite not being prepared for an ambush, Sigurd still managed to get us out of there alive. Isn’t that another important trait for a leader? To be resourceful?”

“Yes, resourceful. Not reckless.”

That only confused Eivor more. “I don’t understand. Weren’t you the one who told Randvi that Sigurd was a man of great ambition and battle-prowess?”

“I was.” Ulfar confirmed. “Perhaps I was mistaken. Sigurd struck me as a cunning warrior when we first met, but his actions today make me wonder if he truly is the best option for Randvi. I’m not sure I like the idea of marrying her off to someone with such poor judgement.”

“You’re being too hard on him.” The young man replied. “Sigurd is unfamiliar with this region. He doesn’t know it as well as we do.”

“All the more reason to practice caution.”

A lighthearted smirk radiated on Eivor’s face. “You mean like you did when you charged into Geirmund’s fortress all alone? Or when you married a woman who killed someone in front of you?”

A quiet laugh scuffed Ulfar’s throat. “...Point taken.”

The Wolf-Kissed leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Listen, Ulfar. I know you’re only trying to protect me, but I mean it when I say Sigurd did nothing wrong today. He can be trusted. Just give him a second chance.”

The old warrior considered Eivor’s words, finally deciding to let go of the dispute. His temperament resembled that of a father scolding his child for their foolish behavior, but the rational side of him couldn’t deny that the young man had a point. Ulfar himself was no stranger to making risky decisions or getting caught in life-threatening circumstances, and he wondered if, perhaps, he was being too harsh with his comments.

His life in Bjornheimr was the result of a hasty choice, after all, and he turned out just fine. 

“...Very well, Eivor.” Ulfar conceded, his tone free of the sharpness from before. “I’m still doubtful of Sigurd’s abilities, but if you believe he’s a man worthy of our trust... then I’ll reserve any further judgement for now. You’ve always had a talent when it came to reading people, and I’ve seen for myself that your instincts are usually correct. I just hope he doesn’t prove you wrong.”

The other man beamed at the sentiment. “Thank you, Ulfar.”

The raider took another swig from his tankard, emptying its contents entirely.

“Well, I think I should return to my duties. This old man has nagged you enough for one day, and the jarl will be waiting for my report.” Ulfar set the cup down and rose to his feet, causing the chair to emit a wooden scrape as it slid back with the man’s movement.

“Thank you for the drink, Eivor,” he said, returning to the gruff yet gentle demeanor that the young man was so familiar with. “And I apologize for being so antagonistic. I fear I was too rash with my anger.”

“It’s alright,” Eivor reassured. “You’re just trying to keep me safe. I appreciate it.”

Ulfar chuckled heartily at that. “It’s a good thing I was talking to you, then, and not Thora. I don’t think she would’ve been as understanding. My ferocity is often met on an equal level when I’m speaking to that woman.”

The warrior turned on his heel and began heading towards the door, bracing himself to collide with the icy weather once again. A muffled whistle could heard howling past the walls as the wind soared freely outside, and a subtle chill already caressed the parts of Ulfar’s flesh that remained exposed.

“Rest easy, little cub,” he told Eivor, placing his fingers on the door’s handle. “And remember to take care of that wound. You may have escaped with your life today, but I don’t want you to end up looking like me.”

“Don’t worry, Ulfar. I’ll be fine.”

“Good. We need your strength, especially these days. It’s clear to me now that Kjotve fully intends on taking advantage of the wedding, and the last thing I want is for any more of us to get hurt. So keep your guard up, and stay close to the village.” Ulfar threw a quick wave. “Good luck to you, Eivor. This is only the beginning.”

[sienna-writes]

Butterfly Blood || novel update

chapter three

I initially had a lot of trouble with this chapter. It’s been through about three drafts and it’s still nowhere near perfect, but I’m working on just moving forward with the novel now and am trying to quit obsessing over revising because... it’s unrealistic to expect a first draft to be perfect. 

The first draft of this particular chapter, though, was basically all dialogue, and all very poorly executed dialogue. (Dialogue is absolutely the weakest aspect of my writing but I’m working on it.) On my second attempt at the chapter I initially attempted to create an outline, thinking this would help me find a direction. However, in my next writing session I ended up totally ignoring the outline and just winging it, and the second draft was formed. I really liked the events in the chapter now but still wasn’t happy with some of the individual scenes so I reworked it yesterday morning. The argument between Rowan and Karmen still needed revision  because Karmen’s character within it was totally inconsistent to his usual disposition. So! The final (for now..) draft is a more stripped back, since Karmen is too disassociated to get as angry as he did as quickly as he did, and I think the tension and the build up is a lot better timed and more... muted? It’s less overt, more subtext heavy, and I'm relieved because that is what I had been trying to achieve all along.

Again, it’s not perfect, but it has evolved and it is definitely better than before. 

The chapter is just over 3000 words now, but I am only going to be sharing the main, gritty extract. The other scenes are less exciting, but I also suspect they need the same amount of work till they're even remotely sharable. (I was going through a bad writing slump in this chapter lol.) I really hope you enjoy it? I'm ultimately quite proud of how it turned out in the end :)

excerpt:

[Rowan has missed her GP appointment + her dad uses it as an oppurtunity to also be angry about her slacking in school]

    “I’ve booked another for tomorrow morning. You’ll miss some school, but I figured that’d be an incentive since you don’t seem to care about that anymore.” There is now an edge to his voice that hadn't been there before.

    Rowan visibly flinches, digging her fingernails into the supple skin of her palms. The dents purple then fill with blood. She locks eyes with her father, searching for the reason for his sudden anger. He has struck a nerve and he knows it.

    “Miss Phelps called.”

    She pushes her toes into the dirt, white sneakers now blotted with dust. “Oh.”

    He doesn’t ask for an explanation, simply straightens his back like an ancient scroll unravelling itself and meets her gaze finally. Karmen stands with his chest puffed out and his chin pointed forward. It is apparent that he won't ask her side of things. He’s heard enough, and has his made up his mind about her already.

    Rowan pushes past him to get inside. Karmen doesn’t shift as she squeezes by his statuesque stance. His face twitches like a camera shutter, so fast she can barely believe the change in his expression. She convinces herself it didn’t happen and throws her bag onto the couch, almost tempting another lecture. A tamer one. Something he could murmur through his daydream fog before slipping back into his silence and letting everything remain undiscussed. Like it normally is. Her slipping grades. Her laziness in class. Not writing a single word in an entire school day. Talking back for little to no reason.

    He turns as her rucksack lands, his footsteps looming behind her. Something sharpens the air between them, but she can’t tell what. The elephant is in the room and it is wrecking the place. They watch the destruction mutely, each waiting for the other to intervene and consequently letting the walls crumble into ruin. The old house audibly creaks, it is so quiet. Finally, Karmen speaks. “What’s the matter with you?”

    Rowan runs through all the excuses she can think of. I was dropped as a child. I was a premature baby, so my brain must be under-developed. The content is so easy it feels obsolete. I’m being bullied. I’m just not as smart as you thought, dad, sorry. Teachers are liars and we both should have known this.  “There’s just too much.” She says instead, through gritted teeth, moving into the kitchen. “I can’t focus on school and have to be there for everyone.” It is limp and she knows it. It flops between them weakly like a helpless fish. She takes a glass from the cabinet and closes it softly.

   He consumes the lie like a starved ghost, though. Proving he doesn’t know her. Doesn’t know how absent a friend she has been of late. How she has become her father at school, numb and quiet. How, secretly, she enjoys the façade because people avoid her, don’t ask difficult questions, don’t tackle her with unnecessary comments about her long-lost mother. “Then stop being there.” He says simply.

Rowan scoffs. “I do enough of that at home.” She studies her dad’s face—clenched jaw and squinting eyes—as if it hurts to look at her. “Everyone’s always telling everything how things must be. I must participate, I must be smart not emotional, I must not slack for exams I know I will pass without a glance at my books”—suddenly an urge to twist the knife into his gut overwhelms her, she draws out the moment as she fills the glass with a thread of water from the tap—"I must deal with a stranger for a Dad and a god knows what for a mother. A shrieking banshee? An abusive fugitive? She’s probably become a social worker just to scorn us.”

    He rolls his lips, lowers his gaze and chews on the inside of his cheek, sucking it in. Rowan’s breath catches in her throat. In this moment he looks shockingly hollow. Did she empty him? Wind him with her blows? Spoon out his entrails with an ice cream scoop? Carve him like the roasted corpse of some great beast? Karmen puts two hands on the back of the chair opposite her, clutching it as if he might just fall over. His stare is cold and unsympathetic when he raises it toward her. “Don’t you want to make something of yourself?”

Yes. “What?” She laughs bitterly, placing the tumbler on the counter with a satisfying thud. “Like how you made something of yourself?” There is a terrible moment where he sits in the midst of the cruelty, shrinks into himself as if absorbing it, before his mouth creaks open and he lets out a broken shriek.

“GOD DAMMIT ROWAN!” Rowan flies back, arms sheltering her head instinctively as he reaches for the glass she placed on the counter, spins, and throws it at the wall. One big horrific movement. A cutting arc of his arm through the air and then the shattering. “Are you ever even listening?”

    Millions of glittering fragments of her life laid out before her, encircling her bare feet. She thinks of the sneakers she slipped off at the door, wishing she had them now.  Something about naked feet look so naïve, so vulnerable. Her toes shrink, curling inward. Her breath quickens and her hands begin to tremble. All this broken glass. All these fragments like a lifeline stretched between them. Her eyes blink away tears in different shards, her reflection is fragmented, her features lost and bobbing about as if at sea.

    “Are you, dad?” Rowan asks in an empty voice, staring at him till he flinches. He stares at the glass on the floor in shock.

    “I...” He crouches, sifting through it with his bare, shuddering, and unsure hands. “I don’t know why I did that...”

    Rowan gets a sudden urge to have the last word. Except she doesn’t speak. Her eyes settle on the glass and the idea flourishes like a flame in her mind, burning everything rational, everything he might think. To hell with appropriate. To hell with acceptable. One unsteady step. She expects a crunch or a crackle, but instead there is a damp muffle and squelch. Her spine rattles and her teeth prickle in response. A sunrise in her chest warms her throat but she presses against it with her palms, forcing it down. It is a scorching, molten pain. Third degree burns and all she swallows rays of light till she is drowning, gorging. Slipping through furnace tongue flames. Rowan gags. Bile and acid boils her tongue and the bright, burnt out orb slips into her stomach. She gulp, gulp, gulps every atom of the blaze that consumes her. Till she is heavy. She walks across the broken glass as he yells out. Let there be outrage. Let the sky fall. Its clouds embrace her limbs, draining everything fluid from her, letting her grow limp. Letting her rain. Heavy. As she moves away from the kitchen, she feels her footsteps peeling from the floor, warm and wet. And she is so, so heavy. Then she stumbles, splintered feet unable to keep her up—her legs can no longer hold her and her lava—as the pain erupts within her fierce and sharp and sudden. Flashing its ugly teeth. Catching one last glimpse before her vision goes dark, she sees a red ocean seeping into the living room. How could one body hold so much? Fast and gushing the rapids wash her dregs of consciousness away. It was just a few steps...

soo... yeah. Rowan walks on glass because, oh lord that girl has no impulse controls. 

I'm not going to lie, although it was a pain to get this scene to the stage I have just shared, I think it's one of my favourites in the book so far. I'm proud of how much it's grown. Also, I love me some dramatic descriptions of pain and characters being nasty... :”)

I hope you enjoyed this update! (if you did, reblogs really help me out, but absolutely no pressure <3) I’m also still looking for people to add to the tag list, so if any of this interested you, feel free to send me an ask, message or comment. :)

Tag list under cut (ask to be added or removed):

@alicewestwater @elaz-ivero @coffeeandcalligraphy @hanwatchingmovies @sirfitzroys @chloeswords @nev-953

[aboveallarescuer]

Dany and Hizdahr’s relationship

This is a list of all the passages from the books featuring key moments in Dany and Hizdahr’s relationship. Unlike with the other lists, I didn't go after horrible opinions for this one because Hizdahr played a relatively minor role in the show and, therefore, didn't help to undermine Dany as much as show!Jorah did (though he still did, to a lesser extent).

A Dance with Dragons

ADWD Daenerys X

A girl might spend her life at play, but she was a woman grown, a queen, a wife, a mother to thousands. Her children had need of her. Drogon had bent before the whip, and so must she. She had to don her crown again and return to her ebon bench and the arms of her noble husband.

Hizdahr, of the tepid kisses.

~

As the world darkened, Dany settled in and closed her eyes, but sleep refused to come. The night was cold, the ground hard, her belly empty. She found herself thinking of Meereen, of Daario, her love, and Hizdahr, her husband, of Irri and Jhiqui and sweet Missandei, Ser Barristan and Reznak and Skahaz Shavepate. Do they fear me dead? I flew off on a dragon’s back. Will they think he ate me? She wondered if Hizdahr was still king. His crown had come from her, could he hold it in her absence? He wanted Drogon dead. I heard him. “Kill it,” he screamed, “kill the beast,” and the look upon his face was lustful. And Strong Belwas had been on his knees, heaving and shuddering. Poison. It had to be poison. The honeyed locusts. Hizdahr urged them on me, but Belwas ate them all. She had made Hizdahr her king, taken him into her bed, opened the fighting pits for him, he had no reason to want her dead. Yet who else could it have been? Reznak, her perfumed seneschal? The Yunkai’i? The Sons of the Harpy?

~

Dany, starved, slid off his back and ate with him, ripping chunks of smoking meat from the dead horse with bare, burned hands. In Meereen I was a queen in silk, nibbling on stuffed dates and honeyed lamb, she remembered. What would my noble husband think if he could see me now? Hizdahr would be horrified, no doubt. But Daario ...

Daario would laugh, carve off a hunk of horsemeat with his arakh, and squat down to eat beside her.

 ADWD Daenerys IX

“Those bearers were slaves before I came. I made them free. Yet that palanquin is no lighter.”

“True,” said Hizdahr, “but those men are paid to bear its weight now. Before you came, that man who fell would have an overseer standing over him, stripping the skin off his back with a whip. Instead he is being given aid.”

It was true. A Brazen Beast in a boar mask had offered the litter bearer a skin of water. “I suppose I must be thankful for small victories,” the queen said.

“One step, then the next, and soon we shall be running. Together we shall make a new Meereen.” The street ahead had finally cleared. “Shall we continue on?”

What could she do but nod? One step, then the next, but where is it I’m going?

~

Hizdahr had stocked their box with flagons of chilled wine and sweetwater, with figs, dates, melons, and pomegranates, with pecans and peppers and a big bowl of honeyed locusts. Strong Belwas bellowed, “Locusts!” as he seized the bowl and began to crunch them by the handful.

“Those are very tasty,” advised Hizdahr. “You ought to try a few yourself, my love. They are rolled in spice before the honey, so they are sweet and hot at once.”

“That explains the way Belwas is sweating,” Dany said. “I believe I will content myself with figs and dates.”

~

“Gentle queen. You do not want to disappoint your people.”

“You swore to me that the fighters would be grown men who had freely consented to risk their lives for gold and honor. These dwarfs did not consent to battle lions with wooden swords. You will stop it. Now.”

The king’s mouth tightened. For a heartbeat Dany thought she saw a flash of anger in those placid eyes. “As you command.”

~

“Ser Barristan, will you see me safely back to my garden?”

Hizdahr looked confused. “There is more to come. A folly, six old women, and three more matches. Belaquo and Goghor!”

~

“Magnificence, the people of Meereen have come to celebrate our union. You heard them cheering you. Do not cast away their love.”

“It was my floppy ears they cheered, not me. Take me from this abbatoir, husband.” She could hear the boar snorting, the shouts of the spearmen, the crack of the pitmaster’s whip.

“Sweet lady, no. Stay only a while longer. For the folly, and one last match. Close your eyes, no one will see. They will be watching Belaquo and Ghogor. This is no time for—”

~

A queer look passed across Hizdahr zo Loraq’s long, pale face—part fear, part lust, part rapture. He licked his lips.

~

“Kill it,” Hizdahr zo Loraq shouted to the other spearmen. “Kill the beast!”

 ADWD Daenerys VIII

This is peace, she told herself. This is what I wanted, what I worked for, this is why I married Hizdahr. So why does it taste so much like defeat?

~

So Daenerys sat silent through the meal, wrapped in a vermilion tokar and black thoughts, speaking only when spoken to, brooding on the men and women being bought and sold outside her walls, even as they feasted here within the city. Let her noble husband make the speeches and laugh at the feeble Yunkish japes. That was a king’s right and a king’s duty.

~

“I keep my promises,” he told her, as Irri and Jhiqui were robing them for bed. “You wished for peace, and it is yours.”

And you wished for blood, and soon enough I must give it to you, Dany thought, but what she said was, “I am grateful.”

~

Dany slid her arms around him and let him have his way. Drunk as he was, she knew he would not be inside her long.

Nor was he. Afterward he nuzzled at her ear and whispered, “Gods grant that we have made a son tonight.”

The words of Mirri Maz Duur rang in her head. When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When your womb quickens again, and you bear a living child. Then he will return, and not before. The meaning was plain enough; Khal Drogo was as like to return from the dead as she was to bear a living child. But there are some secrets she could not bring herself to share, even with a husband, so she let Hizdahr zo Loraq keep his hopes.

 ADWD Daenerys VII

Dany sat amongst the rumpled bedclothes with her arms about her knees, so forlorn that she did not hear when Missandei came creeping in with bread and milk and figs. “Your Grace? Are you unwell? In the black of night this one heard you scream.”

Dany took a fig. It was black and plump, still moist with dew. Will Hizdahr ever make me scream?

~

Hizdahr will bring me peace. He must.

~

“It is not too late to tell them that you have decided not to wed.”

It is, though, the queen thought, sadly. “Hizdahr’s blood is ancient and noble. Our joining will join my freedmen to his people. When we become as one, so will our city.”

“Your Grace does not love the noble Hizdahr. This one thinks you would sooner have another for your husband.”

I must not think of Daario today. “A queen loves where she must, not where she will.”

~

She should be eager with anticipation for her wedding and the night that would follow, she knew. She remembered the night of her first wedding, when Khal Drogo had claimed her maidenhead beneath the stranger stars. She remembered how frightened she had been, and how excited. Would it be the same with Hizdahr? No. I am not the girl I was, and he is not my sun-and-stars.

~

“...This match will save our city, you will see.”

“So we pray. I want to plant my olive trees and see them fruit.” Does it matter that Hizdahr’s kisses do not please me? Peace will please me. Am I a queen or just a woman?

~

“Gracious queen, well met!” Another procession had come up beside her own, and Hizdahr zo Loraq was smiling at her from his own sedan chair. My king. Dany wondered where Daario Naharis was, what he was doing. If this were a story, he would gallop up just as we reached the temple, to challenge Hizdahr for my hand.

~

Side by side the queen’s procession and Hizdahr zo Loraq’s made their slow way across Meereen, until finally the Temple of the Graces loomed up before them, its golden domes flashing in the sun. How beautiful, the queen tried to tell herself, but inside her was some foolish little girl who could not help but look about for Daario.

~

He has gentle hands, she mused, as warm fragrant oils ran between her toes. If he has a gentle heart as well, I may grow fond of him in time.

 ADWD Daenerys VI

Hizdahr zo Loraq arrived an hour after the sun had set. His own tokar was burgundy, with a golden stripe and a fringe of golden beads. Dany told him of her meeting with Reznak and the Green Grace as she was pouring wine for him. “These rituals are empty,” Hizdahr declared, “just the sort of thing we must sweep aside. Meereen has been steeped in these foolish old traditions for too long.” He kissed her hand and said, “Daenerys, my queen, I will gladly wash you from head to heel if that is what I must do to be your king and consort.”

“To be my king and consort, you need only bring me peace. Skahaz tells me you have had messages of late.”

“I have.” Hizdahr crossed his long legs. He looked pleased with himself. “Yunkai will give us peace, but for a price. The disruption of the slave trade has caused great injury throughout the civilized world. Yunkai and her allies will require an indemnity of us, to be paid in gold and gemstones.”

Gold and gems were easy. “What else?”

“The Yunkai’i will resume slaving, as before. Astapor will be rebuilt, as a slave city. You will not interfere.”

“The Yunkai’i resumed their slaving before I was two leagues from their city. Did I turn back? King Cleon begged me to join with him against them, and I turned a deaf ear to his pleas. I want no war with Yunkai. How many times must I say it? What promises do they require?”

“Ah, there is the thorn in the bower, my queen,” said Hizdahr zo Loraq. “Sad to say, Yunkai has no faith in your promises. They keep plucking the same string on the harp, about some envoy that your dragons set on fire.”

“Only his tokar was burned,” said Dany scornfully.

“Be that as it may, they do not trust you. The men of New Ghis feel the same. Words are wind, as you yourself have so oft said. No words of yours will secure this peace for Meereen. Your foes require deeds. They would see us wed, and they would see me crowned as king, to rule beside you.”

Dany filled his wine cup again, wanting nothing so much as to pour the flagon over his head and drown his complacent smile. “Marriage or carnage. A wedding or a war. Are those my choices?”

“I see only one choice, Your Radiance. Let us say our vows before the gods of Ghis and make a new Meereen together.”

The queen was framing her response when she heard a step behind her. The food, she thought. Her cooks had promised her to serve the noble Hizdahr’s favorite meal, dog in honey, stuffed with prunes and peppers. But when she turned to look, it was Ser Barristan standing there, freshly bathed and clad in white, his longsword at his side. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing, “I am sorry to disturb you, but I thought that you would want to know at once. The Stormcrows have returned to the city, with word of the foe. The Yunkishmen are on the march, just as we had feared.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed the noble face of Hizdahr zo Loraq. “The queen is at her supper. These sellswords can wait.”

Ser Barristan ignored him. “I asked Lord Daario to make his report to me, as Your Grace had commanded. He laughed and said that he would write it out in his own blood if Your Grace would send your little scribe to show him how to make the letters.”

“Blood?” said Dany, horrified. “Is that a jape? No. No, don’t tell me, I must see him for myself.” She was a young girl, and alone, and young girls can change their minds. “Convene my captains and commanders. Hizdahr, I know you will forgive me.”

“Meereen must come first.” Hizdahr smiled genially. “We will have other nights. A thousand nights.”

“Ser Barristan will show you out.”

~

If I marry Hizdahr before the sun comes up, will all these armies melt away like morning dew and let me rule in peace?

 ADWD Daenerys V

“Your Radiance, Hizdahr was seen to enter the pyramid of Zhak last evening. He did not depart until well after dark.”

“How many pyramids has he visited?” asked Dany.

“Eleven.”

“And how long since the last murder?”

“Six-and-twenty days.” The Shavepate’s eyes brimmed with fury. It had been his notion to have the Brazen Beasts follow her betrothed and take note of all his actions.

“So far Hizdahr has made good on his promises.”

“How? The Sons of the Harpy have put down their knives, but why? Because the noble Hizdahr asked sweetly? He is one of them, I tell you. That’s why they obey him. He may well be the Harpy.”

“If there is a Harpy.” Skahaz was convinced that somewhere in Meereen the Sons of the Harpy had a highborn overlord, a secret general commanding an army of shadows. Dany did not share his belief. The Brazen Beasts had taken dozens of the Harpy’s Sons, and those who had survived their capture had yielded names when questioned sharply … too many names, it seemed to her. It would have been pleasant to think that all the deaths were the work of a single enemy who might be caught and killed, but Dany suspected that the truth was otherwise. My enemies are legion. “Hizdahr zo Loraq is a persuasive man with many friends. And he is wealthy. Perhaps he has bought this peace for us with gold, or convinced the other highborn that our marriage is in their best interests.”

“If he is not the Harpy, he knows him. I can find the truth of that easy enough. Give me your leave to put Hizdahr to the question, and I will bring you a confession.”

“No,” she said. “I do not trust these confessions. You’ve brought me too many of them, all of them worthless.”

“Your Radiance—”

“No, I said.”

The Shavepate’s scowl turned his ugly face even uglier. “A mistake. The Great Master Hizdahr plays Your Worship for a fool. Do you want a serpent in your bed?”

I want Daario in my bed, but I sent him away for the sake of you and yours. “You may continue to watch Hizdahr zo Loraq, but no harm is to come to him. Is that understood?”

“I am not deaf, Magnificence. I will obey.” Skahaz drew a parchment scroll from his sleeve. “Your Worship should have a look at this. A list of all the Meereenese ships in the blockade, with their captains. Great Masters all.”

Dany studied the scroll. All the ruling families of Meereen were named: Hazkar, Merreq, Quazzar, Zhak, Rhazdar, Ghazeen, Pahl, even Reznak and Loraq. “What am I to do with a list of names?”

“Every man on that list has kin within the city. Sons and brothers, wives and daughters, mothers and fathers. Let my Brazen Beasts seize them. Their lives will win you back those ships.”

“If I send the Brazen Beasts into the pyramids, it will mean open war inside the city. I have to trust in Hizdahr. I have to hope for peace.” Dany held the parchment above a candle and watched the names go up in flame, while Skahaz glowered at her.

~

[...] “I cannot fight two enemies, one within and one without. If I am to hold Meereen, I must have the city behind me. The whole city. I need … I need …” She could not say it.

“Your Grace?” Ser Barristan prompted, gently.

A queen belongs not to herself but to her people.

“I need Hizdahr zo Loraq.”

 ADWD Daenerys IV

Hizdahr wore a plain green robe beneath a quilted vest. He bowed low when he entered, his face solemn. “Have you no smile for me?” Dany asked him. “Am I as fearful as all that?”

“I always grow solemn in the presence of such beauty.”

It was a good start. “Drink with me.” Dany filled his cup herself. “You know why you are here. The Green Grace seems to feel that if I take you for my husband, all my woes will vanish.”

“I would never make so bold a claim. Men are born to strive and suffer. Our woes only vanish when we die. I can be of help to you, however. I have gold and friends and influence, and the blood of Old Ghis flows in my veins. Though I have never wed, I have two natural children, a boy and a girl, so I can give you heirs. I can reconcile the city to your rule and put an end to this nightly slaughter in the streets.”

“Can you?” Dany studied his eyes. “Why should the Sons of the Harpy lay down their knives for you? Are you one of them?”

“No.”

“Would you tell me if you were?”

He laughed. “No.”

“The Shavepate has ways of finding the truth.”

“I do not doubt that Skahaz would soon have me confessing. A day with him, and I will be one of the Harpy’s Sons. Two days, and I will be the Harpy. Three, and it will turn out I slew your father too, back in the Sunset Kingdoms when I was yet a boy. Then he will impale me on a stake and you can watch me die … but afterward the killings will go on.” Hizdahr leaned closer. “Or you can marry me and let me try to stop them.”

“Why would you want to help me? For the crown?”

“A crown would suit me well, I will not deny that. It is more than that, however. Is it so strange that I would want to protect my own people, as you protect your freedmen? Meereen cannot endure another war, Your Radiance.”

That was a good answer, and an honest one. “I have never wanted war. I defeated the Yunkai’i once and spared their city when I might have sacked it. I refused to join King Cleon when he marched against them. Even now, with Astapor besieged, I stay my hand. And Qarth … I have never done the Qartheen any harm …”

“Not by intent, no, but Qarth is a city of merchants, and they love the clink of silver coins, the gleam of yellow gold. When you smashed the slave trade, the blow was felt from Westeros to Asshai. Qarth depends upon its slaves. So too Tolos, New Ghis, Lys, Tyrosh, Volantis … the list is long, my queen.”

“Let them come. In me they shall find a sterner foe than Cleon. I would sooner perish fighting than return my children to bondage.”

“There may be another choice. The Yunkai’i can be persuaded to allow all your freedmen to remain free, I believe, if Your Worship will agree that the Yellow City may trade and train slaves unmolested from this day forth. No more blood need flow.”

“Save for the blood of those slaves that the Yunkai’i will trade and train,” Dany said, but she recognized the truth in his words even so. It may be that is the best end we can hope for. “You have not said you love me.”

“I will, if it would please Your Radiance.”

“That is not the answer of a man in love.”

“What is love? Desire? No man with all his parts could ever look on you and not desire you, Daenerys. That is not why I would marry you, however. Before you came Meereen was dying. Our rulers were old men with withered cocks and crones whose puckered cunts were dry as dust. They sat atop their pyramids sipping apricot wine and talking of the glories of the Old Empire whilst the centuries slipped by and the very bricks of the city crumbled all around them. Custom and caution had an iron grip upon us till you awakened us with fire and blood. A new time has come, and new things are possible. Marry me.”

He is not hard to look at, Dany told herself, and he has a king's tongue. "Kiss me," she commanded.

He took her hand again, and kissed her fingers.

“Not that way. Kiss me as if I were your wife.”

Hizdahr took her by the shoulders as tenderly as if she were a baby bird. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to hers. His kiss was light and dry and quick. Dany felt no stirrings.

“Shall I … kiss you again?” he asked when it was over.

“No.” On her terrace, in her bathing pool, the little fish would nibble at her legs as she soaked. Even they kissed with more fervor than Hizdahr zo Loraq. “I do not love you.”

Hizdahr shrugged. “That may come, in time. It has been known to happen that way.”

Not with us, she thought. Not whilst Daario is so close. It’s him I want, not you. “One day I will want to return to Westeros, to claim the Seven Kingdoms that were my father’s.”

“One day all men must die, but it serves no good to dwell on death. I prefer to take each day as it comes.”

Dany folded her hands together. “Words are wind, even words like love and peace. I put more trust in deeds. In my Seven Kingdoms, knights go on quests to prove themselves worthy of the maiden that they love. They seek for magic swords, for chests of gold, for crowns stolen from a dragon’s hoard.”

Hizdahr arched an eyebrow. “The only dragons that I know are yours, and magic swords are even scarcer. I will gladly bring you rings and crowns and chests of gold if that is your desire.”

“Peace is my desire. You say that you can help me end the nightly slaughter in my streets. I say do it. Put an end to this shadow war, my lord. That is your quest. Give me ninety days and ninety nights without a murder, and I will know that you are worthy of a throne. Can you do that?”

Hizdahr looked thoughtful. “Ninety days and ninety nights without a corpse, and on the ninety-first we wed?”

“Perhaps,” said Dany, with a coy look. “Though young girls have been known to be fickle. I may still want a magic sword.”

Hizdahr laughed. “Then you shall have that too, Radiance. Your wish is my command. Best tell your seneschal to begin making preparations for our wedding.”

“Nothing would please the noble Reznak more.” If Meereen knew that a wedding was in the offing, that alone might buy her a few nights’ respite, even if Hizdahr’s efforts came to naught. The Shavepate will not be happy with me, but Reznak mo Reznak will dance for joy. Dany did not know which of those concerned her more. She needed Skahaz and the Brazen Beasts, and she had come to mistrust all of Reznak’s counsel. Beware the perfumed seneschal. Has Reznak made common cause with Hizdahr and the Green Grace and set some trap to snare me?

~

“You saw my brother Rhaegar wed. Tell me, did he wed for love or duty?”

The old knight hesitated. “Princess Elia was a good woman, Your Grace. She was kind and clever, with a gentle heart and a sweet wit. I know the prince was very fond of her.”

Fond, thought Dany. The word spoke volumes. I could become fond of Hizdahr zo Loraq, in time. Perhaps.

 ADWD Daenerys III

Hizdahr zo Loraq was saying something to the man beside him, yet all the time his eyes were on the dancing girls.

 ADWD Daenerys II

“Will it please Your Worship to hear the noble Hizdahr zo Loraq?”

Will he never admit defeat? “Let him step forth.” Hizdahr was not in a tokar today. Instead he wore a simple robe of grey and blue. He was shorn as well. He has shaved off his beard and cut his hair, she realized. The man had not gone shavepate, not quite, but at least those absurd wings of his were gone. “Your barber has served you well, Hizdahr. I hope you have come to show me his work and not to plague me further about the fighting pits.”

He made a deep obeisance. “Your Grace, I fear I must.”

Dany grimaced. Even her own people would give no rest about the matter. Reznak mo Reznak stressed the coin to be made through taxes. The Green Grace said that reopening the pits would please the gods. The Shavepate felt it would win her support against the Sons of the Harpy. “Let them fight,” grunted Strong Belwas, who had once been a champion in the pits. Ser Barristan suggested a tourney instead; his orphans could ride at rings and fight a mêlée with blunted weapons, he said, a suggestion Dany knew was as hopeless as it was well-intentioned. It was blood the Meereenese yearned to see, not skill. Elsewise the fighting slaves would have worn armor. Only the little scribe Missandei seemed to share the queen’s misgivings.

“I have refused you six times,” Dany reminded Hizdahr.

“Your Radiance has seven gods, so perhaps she will look upon my seventh plea with favor. Today I do not come alone. Will you hear my friends? There are seven of them as well.” He brought them forth one by one. “Here is Khrazz. Here Barsena Blackhair, ever valiant. Here Camarron of the Count and Goghor the Giant. This is the Spotted Cat, this Fearless Ithoke. Last, Belaquo Bonebreaker. They have come to add their voices to mine own, and ask Your Grace to let our fighting pits reopen.”

Dany knew his seven, by name if not by sight. All had been amongst the most famed of Meereen’s fighting slaves … and it had been the fighting slaves, freed from their shackles by her sewer rats, who led the uprising that won the city for her. She owed them a blood debt. “I will hear you,” she allowed.

One by one, each of them asked her to let the fighting pits reopen. “Why?” she demanded, when Ithoke had finished. “You are no longer slaves, doomed to die at a master’s whim. I freed you. Why should you wish to end your lives upon the scarlet sands?”

“I train since three,” said Goghor the Giant. “I kill since six. Mother of Dragons says I am free. Why not free to fight?”

“If it is fighting you want, fight for me. Swear your sword to the Mother’s Men or the Free Brothers or the Stalwart Shields. Teach my other freedmen how to fight.”

Goghor shook his head. “Before, I fight for master. You say, fight for you. I say, fight for me.” The huge man thumped his chest with a fist as big as a ham. “For gold. For glory.”

“Goghor speaks for us all.” The Spotted Cat wore a leopard skin across one shoulder. “The last time I was sold, the price was three hundred thousand honors. When I was a slave, I slept on furs and ate red meat off the bone. Now that I’m free, I sleep on straw and eat salt fish, when I can get it.”

“Hizdahr swears that the winners shall share half of all the coin collected at the gates,” said Khrazz. “Half, he swears it, and Hizdahr is an honorable man.”

No, a cunning man. Daenerys felt trapped. “And the losers? What shall they receive?”

“Their names shall be graven on the Gates of Fate amongst the other valiant fallen,” declared Barsena. For eight years she had slain every other woman sent against her, it was said. “All men must die, and women too … but not all will be remembered.”

Dany had no answer for that. If this is truly what my people wish, do I have the right to deny it to them? It was their city before it was mine, and it is their own lives they wish to squander. “I will consider all you’ve said. Thank you for your counsel.” She rose. “We will resume on the morrow.”

 ADWD Daenerys I

“Magnificence,” prompted Reznak mo Reznak, “will you hear the noble Hizdahr zo Loraq?”

Again? Dany nodded, and Hizdahr strode forth; a tall man, very slender, with flawless amber skin. He bowed on the same spot where Stalwart Shield had lain in death not long before. I need this man, Dany reminded herself. Hizdahr was a wealthy merchant with many friends in Meereen, and more across the seas. He had visited Volantis, Lys, and Qarth, had kin in Tolos and Elyria, and was even said to wield some influence in New Ghis, where the Yunkai’i were trying to stir up enmity against Dany and her rule.

And he was rich. Famously and fabulously rich …

And like to grow richer, if I grant his petition. When Dany had closed the city’s fighting pits, the value of pit shares had plummeted. Hizdahr zo Loraq had grabbed them up with both hands, and now owned most of the fighting pits in Meereen.

The nobleman had wings of wiry red-black hair sprouting from his temples. They made him look as if his head were about to take flight. His long face was made even longer by a beard bound with rings of gold. His purple tokar was fringed with amethysts and pearls. “Your Radiance will know the reason I am here.”

“Why, it must be because you have no other purpose but to plague me. How many times have I refused you?”

“Five times, Your Magnificence.”

“Six now. I will not have the fighting pits reopened.”

“If Your Majesty will hear my arguments …”

“I have. Five times. Have you brought new arguments?”

“Old arguments,” Hizdahr admitted, “new words. Lovely words, and courteous, more apt to move a queen.”

“It is your cause I find wanting, not your courtesies. I have heard your arguments so often I could plead your case myself. Shall I?” Dany leaned forward. “The fighting pits have been a part of Meereen since the city was founded. The combats are profoundly religious in nature, a blood sacrifice to the gods of Ghis. The mortal art of Ghis is not mere butchery but a display of courage, skill, and strength most pleasing to your gods. Victorious fighters are pampered and acclaimed, and the slain are honored and remembered. By reopening the pits I would show the people of Meereen that I respect their ways and customs. The pits are far-famed across the world. They draw trade to Meereen, and fill the city’s coffers with coin from the ends of the earth. All men share a taste for blood, a taste the pits help slake. In that way they make Meereen more tranquil. For criminals condemned to die upon the sands, the pits represent a judgment by battle, a last chance for a man to prove his innocence.” She leaned back again, with a toss of her head. “There. How have I done?”

“Your Radiance has stated the case much better than I could have hoped to do myself. I see that you are eloquent as well as beautiful. I am quite persuaded.”

She had to laugh. “Ah, but I am not.”

“Your Magnificence,” whispered Reznak mo Reznak in her ear, “it is customary for the city to claim one-tenth of all the profits from the fighting pits, after expenses, as a tax. That coin might be put to many noble uses.”

“It might … though if we were to reopen the pits, we should take our tenth before expenses. I am only a young girl and know little of such matters, but I dwelt with Xaro Xhoan Daxos long enough to learn that much. Hizdahr, if you could marshal armies as you marshal arguments, you could conquer the world … but my answer is still no. For the sixth time.”

“The queen has spoken.” He bowed again, as deeply as before. His pearls and amethysts clattered softly against the marble floor. A very limber man was Hizdahr zo Loraq.

He might be handsome, but for that silly hair. Reznak and the Green Grace had been urging Dany to take a Meereenese noble for her husband, to reconcile the city to her rule. Hizdahr zo Loraq might be worth a careful look. Sooner him than Skahaz. The Shavepate had offered to set aside his wife for her, but the notion made her shudder. Hizdahr at least knew how to smile.

[ravenofsigurd]

The God Of Heroes

Lore for Michael Flanagan's D&D setting

 In their mortal life, the person who would end their existence retaining the title of the God of Heroes, was known as Alektos Fastfoot, the Demi-God offspring Gond, God of Crafts and the Princess Paloma of the dead Kingdom of Acroptis. After being exiled by the murderous intent of their Grandfather, the King of Acroptis, Minon, Alektos found their infant self and mortally wounded mother in a Hafling village where the Princess died and the baby was taken in by a kindly Halfling family.  Enraged by the exile and murder of his lover and the exile and attempted murder of his child, Gond cursed the land of Acroptis so they could not use or retain memory of skills to use any technology, even fire was denied them causing most of the people to slowly die out, the land to be overrun by monsters and the few survivors to devolve into savage, bestial creatures.

 Alektos stood out amongst the village, not just because they were a human in the midst of Halflings but because their royal blood showed through in their dark brown skin and obsidian coloured hair of tight curls, a contrast to the pale, loose curled halflings. They also stood out in their strength, that seemed to exceed that of average humans, and their long human limbs meant they were swifter in movement that all others in the village, earning them the name 'Fastfoot', both a reference to their speed and a play on the name of their adopted family, Proudfoot,  Despite being raised as a girl, Alektos felt no need to conform to the expected gender roles of village tradition and nobody felt the need to force them into said roles, them being human and the halflings being an easy going people who conformed to traditional roles out of habit and laziness rather than a strong desire to keep society a certain way, favouring the idea of contentment and full bellies over any kind of ideology. Alektos would wear both feminine and masculine clothing depending on mood, making most garments themselves, as they found they had an affinity for weaving and tailoring.  Upon reaching their teenage years, Alektos became increasingly uncomfortable and annoyed with being referred to as 'girl', believing their actions and interests indicated that they were not a girl by halfling standards and by the same token neither were they a boy.  Alektos was heard to say on many occasions, 'Men are copper, women are tin and I am bronze.'

 As Alektos grew older, they found with little effort they could learn any craft skill well, from cooking to woodwork, basket making to weaving but their favourite was smithing.  After only a year of apprenticeship, they made the finest bronze in the village. Their rate and quality of production was such that the village had all the tools and weapons they could need, as such Alektos spent much time with travelling traders, trying to sell their backlog of bronze goods.  Through their interactions with the traders they got to hear of foreign crafts, the fine bronze of the Crannog Gnomes on the Winged Isle, the great engines of the  people of Archimedian, the clever mechanisms in the counrty of Daedalon, the fine of the cloths and weaving of the Arrack people and the enchantments put on crafts at the University of Hecathen.  Alektos was fascinated by these tales and resolved that the skills to make wonders such as these were ones that they should learn.  Forging themself a short sword and spear and bidding farewell to their Halfling family,  Alektos left with a trading caravan having secured their passage in exchange for working as a guard.  

 They travelled to all the lands and learned all the crafts they desired and learned them well, weaving the finest cloth, forging the finest bronze, designing ships and siege engines, devising cunning contraptions and imbuing many of these fine crafts with arcane properties.

Alektos faced many obstacles in their travels from bandits to monsters to tyrant warlords, forcing them to use their skills in craft to incline to the martial, making for themselves arcane armour, an enchanted shield and the sharpest sword not made by gods that never lost it's edge. These adventures and mishaps lead Alektos to realise that all the great crafts in the world were worth nothing were they not used well.  A sword was simply a piece of metal until it was wielded by a warrior, and Paladin and Tyrant alike could wield a finely made sword.  Alektos concluded that their crafts should be used as tools with which the right crafters could make a better world, and so spent their days making weapons for heroes and the armies of the just, making swifter ships so that food and riches could be more easily brought to the poor and refugees move swiftly for the places of war and disaster.  They became a great hero themself, slaying evil monsters, leading uprisings against Tyrants, gaining the admirations of many peoples, and the love on many as well as proposals of marriage from two Kings,  But Alektos was never know to have a lover or spouse, preferring the platonic and sibling love of their friends and allies.  

  Monarchy was almost thrust upon Alektos themself  after the reclamation of the land of their birth.  When the Fire Giants caused the great mountain n the Isle of Wokklen to erupt and devastate the land, Alektos and several other heroes lead the evacuation of the island that after several years of the eruption continuing would one day sink into the sea.  The refugees were lead to the border of Acroptis where Alektos vowed to enter the cursed land and remove the curse making it possible for the Wokklen's to settle. The hero knew that they could use no technology, not even fire, but relied on the curse being there to punish those who hurt them, hoping that meant the knowledge of crafts would not leave their head, especially since the curse could only be lifted with their return to the palace they were born in, in the nation's capital at the centre of the land.  Alektos left their weapons, armour and tools, going forth in tunic, sandals with a bag of bread, fruit and dried meat. After the first day of travel, Alektos' tunic, sandals and bag had disintegrated into their component parts, the bread broken down to grain and salt and yeast and the dried meat softened and bled as is it had never seen fire. Naked and only able to carry what fruit would fit in their arms, Alektos journeyed for a week to the capital, mostly avoiding but sometimes having to come to bare handed blows with monsters and the feral Acroptians until she came to the rubble of the capital, for when technology was taken, so were masonry and architecture, causing in one day all buildings to collapse.  Picking their was though the piles of once cut rock, Alektos found their to the rubble of the palace and there found a winged, red dragon.  The dragon sat atop pile of nuggets of precious metals and uncut precious stones, the treasure of the nation, the shaping of crafts worked upon is removed. Alektos despaired upon initially seeing the dragon, knowing in their starved and exhausted state with none of their arms and armour they had gone from little chance of slaying the creature to no chance. Alektos had slain dragons before, but none so big and old and had only done so with those others with careful planning and cunning devices.  Then they saw the horde, and rage filled the heroes heart. Here was another monster, picking at this dead land like a carrion bird at a carcass, not enough that her father destroyed this culture and people with their crafts and songs and stories to spite one man, now this beast would stop the building of something new and great for a people who had all stolen from them.  Unacceptable.  They strode forward, naked and dirty and bloody and cried, 'You, foul lizard, are intruding in my home,  I am Alektos Fastfoot, Dragon slayer, Pegasus tamer, master artificer,smith and enchanter and heir to the last King of  Acroptis and you will leave my birthright be!'

 The Dragon was shocked to hear human speech and language, having only met the feral locals for decades now, but after it's shock it refused to leave threatening to kill Alektos.  Alektos called it a coward before the gods, saying the god's watched their deeds as their father was Gond and should the dragon kill and unarmed, naked mortal the gods would curse it.  So the dragon took the form of a naked human man, and agreed to duel via wrestling for ownership of the land.  The duel lasted a full day and night with neither giving ground, until Alektos found an opportunity to use an arm lock taught to them by a Monk of Yondalla that put the dragon in such pain it begged for mercy. Conquered the dragon agreed to leave the land and carried Alektos back to the refugees at the border in a matter of hours so the news could be given that settlement could begin.  

 The refugees wanted rule to go to Alektos as their rulers were killed in the initial eruption and the land they would now live in belonged to Alektos, but Alektos refused,championing the ascension of their friend and fellow hero, the Dwarf Hespicus, who slayed the king of the Fire Giants as the giants pursued the refugees, insisting the Alektos launch him from a ballista, striking the giant king with his great stone war hammer in the face while airborne, killing the giant instantly and causing it's subjects to flee in fear.  Hespicus made a good and brave king, inviting immigrants of all races to join his fledgling nation, and Alektos stayed with him on his council for many years, rebuilding the cities, ridding the country of  monsters and forcing the feral folk, now turned to cannibalism and far beyond rehabilitation away from the civilised places to live in the remote woods, swamps and mountains, action that pained Alektos seeing these folk as innocent victims of their Grandfather and Father's malice. They did make attempt to rehabilitate a male they captured, calling him Hope, however most called him Mutt and thought of him as Alektos' pet as his behaviour never got much better than that of a captured wolf.

  As the years past and grey started to sneak into the obsidian of Alektos' hair, they and some other heroes became aware of an alliance of Giants who were massing to invade the land of the Gods. Despite the resentment Alektos felt to their father for deciding punishing their Grandfather was more important than protecting their Mother, Alektos knew the Gods were essential to the order of the universe, eliminating them would lead to a chaos that the forces of Entropy could use as a opening to end all life.  As the Gods were completely oblivious to this threat, Alektos went forth to make an alliance of their own, finding all the world's heroes, both Alektos' past friends and enemies, bringing them together to form an army that would stand between the Giants and the Gates of the Gods. When the battle was met, whatever trickery was hiding the Giant army from the God's was dispelled and the Gods came to fight along side the heroes defeating the Giants after Alektos personally killed their General in single combat and then went on to expose the agent of Entropy that manipulated the army together.  For arranging the defence of the Gods and for their acts of skill and bravery in the battle with the Giants the Gods agreed that an appropriate reward would be to raise Alektos to Godhood.

 And so did Alektos Fastfoot become the God of Heroes.  After their ascension Alektos was able to become truly genderless as they had always in their deepest heart of hearts desired. King Hespicus renamed the capital city of Acroptis, Alekopolis in honour of his risen friend and build one of only two Temples ever built to the God of Heroes, the other being in the Feywild, placed their so that the path to it would be a gauntlet that only Heroes could pass.  Hespicus himself made a pilgrimage to the Feywild Temple, bringing the items Alektos has utilised most in their heroic career, the Winged Isle Bronze Sword, Arcane Armour, Enchanted Shield, Helm of Invisibility, a spear that when thrown would become a lightening bolt and a knife made of a tooth of a tunnelling desert creature that devoured arcane energy, so the knife could cut through any arcane shield or defence. Brought there each was placed on a statue of Alektos, line the walls of the temple and guarded by a Fire Elemental in a brazier in front of each statue.

  Alektos chose to stay away from their father, creating their own divine forge where they learned to work adamantine and made weapons and tools, not for the Gods, for that was their father's domain, but for heroes in as rewards for great acts or to help them in their time of greatest need. Alektos first tried to use their godly power to help the feral folk of Acroptis, return them to sanity and civilisation, but the best that could be done was to remove the curse of Gond from them, allowing them to make tools and light fires.  Alektos came to some of them in their Godly visage to gift them fire in the hope that it would be the first step in the formerly cursed people developing themselves back to what they once were.  For 1000 years, Alektos would appear to heroes and potential heroes, some they would guide, some they would push appearing to them only a touch more androgynous than they had been as a mortal, but still as a human of dark skin and hair.  Only once did they appear as anything other that that, when they appear as a Goblin. Alektos was aghast at the hubris of the Hobgoblins creating a slave race and was enraged when no other Gods would intervene, and so appeared to a young he-Goblin, Mzznit, who would be the first hero of the Goblins. Mzznit had existed only as a slave told of his race's creation as slaves and that they were literally less than all forms of life, so Mzznit was awed when confronted by a divine entity in the form of a Goblin who gifted him a sword of adamantine and told him to free his people. And so he did. Many Goblins went off to form feral tribes and engage in banditry imposing Hobgoblin power structures with  mean Goblins in charge, but many followed Mzznit's  example and made villages and towns where they could live peacefully.  Mzznit became a great hero of the age and a faithful Acolyte to Alektos whom always ensured that Mzznit only see them in Goblin form.  

 Though prayers and conversations with heroes, Alektos began to notice patterns in gathering of monsters that seemed similar to the gathering of Giants orchestrated by the forces of Entropy,  These gatherings were ones Alektos could not perceive, only hear reports of them, leading Alektos to concluded that the same thing that hid the Giants was hiding these forces.  Alektos tried to bring this to the attention of the Gods, but they did not give consideration to their concerns, and Alektos began to search for a way to ensure victory without the gods. Alektos became increasingly aware of magic in their Godly form and had followed the flow of magic back to it's source, the primordial energy of  creation,  Now, daringly, Alektos tried to alloy this energy with adamantine, producing crystals.  Alektos made many thousands of these crystals,but found that they were so powerful that a mortal could only handle one at a time and so the crystals were set in weapons that Alektos gave one each of to their followers, Mzznit had made alliances with the aloof Forest Tieflings whom he convinced to pray to Alektos to be allowed to fight in the coming conflict and so they too received the crystal set weapons and became an army waiting for Alektos. The Tielfings having a knowledge of magic rivalled only by Elves and Dragons, built a temple to the crystals with a vault to keep all that Alektos had forged.  The spells and enchantments on the Temple would test the character of the people who entered and gift the worth with a crystal set weapon.  Alektos was not limited to a single crystal, being a God, and so made a breastplate, grieves, vambraces, helm, shield, sword and spear all from the crystal, shaped like glass.

 Alektos would not wait for the threat to be at the gates and so lead a pre-emptive strike against the enemy with the army of heroes and Tieflings and their crystal enhanced weapons.  In the charge the army not only found terrible creatures but a creature of Entropy, a God-like creature that predated creation itself, and this creature Alektos faced alone, The duel shook heaven, earth and underworld stirring the Gods,  By the time the God's arrived at the battle Alektos' army had routed the minions of Entropy and the Elder God lay slain beside the broken body of Alektos, their armour shattered, spear splintered and sword broken.  All that remained of Alektos was the flesh of their mortal body.  Mzznit, raged at the Gods for their complacency costing the universe one so great and selfless as Alektos.  He and several Teiflings took Alektos' body to the Feywild Temple to burn it upon a pyre, and in that Temple the Ashes of the Hero God are kept.  Alektos did not die in vain, galvanised by their grief the Gods fought alongside the followers of Alektos in a war lasting 500 years, keeping the forces of Entropy from the world.  But when the war was over the Gods reverted to complacency, the Tieflings made the deal that cursed their race and Alektos' crystals were forgotten, but still, in the Feywild is the Temple of the God of Heroes, waiting for new pilgrims to prove themselves.

[dishonoredrpg]

Congratulations, MALIN! You’ve been accepted for the role of DEATH with the faclaim of ZOE KRAVITZ. Death’s hunger is one of my favorite aspects about their character -- but it can be easily overstated or understated in contrast to their humanity. You struck the perfect chord, and the song you wrote for me with Death was so well-written it made me weep. Zoya has the real potential to be a power-player, as you’ve shown, but her history and humanity gets in the way, and there’s so something undeniably poetic about it. The lore you sketched out for me at the start merely set the stage for a wonderful application that I enjoyed to no end (fantasy Lasik!). I’m fully prepared to serve Zoya a seven-course meal.

Please review the CHECKLIST and send your blog in within 24 hours.

ooc.

NAME: Malin PRONOUNS: she/hers & they/them AGE: 25 TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: GMT+1. Currently, I’m at about a 6-7 out of 10, I would say? I’m hoping for my own sake that I somehow nab a new job during summer sometime, which might push that activity down some – but I will still be here! ANYTHING ELSE? 1. i invented some in-game folklore. as a little treat. 2. listen, I gave a bitch haunted Lasik. 3. i did some MORE fuckshit regarding her body regenerating freakishly quick for a while after her resurrection (it has since gone away.) ALL OF THESE ARE DEFINITELY NEGOTIABLE if you feel it’s too much! but if you DON’T feel it’s Too Much though and you like it? ……………… let me do some fuckshit. 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀

in character.

SKELETON: Death

NAME: Zoya Nathair, daughter of Duke Nathair, the Duke of Serpents – thus giving her the title of lady while at court. The hefty mouthful you’ll find on legal documents has her down as Zoya Casimira Lucem Zilvinas Nathair. Informal names given through the years include the moniker Prince of Snakes, as given to her by the people of Lowtown – an insult turned pet name with time, if you will – and the Gaunter of Hightown, a ghost story she accidentally caused in her youth.

FACECLAIM: Zoë Kravitz, Jessica Parker Kennedy, Crystal Reed, Keira Knightley, Jodie Comer  (would want to change the age depending on the backup FC!)

AGE: 31-32

DETAILS: Zoya is a collection of contradictions: she died once, yet she lives; she’s Hightown-born and yet has her hands in Lowtown dealings – and the face she puts on and whom most know is a mask.

Calculating, impulsive; ruthless, caring; selfish, loyal. She crafted a lie she could live, and now she’s caught in it – and yet she finds herself both relishing and resisting that lie. Her outspoken nature among the upper echelon began as a game, Zoya courting consequence for her own amusement – but the longer it’s gone on for, the truer it rings. But Koldam has been razed, and if there ever was a time to kill a king, it’s now.

At the start of the game, she is a woman considering all the choices that have led her to where she is, and she will need to reconcile the gnawing hunger within herself – the parts of her she sees as self-serving and ignoble – with the parts that recognize the injustice being done, the same parts she’s spent years drowning out.

CHARACTER DEATH: Yes, I’m comfortable with it! As a woman who has already died once, she knows it’s coming – just not how, or when. Considering she’s also out here being vocal about TREASON, it’s uhhhh [will wright voice] pretty likely, innit. I think her dying could be interesting, though I’d like it to have the right weight, storywise, and to have a hand in it myself, should it come down to it!

CONTENT WARNING – brief mentions of self-harm in the section “skins shed; lives lost, lives given”!

biography.

THE WOLF WHO BECAME DUKE OF SERPENTS.

A wolf saves an adder from the claws of a hawk; its snarling, hungry teeth scaring away the kestrel. With the hawk gone, the wolf advances on the adder, slobbering spit from its maw. “Do not eat me,” hisses the adder, “for I am little more to you than a morsel. Let me instead return the debt I owe you.”

Intrigued, the wolf agrees – for the snake is right; its sullen, sorry skin will hardly feed the wolf. And perhaps wolves are hungry creatures, and perhaps hunger is an ancient feeling – but there are more things in this world to be hungry for than meat, and wolves themselves are ancient.

And so it is that the two of them venture into the gleaming halls of the Serpent Queen, far below the earth. Her den of snakes have hollowed out the primordial passages, which coil and twist through stone and bedrock. Rivers of emerald and sapphire greet them as they enter her labyrinth; the air is suffused with the rich scent of loam and ferns that grow in the dark. It is there, in a cavern bled through with silver, that the Serpent Queen sits upon her throne, her glittering scales carved from obsidian and lapis lazuli, quartz and tiger's eye.

The hiss of her court is silenced as she speaks, her voice the whisper of wind through grass.  “What do you wish for?” she asks the wolf, and the wolf answers that he would like the comfort of a rich man’s life. “No more would I need to starve through winter,” he says. “No more would I need to roam the woods for meagre prey.”

“So it shall be,” the Serpent Queen says, and so it is. She grants him a name, for he has none; a title, for he does not have that either; enough wealth that he may buy land wherever he pleases. Finally, she grants him his new form: she teaches him the secret of snakes, how to shed his fur for skin – but once it is done, you may never go back.

And so it is that the wolves of House Nathair never again ran on all fours through the Volkan woods; rising instead on two to walk among men. That first wolf was named Zilvinas, and so they would all take the name in his honor. Their head of house is forever known as the Duke of Serpents, for it is to that scaled queen below the earth they owe their riches and land.

† † †

It’s a strange story, even among the varied gentry of Tyrholm; an odd fairytale from a long-gone era. As a child, she spent much time contemplating the skin and the claws and the fangs that were shed. Now, in her cups, she does much the same. Sober, she pretends she doesn’t. The crest of her family – a wolf’s head circled by a snake eating its own tail – is more entrenched in her mind than she wants to admit. But let her brothers be the wolves: she has shed her skin more than once, and she will do it again, and again, and again.

THE GAUNTER OF HIGHTOWN.

In Hightown, there is a certain manor. Its stonework is decked in reliefs of beasts ready to spring to life: wolves chase stags through marble woodlands, beautiful serpents hide in the leaves. Amidst well-lit streets and manicured gardens, it is easy to forget the ghosts that haunt Tyrholm – but as the saying goes, not all corpses sink in the Tear. No apparitions are ever gone for long. As servants from neighboring homes passed through the ginnels and alleyways near it, they would often feel as though they were being watched… and at odd hours of the day, they would look up and see a gaunt face staring back at them from the manor tower, before fading into darkness once more.

At dawn, one might catch her from the east, staring from between the hallway curtains, and some even said they saw her gazing down at them from the parapets after midnight – her bony hands curved across the stone, pin-prick eyes boring holes into them. The Gaunter, they called it, the strange creature that watched and waited.

They say if you aren't careful, the Gaunter will catch you - wrap its spider-fingers around your neck, and squeeze until you're as gaunt as it is. They say it caught a chambermaid, once, after dark. They found her by the bridge leading to the Isle of the Dead, her brown hair gone grey overnight, her cheeks hollowed out.

† † †

From birth, Zoya was an ill child – prone to spells of sickness that would leave her bedridden and housebound for weeks, even months, at a time. Tonics and ointments and even the occasional visit from a Vitalus got her back on her feet, for a while – but nothing ever healed her; not truly. From the windows, she would observe the world passing her by, and the sight of her sickly face peering out gave rise to a considerable number of ghost stories among gentry and servants alike.

Tenth-born and the only daughter; half-dead from her first breath – easily forgotten, among her pack of older brothers, too young and frail and fragile to be heard in all the noise. Another girl might have been cowed by her circumstances – but that girl was not Zoya. Forget the blood in her mouth and the way her limbs threatened to give out when she pushed herself too hard, too fast, too much – she was stubborn; clung to life like she had since birth.

She was tutored in much the same way as her brothers before her, but where they were strong enough in body to wield a sword, and healthy enough to leave the manor,  Zoya was decidedly not. It meant she was left to her own devices, and she divided those hours between books and the staff of servants, making friends with the scullery maids and stable hands. They told her stories and tall tales and gossip, explained the intricacies of Lowtown to her, taught her card games, how to spot a cheater and how to hide your nature as one – and if they ever pitied her, they had the good sense not to show it. (For that, she was forever grateful.)

When her health confined her to her room, she would read – voraciously so, head lost in tales of Faerûn’s fall and the glory of Hypatos, stories from beyond the Sahrnian Sea describing horror and wonder alike. And when she could, she would sneak out from her chambers to roam the hallways like a spectre. Under cover of darkness, she would make her way out and up, peering down at the Hightown streets; wondering what it might look like, should she ever get there.

The world continued passing her by, and though she grew older, she never got well. The year she turned fifteen, her health sharply declined for the worse. As spring began, Zoya was sent to the Nathair estate in the countryside to live out her last months – no doubt both because it would be a finer place to die, but also because she’s certain her parents wouldn’t want the stench of death to taint their Hightown manor.

As spring became summer, her family joined her for her living wake; Zoya’s body still warm, but not for long. Soon after, a flash flood rendered the nearby roads unusable, and the threat of summer storms meant travelers had to be wary. It wasn’t a surprise, then, that someone came knocking, invoking the law of hospitality – but their two missing fingers certainly were. A necromancer had come calling, and her father let them in.

† † †

Perhaps it was pity, or guilt, that made her parents leave her to her roaming. She’s certain that had they known where she went, they would have stopped her – but they didn’t.

She spent the fragile remainder of that summer in the furthest corner of the rose garden, and her company was largely silent, yet magnetically present. The necromancer would rarely speak, unless it was pressing, but they never chased her away. For hours, the two of them would sit there, one near death and the other beyond it, the roses slowly wilting. The sweet scent of rot permeated the air, fragrant and earthen, and it remains a strange, hazy memory on the periphery of her consciousness, even now.

Slowly – and then quick as a slap – she began to wilt, too.

The night she died is a haze, but she thinks she remembers the necromancer’s strange, quiet voice as they spoke to her father: “You have shown me kindness. Let me offer you mine.” She remembers the last breath she drew. She does not remember the face of her resurrector, but she swears she feels the touch of their hands, on occasion, phantom traces of memory.

It was as if she had been woken from the longest slumber. Her saviour was gone, like a ghost fleeing the dawn; had left right before sunrise. Already, she felt it – life. She had been a desert, and now she was a river: not until she could feel strength in her limbs for the first time did she understand just how parched she’d been.

She hobbled to the garden, and found a wasteland in its stead. The rosarium was rotting, that scent rising from the ruin left behind. And then, of course, there was the matter of her right eye.

Before, they had both been the shade of burnt umber, a lovely rich brown – but after she rose, her right eye was yellow as amber; her pupil no longer round, but a serpentine slit. It distressed her parents greatly: undeath is holy, but the flesh is weak. Her strange eye seemed fit as proof of some inner flaw, no matter the blessing bestowed. A sacrilege of a holy gift. It did not help matters that she began to see things, out of the corner of her eye – shadows and silhouettes, strange motes of light. Sometimes, she even swore she heard them whisper. Necromancy may be holy, but not all magic is, and whatever had been left behind in her – or woken up – was decidedly not holy. The eye drops were a compromise: her father wanted to have a Vitalus heal her eye, in the hopes that it might banish whatever ill fortune had befallen her, and Zoya staunchly refused. It was her mark, her scar, she would do with it as she pleased. But she could not deny that the strange visions bothered her, and in time, took to covering it with cloth. It made her realize that simply removing the sight from her right eye seemed to stem the problem – and so she agreed to her father’s solution. He commissioned eye drops brewed from belladonna and other strange components, and she has kept a vial of it on her at all times ever since.

† † †

SKINS SHED; LIVES LOST, LIVES GIVEN.

It was as if whatever force had eluded her in her first life had begun pouring out of her in her second. She took to fencing, took to the city, took to anything and everything she could get her hands on: I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive. It echoed in her, a fervor unlike anything else she’d ever felt. She could tell it almost frightened her family: it must have been uncanny, she knows, to see her spend fifteen years half-dead, only to lie there a corpse and then be brought back. To see her right eye become something else, something not-her, to see her be so viciously alive after what had transpired.

And so, when she scratched herself on the thorns of a bramble in their Hightown garden, and found the scar knitting itself together, she kept it from them.

For weeks, she tested the limits of her resurrection – with thorns and knives, even a red-hot poker. If they were simple cuts, they would heal within the day. But if she exceeded her body’s strange, nebulous limit, they would often be bloodless – like a desiccated body, despite the glow in her cheeks and the fact that she was conscious. That fervor – that hunger – began to scare Zoya, too. But she had always been stubborn, and she would be damned if she let go then, after years of clinging to a half-life. So, like always, she pushed forward. If she hungered, she would have it – she needn’t think about that nagging thought in the back of her head, so long as she kept going.

( Am I alive, or am I a corpse? She would slip her hands into leather gloves, and tell no one why; would steal her mother’s perfume and fasten flowers to her lapel in the hopes that it might cover up the rot she was so certain she could smell. )

These days, all scars stay, whatever errant magical remnants the necromancer left in her long-gone. She wears the first scar that stuck with pride – a nasty gash in her left thigh, an anchor to remind her that she’s a living, breathing person. ( But sometimes, it’s hard to remember. )

SKINS SHED; LIVES LOST, LIVES TAKEN.

At 25, Zoya won the Rosewood Maiden in a game of cards, and the previous owner has sorely regretted it since. Already, she had been entrenched in certain Lowtown dealings, but it was the Maiden that would truly cinch her presence there. It became her way in, after a handful of years spent on the periphery, slowly working her way in. It would be easy, to say she wanted power – but the truth of it is that in her mind, power goes hand in hand with freedom. (Funny, then, that she has tied herself so strongly to a place, despite her childhood dreams of seeing what lay beyond her windowsill. –– But she did spend those fifteen years dreaming of simply seeing Tyrholm, and while she’s still curious about the rest of the world, Tyrholm is hers.)

Her “purchase” of the brothel marked a turning point: no longer was she an outsider, peering at the commonfolk from her ivory tower – no, she was one of them, now, with real stakes in Lowtown dealings. It made it easier for them to accept her, and her nickname, once spoken as an insult, became something else. She was theirs, now, and she enjoyed the idea of it – belonging. A pack of her own.

She snuck her metaphorical hand into the metaphorical pockets of the upper echelon, and used that gold to fund an expansion of her business – and in time, someone wrote a little ditty, one she hums if only to unnerve when the occasion calls for it:

Duke of Serpents; Prince of Snakes, king of liars, thieves and rakes– ruby, diamond, pearl and stone: rob you blind of blood and bone.

The nobles can say whatever they like. She’ll take what she wants in due time.

miscellaneous.

The Rosewood Maiden Architecture and design Rather than two, I headcanon that the Rosewood Maiden has three official floors and one hidden one - the top floor, which hosts Zoya's office as well as some sundry guest rooms for hire and storage space; the entry level, which hosts the tavern proper; the brothel quarter below; and underneath the brothel, a cavernous passage into an old smuggler's route.

The tavern and brothel are lavishly decorated with carved serpents and roses - and the occasional wolf and unicorn stag.

Faith She keeps a shrine to the Undying, as well as a scattering of more "heathen" ones - the Serpent Queen among them, and I imagine what deities would pass for good luck, fortune, and thieves in this world.

Sight & eyedrops After she was raised from the dead, her right eye became serpentine: a physical mark of her resurrection. She keeps two small bottles of an alchemical solution at all times: one to cloud the eye over, leaving only the faintest trace of yellow right at the edge of her iris, and another to undo the first. I think she gets these from Wyrmwood's, primarily, but I think seeing her approach the Moon for it could be neat! something akin to the historical drops of belladonna used to enlargen pupils, but [tyra banks vc] make it fantasy.

In addition to the uncanny appearance of her eye, there is also the issue of what she sees with it. When left "untreated", whether by eye drops or eye patch, Zoya sees shadowy figures and strange lights - traces of something else, beyond mortal ken. I headcanon that it's maybe a mix of the sheer cost of resurrecting her for the necromancer – an especially noticeable chunk of magic was infused/intertwined with Zoya – and maybe there's a touch of something latent within her? Who Can Say. I enjoy leaving it ambiguous!

Underdogs She has a soft spot for underdogs and unlikely victors - she tells herself it's mostly narcissistic, as it's a simple fact that they mirror her – but truth is there's empathy involved, though she often elects to ignore it. (It’s easier, that way.)

Delusion As a result of her resurrection, and the curious circumstances surrounding it, Zoya has struggled with the occasional delusion / compulsive thought that she is dead – a walking, talking corpse. It's gotten better over the years, but she will wear gloves for comfort when it's at its worst, and is always wearing perfume - a light touch on good days, and a heavier layer on bad ones.

She has a love/hate relationship with the scent of rot: it can set her off, especially meat that's gone bad.

Scent & flowers Both as a result of her delusion, and simply because she likes it, Zoya has an extensive collection of perfume oils to wear - florals, amber, spice; scents that tickle and intrigue.

In addition, she always keeps a large amount of flower arrangements wherever she is staying, whether it's in the Rosewood Maiden, or her home. Again, it serves many purposes - she likes flowers; she feels the scent masks her own when she struggles with thinking that she's dead; she associates them with the necromancer that brought her back, and she feels it keeps other necromancers "at bay" – the flowers will wilt before she does, essentially. They serve as a measuring tool, in that sense, as well as passive lifeforce for the eventual necromancer.

Magpie She has certain magpie tendencies – she enjoys the spoils of wealth, the security of it, to be sure, but she has an eye for the strange. A favorite are supposedly enchanted or cursed objects – she still remembers the stories she read as a child, and she feels a certain kinship to them, in an odd way. (She, too, is a cursed thing.)

extras.

† character tag † playlist † pinterest

plot ideas.

connections.

THE CHARIOT Her relationship with the Chariot is two-fold: on one hand, she very much enjoys the little deal they’ve struck, though she’s well-aware she may need a contingency plan should they try to back out. On the other, she roots for underdogs, much as it pains her.

There is a part of her that sees herself mirrored in them – and perhaps the Chariot is nobler, or at least better at acting the part of someone with morals, but they are both of them still tied to that nebulous nothing, and she wonders what they would do if put on the throne.

I would like to see a certain tension, maybe a twisted understanding, between the two of them! She enjoys the idea of what she could do if only they #let her in, and I think she could provide an interesting counter to their more tragi-heroic energy.

THE LOVERS While Zoya spends a lot (a lot) of time adding to her tapestry of reputation at court, she can be both charming and kind in turns – when she wants to be. I think the Lovers maybe remind her of her childhood friendships, in a strange sense. I think she’s curious about their standing and relationship to the World, but there remains a simplicity to the kindness she displays around them, regardless – she isn’t only using them, but the cogs still turn in her head. I think this relationship could be a good fostering for a side of Zoya that few get to see, which excites me! I also very much enjoy the potential of the Lovers talking to her about their thoughts re: the king.

THE MOON Again, she enjoys the relative power she has over them – and I think a more cruel part of her maybe enjoys toying with them. They owe her a debt, and she won’t let them forget it: they have a little foothold in the castle, now, and one day, she might have use for it.

I think the intersection between Zoya, Armel and the Moon could be really fun, that’s it that’s the pitch. JK. I also have some #thoughts on her maybe commissioning them for eye drops, which could provide an interesting back-and-forth between Zoya and the Moon, especially if they feel that it levels the playing field some.

STRENGTH Strength is absolutely someone she enjoys toying with – and they make it so easy that it almost isn’t fun. (But only almost.)

I would like to expand upon their possible past dealings, concerning Strength’s mercenary company, and also I’m a sucker for the bear & wolf imagery, NGL.

THE TOWER She wonders deeply what exactly hides beneath the Tower’s exterior. The part of her that simply likes stoking chaos to see how far she can push it finds itself circling the Tower – as does the part of her that might in fact like to see justice done to the king.

I headcanon that depending on the timeline, she may not have been present for the Tower’s Incident at Court, but I think she’s definitely heard about it – most likely from one of her brothers. It’s fascinating to her – morbidly so – that the Tower now works for the king, despite what they’ve been through. Yet again, she wants to prod, as is her nature.

suggested connections.

THE STAR He is talented, and she appreciates as much - and he is utterly wasted on the court, who no more respect him than they appreciate him. WE LOVE A BARD JULIE. WE LOVE HIM. dark mirror to Armel re: stories!

wanted connections.

NECROMANCER the necromancer who brought her back Yolo

FENCING TUTOR idfk seems sensible

COMPATRIOTS Her little host of underbelly compatriots! Criminals who help her with her dealings, people loyal to her.

future plots.

CRIMINAL EXPANSION.

I have some headcanons about the Rosewood Maiden, and I also have some suggestions for future ventures for the good ol' Prince of Snakes - namely, fighting pits, betting rings, and potentially an underground tributary river and an old smugglers' cove right beneath the Rosewood Maiden.

– i just want criminal shit and could also see this working in the favour of the rebellion – smugglers route used to ferry supplies and people in and out of Tyrholm? hell yeah baby

– masquerade balls and Events. zoya got CASH she’s gonna host PARTIES and talk about KILLING THE KING (maybe)

– the initial focus is DEFFO on the rebellion but like listen i………. am simply a sucker for fantasy crime.

CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT.

Internal-- I think that Zoya's internal arc will largely be a battle of her dual drives: her greed/gluttony versus the parts of her that see injustice being done. It's a moral conflict that I think has seeped into every aspect of her life – the things she has done and the lengths she is willing to go to, versus the part of her that knows it's morally reprehensible and even fucked up. Duality & paradox is an abstract concept that I return to for Zoya – she is both calculating and impulsive, which means she has the potential to do stupid shit despite knowing how stupid it is.

I think I'd like to push her in a direction of having to fight with her impulse to use people while caring for them – because the two cannot coexist for long, IMO! And I think that that particular internal conflict can get Juicy

writing sample.

IN WINTER, DEAD THINGS FREEZE. She wrapped her coat tight around herself, the fur-lined collar warm against her neck. Fresh snow lined the cobblestone streets of Hightown like a fine dusting of powdered sugar, little candied houses on parade with cream-tiled roofs. Bells tolled the hour in the distance, their chorus echoing across Tyrholm, midnight, midnight, midnight–

Midnight was a witching hour, or so the stories said. What was strange became stranger, and in dark woods, a traveler might strike a bargain with a hag. But there were few hags to be found, in Tyrholm proper, at least of the magical variety. (None that wished to be found, at least. She'd looked.)

The air smelled pleasant: it was the scent of cold, brilliant and ruthless; strangely sweet.

Her hands clenched into fists, leather gloves creaking.

She breathed in – rough, eyes fixed on the nearest torch. She could picture it in her mind’s eye – the rosarium, rotting; sweet and acrid all at once. Her boot dug down into the fresh layer of snow, crunching it beneath her heel. In winter, rot and death all froze, just like the Tear. Alive, alive, alive.

She curled her mouth into a smile.

IN SPRING, DEAD THINGS THAW. Ilarion Nathair was, unlike his sister, not a frivolous creature. Once, he came close – though his close-cropped head of black curls and the noble set of his shoulders might certainly convince passersby that he had never so much as stumbled upon a mischievous thought in his entire life, let alone acted on it.

But Zoya knew better. Zoya knew him.

"Ilya," she said, and as though they were weights levied by the same pulley, his brows swept into a frown as she grinned, wide and incorrigible.

[raise-our-glasses-to-freedom]

Tale as Old as Time: James Madison X Thomas Jefferson

Word Count: 5965

Summary: James Madison, starring as Beauty. 

Part I: If the Shoe Fits Part II: Fins and Needles

Casting

Beauty: James Madison

The Beast: Thomas Jefferson

Beauty’s Father: George Washington

Beauty’s Sisters: Alexander Hamilton ; Marquis de Lafayette ; Hercules Mulligan

Beauty’s Brothers: Aaron Burr ; John Adams

Once upon a time, there was a very rich merchant who had six sons. Their mother had died many years ago, but they lived very happy lives in each others’ company. Their father, being a sensible man, spared no money on the education of his six children; so they were raised with the finest tutors in all the land, learning science, arithmetic and Latin before they came of age.

The two eldest of the six were named Aaron and John. The two brothers were inseparable; they loved each other, their father and their younger brothers. Their bravery was unrivaled throughout their town, and they were beloved for their chivalry and their kindness to others. Their loyalty was fierce; they would do anything to protect those they loved from harm.

The next three children were named Alexander, Hercules and Gilbert. The three loved their lives of luxury; so they reveled in the fine clothes, the delicate food, the servants doting on them hand and foot. Their closeness was only out of necessity, for they believed the poorer to be lesser, and they isolated anyone who believed anything aside from their opinions.

The youngest brother of the six was named James. While his older brothers were extremely handsome, they were all outshone by James. When he was small, everyone admired him for his looks, and for his immense brains, for he was a very intelligent child. While his brothers would go out and frolic about the town, at parties, socializing with others of high rank, James spend many of his days reading his books, immersed in his studies.

Their father had tried many times to have his sons betrothed to the ladies of the town. Aaron and John had obliged their father’s wishes; by young ages they had married Theodosia Prevost and Abigail Smith. Their loyalty to their wives was immense, and they encouraged their younger brothers to heed their father and be married. However, while the four brothers had many ladies doting over them, they did not marry. Alexander, Hercules and Gilbert only wished to marry a woman of extremely high status, the daughter of a duke or a noblewoman.

James had many ladies wishing to marry him. He had frequent dowry offers from men wishing their daughters to marry him, more so than any of his brothers. However, he did not wish to be married. He wished instead to concentrate on his studies. He believed that he was very young to marry, and wished to live with his family for several years longer.

They lived in luxury for much of their lives, but one year, one shipment went awry and the results were devastating upon the family.

“My children,” their father told them, one day in late June, “my shipments destined to foreign lands were caught in a terrible storm overseas. The ships- they sank, lost at sea forever. We cannot afford to continue living our lives in such luxury, after what we have lost. I am sorry.”

So, the family moved out of their grand mansion, and out of the town, and they lived in the countryside. Alexander, Hercules, Gilbert, James and their father lived in one small, crowded house, where the living quarters were tight and the brothers were forced to share two rooms. They were grateful that Aaron and John had already been married, for they could live in the estates into which they had married. The rich people with whom they had once socialized now mocked them, and they were forced to live simple lives. Alexander, Hercules and Gilbert suffered at the hands of this unforeseen poverty. Their fancy clothing was replaced by the clothing of commoners, and they no longer had the many servants waiting on them hand and foot. They detested their new house, and they detested the people with whom they were forced to communicate because of this change in their lives.

However, the one thing that they hated the most was how their younger brother was able to adapt to their poverty. James was able to live comfortably with his studies in their small house, and he seemed unbothered by the fact that he no longer wore the finest clothes and had to socialize with the poorer citizens of their town. Alexander, Hercules and Gilbert hated this, for they believed that James was lesser than they were for living happily in their circumstances. The three were also secretly, and immensely, jealous of James for being able to assimilate comfortably into his new life, where the brothers suffered.

The family worked for their lives, having to labour in the fields to produce enough money to eat and to keep their house. The other townspeople were glad to see the family’s pride humbled, and while they did not pity James’ siblings, they wished that he would not have to suffer in this poverty he had been forced into. Many fathers wished their daughters to be betrothed to James, despite the fact that his monetary worth was much lower than many others in the town. However, James refused all of these offers, instead wishing to live with his father and his siblings, keeping them company in their poverty. He could not bear the thought of abandoning his family in their small house for another life of luxury.

Each day, James would rise at four in the morning to clean the house and prepare the meals for his family. He would work in the fields all day, tilling and plowing and ensuring that the crops grew. At first the work was difficult, for he was not used to life as a servant, but after time he became accustomed to the work. He worked harder than his father, and harder than his brothers, to ensure their survival.

His brothers would rise at ten in the morning and would saunter about all day, lamenting their old lives of luxury while they struggled to accomplish the simplest of tasks.

“Alas, look at James,” Gilbert said. “Such a mean-spirited boy is he, to be content in this miserable existence.”

Their father was quite of a different opinion, for he knew that James outshone his brothers in all respects; his appearance was far more handsome, and his dedication and perseverance could be matched by none. He respected his son for his humility, for not only did James’ brothers leave him all the work, they spared no moment to insult him.

The family lived for nearly a year in this condition. One bleak day, their father received a letter that a ship, on which he possessed effects, had arrived safely at its destination. They were to receive money from this shipment in a timely manner. Their father was required to travel to acquire this money, but he promised to return with gifts for his sons.

The family rejoiced at this exciting revelation, for they now had money to spend on small luxuries. The elder brothers wished desperately to return to the center of town, for they were weary of a working life. They asked their father for new clothing, new shoes, and expensive trinkets to appear as though they were rich again. Their father asked James what he desired, but James wished for nothing special to be bought with the money.

“Father,” James explained, “if you are to return with a gift for me, return with a single white rose. It is all that I desire. There are none that grow where we live, and they are a rarity for us. All I desire is a single white rose.”

So, their father agreed to all of these demands, and he left. James’ brothers mocked his choice of a gift, for they did not understand why he could simply desire only a single white rose when he had the choice of expensive items.

Their father traveled with the hope of bringing items back to his sons so they could have a small sliver of happiness in their lives. However, as he arrived to pick up the money, there was a dispute over the delivered materials. The end result did not end well for their father, and he returned on his way just as poor as before. He knew that he would return to the house with no fine clothing and trinkets for his elder sons. However, he sincerely wished to not disappoint James, his youngest and most beloved son.

Within thirty miles of his house, he was anticipating seeing his children again, although the dread of having nothing to present to them was slowly gnawing at him. He passed an estate, and he immediately remarked that the front garden of the estate was filled with beautiful rosebushes. The roses bloomed beautiful reds and pinks, and in the center bloomed a beautiful bush of white roses.

It was raining and snowing terribly, and the merchant was both cold and nearly starving; so he made the decision to knock on the door and ask for some food and shelter for the night. Approaching the estate door, it loomed in front of him, a large, somber building. He rapped on the door three times, and it echoed through the distance. He waited several minutes before knocking on the door again. There was no response, so he pushed gently on the door, and it swung open, creaking. He left his horse waiting outside the door, certain that it would not ride away without him.

The estate seemed deserted, and the silence was eerie as the merchant took several steps, relieved to be out of the rain and the cold. A fire burned at the end of the hallway, and the merchant sat in front of it, drying himself and warming himself from the cold. A long table set with food and wine sat nearby, and he eyed it hungrily.

I shall wait until some servants arrive, he thought. Surely there are some, and I do not believe they will mind if I ask them for food.

He waited until nearly eleven, but no servants arrived. He could not contain his hunger anymore, so he went over to the table and began to eat the food quickly, drinking several glasses of wine. He became more confident in his actions, and more bold; so he searched through some rooms until he found one with a nice large bed, and he curled up and went to sleep for the night.

The merchant woke to the sunlight streaming through the curtains over the large window. The merchant stumbled his way back to the entry hall, where he found the large table again, filled with fresh food for breakfast. Stuffing his face, he prepared to leave the eerie estate and return to his family. Once again, the beautiful rose bushes caught his eye, and he remembered his promise to James. Glancing around, he stooped before the rose bush filled with beautiful white roses in bloom, and snipped one off the bush.

He heard a great frightful noise behind him, and he turned in terror, only to be faced by a giant Beast. He was unlike any creature the merchant had ever seen; and he towered above the merchant, so that he could only face the buttons on the Beast’s magenta velvet coat.

“Who are you to disturb my estate?” The Beast boomed. The merchant had no answer, and cowered before the Beast.

“I give you food, I give you shelter from the rain and the cold! This is how you repay me? By stealing one of my precious roses!” The Beast roared, scaring the merchant further.

“Please … I am very sorry. I only hoped to return with a rose for my youngest son, who has asked for a gift. I had no mind to return without a rose for James. My lord, I apologize greatly for the trouble I have caused you.”

“I have no mind for your apologies. Flattering speech is not in your favour; I am not moved by compliments. However, I will pardon you for the fact that you have sons. Let one of them return to my estate willingly, to pay for the trouble you have caused me. Swear that if none of your sons will take your place, you will return in three months to live here for the rest of your life.” The Beast regarded the merchant with a dark stare, at which the merchant cowered.

The merchant had no mind to sacrifice any of his sons to the Beast and this gloomy estate.

“Please, lord; take back the rose, if only so that I may live my life with my family around me!” He pleaded.

“The damage has been done,” the Beast announced. “Now you must pay the consequence. You or one of your sons must return by the time three months have ended, or I will seek you out and kill you all myself with the thorns of a rosebush! I will pierce your eyes with the thorns, and let you bleed to death for the pain you have caused me, if you or one of your sons do not return in three months to my estate.”

Out of fear, the merchant obliged to this command, if only so that he may see his children again before he was locked away in the dreadful estate.

“Now, you shall not leave empty-handed! There is a chest that you will find in the front foyer; fill it with all the gold and jewels you desire, to present to your sons alongside the rose that you have stolen from my garden,” commanded the Beast. He then turned and vanished into the misty morning fog.

Oh, good! The merchant thought. I can bring something home to my other children, and preserve my dignity.

The merchant filled the chest with all the jewels and gold he could find in the estate; and when he could fit no more, and he could barely carry the large chest, he tied it to his horse; and he headed away from the estate, eager to see his children again.

As he arrived, he could view the waiting faces of his children eagerly anticipating his gifts and his return. Among his younger sons he also viewed Aaron and James, eager to welcome their father home from his long journey.

However, instead of greeting their father with embraces, they greeted him with scorn.

“Father, where are the clothing we asked for?” Gilbert inquired.

“Have you not returned with gifts?” Alexander cried, upset and disgusted.

“All you have upon you is a small chest and a rose in the pocket of your jacket!” Hercules exclaimed. “You have only brought gifts for James!”

The merchant burst into tears, and held out the rose for James.

“Alas, my son! Please accept this rose that I offer you, for in the procuring I have suffered great pains!”

So James took the rose, and admired it, as their father explained his plight.

“I, or one of you - but I would object to that - must return to the estate of the Beast to live until their death with only his company. I shall go, knowing that I had the chance to give you the chest - which you have completely overlooked, but is in fact, filled with gold - and that I could tell you goodbye.”

“Father, we shall go and fight the Beast!” Aaron declared. “We will go and slay this foul creature for your freedom!”

“Aaron, no,” the merchant told his eldest son. “Do not go and slaughter the Beast. I will go willingly to his estate and live there. There is no need for violence.”

“Father, no,” said James calmly. “I am at fault for this disaster. I asked for the rose- you simply brought one home for me. I shall go in your place.”

“James, no. I will not have you pay for a mistake that I made,” the merchant protested.

“Father, you cannot stop me. If you leave yourself, I will follow you to the estate and beg the Beast to keep me instead of you. Let me go.”

As the merchant was unable to persuade James to stay behind, James and his father spent the three months preparing for their voyage back to the estate. As the three months drew near, they mounted their horses and rode away from their house. Alexander, Hercules and Gilbert rubbed onions on their eyes to feign crying, knowing and secretly rejoicing the fact that they would never see their brother James again. Aaron and John were both concerned for the well-being of their family, but they kept to themselves, for they would have only been shushed by their brother. They all watched as James and their father rode into the distance, confronting whatever lay ahead.

Their horses took a direct road to the estate, and by the evening, the large building, surrounded by its splendorous gardens, could be viewed by James and his father on horseback. Riding through the front gate of the estate, the two dismounted their horses, who trotted away happily. The merchant and his son then entered the great hall, where an enormous feast was waiting for them, lined up the tables. It contained much more food than either James or his father had seen in a very long time, and they eyed it hungrily.

The merchant was full of his sorrow, and he did not desire to eat; but James sat him down and filled both of their plates, convincing his father to eat with him one last time. They ate their fill until they could eat no more, and they felt as if they would never need to eat again in their lives, the food was so rich and filling.

The calm before the storm, James thought uneasily and warily. He has a mind to fatten me up before he eats me.

They heard a great, loud noise at the end of the hall; a growl that shook the merchant and his son to their cores, instilling fear in their hearts of what was to come. The merchant began to cry and held James tight, bidding him goodbye. The Beast then appeared to James; and though the form horrified him, he gathered all of his courage to confront the creature.

“Did you come here of your own free will?” The Beast commanded to James.

“Yes, I did,” he responded, trying not to reveal his fear and remain falsely confident.

The Beast then spoke again, in a softer, less thunderous voice. “You are a good man, and I am greatly obliged to you. Your father is an honest man, and he may part from this estate tomorrow morning, never to return again.”

“Farewell, Beast; and farewell, James,” the merchant said softly, and the Beast withdrew. “Alas, my son!” The merchant embraced James. “I am almost frightened to death for your safety! Let me stay, and please go back to your brothers, and our house!”

“No, father,” said James in a resolute tone, “you shall leave tomorrow morning and go back to my brothers, and to our house. Leave me to the care and protection of this estate.”

They both went to bed, and neither of them slept through the night, as their minds were abuzz with worry and malcontentment, for the merchant worried for the safety of his son; and James attempted to enjoy what he believed to be his last hours.

James eventually fell asleep, and a young man appeared in his dreams. This man was immensely handsome; for his dark curls fell around his head, and he was dressed in magnificent velvet clothing. His eyes were kind and warm, and his smile was bright.

“James, you will be content in this estate,” the man told him. “This action of yours, sacrificing your life for the life of your father; it will not go unrewarded.”

James woke when the sun rose in the east, puzzled by his dream; but he spoke of it not to his father, who was already grieving the loss of his youngest son. His father bid adieu, and he left on horseback towards their house.

After his father left, James sat in the great hall, and he stifled the tears that welled in his eyes; for he would not show it, but he was afraid. He sat there for a great long time; and he then decided to explore the estate, for he had nothing better to do with his time.

The estate was a lovely place to wander around, for the architecture was beautiful to gaze upon; and the gardens were wonderfully colourful. James was extremely surprised to stumble upon a door that read on it in gilded lettering, “James’ Apartment”.

The door creaked open, and James was amused to find himself in a dazzling suite; but what caught his attention was the harpsichord, and the large library found in the corner of the suite. James immediately took to the books on the shelves, and opening a particularly large volume, found a peculiar message.

Welcome, James, banish fear,

You are prince and master here.

Speak your wishes, speak your will,

Swift obedience meets them still.

“Alas,” he spoke with a sigh, “there is nothing more I desire than to see my father again; perhaps one last time.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, the glass of the beautiful hanging mirror seemed to ripple in the light. It caught James’ eye, who gazed into the glass and gasped. He could see his father, returning to their house and embracing James’ brothers, who could not hide their glee from their faces; for they were filled with happiness over the fact that James was gone.

After a minute, the image faded from the glass. James was satisfied with this discovery, but also unnerved; for the magic in this house was strong, and he had been raised to fear magic. He was confident that he was not a prisoner of this estate, and while he could not leave, he was free to frolic as he desired.

James found a letter outside of his door. Opening it, he found a message scrawled in messy handwriting, no doubt written by the Beast.

James, would you do me the honour of joining me for dinner?

In the evening, James descended from his suite to find a lavish dinner awaiting him, and the Beast seated in the chair at the far end of the table. Music played gently from the background, from musicians unseen.

“Sit, James,” the Beast commanded, in a nicer tone than before. “Indulge yourself in the food laid before you. While you are not permitted to leave the estate, you are permitted to roam in the estate and the garden, and live a life of luxury here. Simply tell me if my presence is troublesome to you, and I shall leave.”

James sat at the other end of the table, and he began to eat.

“I do not find your presence troublesome,” James confessed. “However, I cannot lie; you are no sight for sore eyes. Your kindness overrules your appearance, I must admit.”

“This I know; I am nothing more than a stupid Beast. I am unworthy of any other name.”

“There are others who are less deserving of a name than you. I much prefer you to those whose good looks hide a heart of greed and of selfishness; those whose beauty hides corrupt, treacherous souls.”

“James, you hold more kindness than many people. If I had sense enough, I would make a fine compliment for you; but I am so dull, I can only say, that I am greatly obliged to you.”

James ate a hearty dinner, and he had nearly conquered his fear of the Beast, until the Beast asked, “James, will you marry me?”

James stayed quiet for a long while before he answered, for he was afraid of upsetting and angering the Beast. Eventually he spoke quietly.

“No, Beast.”

The Beast sighed, and he turned to leave.

“Then goodnight, James.”

He only turned around to take one glance at James.

“Alas,” said James after a great deal of silence, “a thousand pities, anything so good natured should be so ugly.”

James spend three months content in the estate of the Beast. During the day, James was free to do as he pleased, within the limits of the estate. Each evening, the Beast paid James a visit during dinner, and they would talk rationally, with good sense; and they would carry good conversation. There was but one thing that unsettled James; for each night, the Beast would ask James to marry him, and each day, James would decline.

One day, he said to the Beast, “You make me very uneasy. I wish I could consent to marry you, but I am too sincere to make you believe that will ever happen; I shall always esteem you as a friend, endeavor to be satisfied with this."

"I must," said the Beast, "for, alas! I know too well my misfortune, but I love you with the tenderest affection. However, I should think myself happy, that you will stay here; promise me never to leave me."

James blushed at these words of affection, but an image lingered in his brain- his father, worried sick about his youngest son.

“I could promise you to stay, but my father misses me dearly,” explained James, “and I desire to see him again. I shall fret to death over his well-being, and he over mine.”

“Therefore, you shall go and visit your father, for I would rather die myself than see you unhappy,” declared the Beast. “Leave tomorrow, but you must promise to return within a week of tomorrow, back to this estate.”

The next morning, James rose back to the house of his father. When he arrived, at noon, the door was opened by Aaron, and he cried in delight when he saw his youngest brother standing at the door.

“Father, father! John; Alexander; Hercules; Gilbert! Come! James has returned from the estate of the Beast!”

The merchant came running to the door, eager to see his youngest son again, and he soon found himself in James’ embrace. He was greeted by his other siblings; and while Aaron and John’s joy was genuine, James’ other brothers had to force themselves to smile, for they had hoped to never set sights on their youngest brother again.

“Oh, my brothers! It brings me such joy to behold you again,” James announced, a smile on his face. “However, I cannot stay for long; I am only granted leave for one week, and then I must return to the estate.”

He told his brothers the tales of the estate; of the lavish life he was living, and his brothers immediately became jealous. James learned that his younger brothers had married women of the town in his absence; and while these women were beautiful of face, they were vile and cruel of heart. They cared only for themselves; and paid no attention to their husbands, who were just as cruel.

Alexander and Gilbert had married beautiful women, so fair of face they made all the men of the village swoon. However, there was no ounce of kindness that could be found in their souls; and their heads were so full of themselves that they neglected all others, including their husbands.

Hercules had married a woman of wit; her sharp tongue had gained a reputation that she would reject any man who asked for her hand in marriage, and she could not be tamed. Now that she was married, she thought it not below her to use her tongue and her wits to mistreat others, to plague and torment them; and Hercules was among her victims.

Their jealousy of their brother increased as they saw him, adorned in the clothing of a prince, with gold and silver adornments on his coat and shoes; they wished to be him. As James spoke of his life in the palace, of the lavish food he was eating, and of the grand estate, where he was free to do as he pleased, the brothers began to concoct a scheme.

“James has spoken of the grand estate where he spends his days; misfortune has fallen upon us, that James lives a life of luxury and we do not!” Gilbert whined.

“He may only spend a week here, with us! He moans, as if he would much rather be here than bathe in a life of luxury!” Alexander groaned.

“I pity him; if that is what he truly believes. What man would prefer poverty with his family than a life of luxury elsewhere?” Hercules cried.

“Perhaps we can ruin his happiness, if he is willing to believe that we have changed,” suggested Alexander.

“What do you imply, brother?” Gilbert questioned.

“He is only permitted to stay a week, by leave of the horrendous Beast he lives with in that estate. Perhaps if we can convince him to overspend his stay, then perhaps that Beast will become so full of rage that he will eat James, and we will be rid of him once and for all!” Alexander suggested.

“Brother, your plan is magnificent!” Hercules announced. “How will we convince him?”

“You shall follow my lead.” Alexander gave his brothers a sly smile.

The three brothers behaved affectionately to James; completing all of the chores he used to complete for them, showering him with admiring words, all while attempting to have him stay with them for longer than a week.

“You are so brave, James, for you can stay in that estate with that dreadful Beast without fear!” Hercules attempted.

“It is far easier to stay with him than with other people with foul hearts,” James replied. “His appearance may be ghastly, but his heart is kind and pure.”

Alexander, Hercules and Gilbert tried their hardest to convince their brother to stay for longer than a week. As the seventh day approached, they begged their brother to not return to the estate.

“Oh, James! We will miss you so, if you return to that estate! Please, stay with us!” Gilbert crooned.

“We love you, James! We are sorry for our actions long ago! Please, forgive us, and stay!” Alexander smiled falsely to James, who unfortunately believed that his brothers’ words were genuine. The week had been excellent at the house of his father; and he enjoyed the company of his family, a stark difference from the estate, where the Beast was his only company.

“Oh, very well; I shall stay for one more week, and then I shall return to the castle.” James told his siblings. His brothers rejoiced at their success, and anticipated the day where they would not have to deal with James.

That night, James went to sleep uneasily, for he worried about the Beast. His dreams unnerved him, and he frequently woke up while the moon was in the sky, for his dreams gave him immense fear. He eventually drifted back to sleep again, and his next dream scared him the most.

He dreamed of the man who had graced his sleep when he first arrived at the estate. Three months ago, the man had looked content and happy; now he appeared to be tired, and expiring. He appeared in the back garden of the estate, where he was surrounded by the beautiful lilac bushes that gave a sweet fragrance.

“James, why have you not yet returned to the estate?” the man asked. “Why have you deserted me?”

James woke from his dream, tears streaming down his face. He stared into the mirror, wishing that it was the enchanted mirror that existed in his suite in the estate of the Beast.

“Oh, why did I ever leave the estate!” James wailed. “I should have anticipated that my siblings would fake their love so that I would stay, and upset the Beast! Oh, I much prefer his company, with his lovely, kind heart, than those with blackened souls who will never see the light. I should be happier with him than my brothers are with their wives. Oh, how I have mistreated him, after what he has done for me! It is true, I do not love him with my heart; but with my mind, I care deeply for the Beast. I shall return, as to not make him miserable; for if I should ever appear ungrateful, I shall never forgive myself.”

James dressed himself in his finest suit, and he rode to the estate without bidding goodbye to his brothers; however, he left a note on the mantle of the fireplace for his father to find. He arrived at the estate just before dinner, and he waited for the Beast to appear for dinner; but after the sun had set, the Beast had not yet shown. James wandered the grounds of the estate, searching for the Beast. He then remembered his dream, and rushed to wear the lilac bushes grew in the garden. There he found the Beast.

James flung himself beside the Beast, and finding his heart still beating, he poured water upon the head of the Beast. As the Beast’s eyes opened, he regarded James with both kindness and remorse.

“James, you neglected your promise,” he said weakly. “You did not return, and in misery, I have lain here; but now, that I may see you once more, I shall die satisfied.”

“Oh, Beast! You shall not die! For I believed my heart only held friendship for you, but beholding you here, I know now that I cannot live without you! Live to be my husband, for I shall marry you, and be only yours.”

No sooner than the words had left his mouth, the palace sparkled and gleamed brighter than day; and as soon as James could see, he viewed the handsome man from his dreams. Although this handsome prince was worthy of all the attention that James could give, he questioned.

“Please tell me, where is the Beast?” James asked the prince, who then smiled.

“He stands in front of you,” said the prince. “Please, my dear James; call me Thomas, for that is my name, and in returning to my human form I am worthy of it once more. A jealous fairy cast upon me a spell, to turn me into a hideous beast until another would consent to marry me in that form. You have broken this curse. You were the only one who could be swayed by my heart, and I can give you nothing in return.”

James took the hand of Thomas, and they entered the estate. To James’ surprise, there stood his family, and among them, a woman surrounded by beautiful light, that James could only infer to be a good fairy.

“James, you shall be rewarded for your kindness of heart, with eternal happiness. You shall never be sad, never feel loss; and you shall never want for anything.”

The fairy then turned to Alexander, Hercules and Gilbert.

“You may be the family of James, but your hearts are unlike his; they are full of malice and hate. You shall be transformed into statues that shall rest in this estate; but you will retain your wit, so you shall see the happiness of your brother for eternity. Only when you see your brother’s happiness and feel not an ounce of jealousy, or an ounce of misery at your brother’s good fortune, then you shall be returned to your human form; for a mind cured of malice and envy is a miracle.”

The fairy waved her wand, and everything was returned to as it was before the curse; and James’ brothers into statues. Thomas took the hand of James, and they lived together for the rest of their long, full lives; and so they lived happily ever after.

THE END

Thanks to @frenchfrymurderer for being one hell of an editor. 

Tags: @fightmeatweedhawken @artisticgamer @kanadianwithashippingproblem @spicydice @tacticalbrilliance @drabbles-of-a-cosmonaut

[artist-x-j-roman-cain]

Joker’s Wild

My name is super-unknown so I will shoot for the dome Aim through the window pane; leave two frames blown I am not Strange. But I will not change tones Proclaim Roman Reigns in any home Entertain through tomes Enter veins then splinter brains Highest on this sinner plane Center plain or inner sane? No. A soul so cold not even So Co Could help warm; dealt thorns Some have sworn tales, yelling “He’s loco!” “Si y yo soy el lobo feroz” Ferocious flows; ojos rojo Toke and choke on top rank dodo Coca blows? Mi es cabron? Oh no! Blow Coca? Por dinero? Best go hoe! Yo soy Joe Schmoe? Asi-asi? Si puto derecho! Direct foes, “vete a la mierda, conos”! Artista X es el Rey de todos los Reyes Sooth-sayer and smooth player Granuja de platas de lengua Ladies spreading legs, begging me to say yes. Weigh less than many but don’t call me mini Not one to waste pennies Immobile blades, not choppin’ on 20’s Mobile stays paid; minutes got plenty No cash in the bank; gas tank close to empty Yet more retail sells in smells than Scentsy My girl is a fine dime that OG’s envy Eyes green, hairs red plus always wet and sticky Ever leaving; burning and hitting like a heathen But she keeps returning Even after pimping her out for earnings Yearning for touch; by lips or finger tips She’ll learn you quick; bi so no bias when she unzips She flips all day but still chills at night Herb Knight in hempen armor Helping get over bored again Charming prints, used to disarm alarms Prince Charmin to soft; armaments’ armed Minced off the first cut; rinsed off like shit stuck to shoes In truth, I like going overboard and harming Like Carmen, no one knows where to find me Moving timely; double check nobody’s behind me Grinding to shine even when it isn’t Vision remastered after seeing how biz went? To guzzle gents jizz for cents Rather stick a muzzle in my mouth Than ever be asked where my fizz went Dissident miscreant because of medicinal Treants Gorgon like stoning; after all spinach is full of nutrients Beautifully bent; fine line between genius and insanity Underhandedly taking the lead; never mistakenly Make me your nemesis; own worst enemy to y’all I am limitless Illogically break chronological fate with paradoxical Genisys Forget Quicksilver; Wells wished in inventing this Luxury Mercury? Have H.G. mad as a hatter for penning this In lieu of Carrol; songs full of apparel Only autos should be tuned Putting hair pulling bitches on alert Better be careful Have them pissing; scared to twist up fisticuffs Baring tools; afraid to get face to face But I’m very cool; only thing up my sleeve is an Ace Thumping with my trump; then use the same spade to bury fools Joker’s wild; and I’ve been told the same Smoker’s smile plus a laugh cold and insane Broken stiles; never hold a flame to gain change Opening Styles all about showing up the Game At the Helm with a death wish like I’m hunting a hearse DRAC is the realm’s realest; still instilling hurts Curt versus legends or virgins; using perverse verses to abuse With no aversion to cursing this rough draft also the final version Shaft tough? Yes, when driven by me Not black enough to say I’m the bad-dest “shut your mouth…”, you see Keep it juicy; not goosing Lucy Truthfully I’m a prick spelt with a capital D Biggest you’ll meet; and above average in meat No need for lies; I know I satisfy Don’t believe me honey then come and see Relieve your cunny, have you cum a sea Endless returns like it’s my company Charge your Chakra; currently cum for free Currency for free milk? Then you can go ahead and get stepping permanently Ash into your urn Every sentence further sentencing eternity Hurting disconcertingly Adverting attacks; not possible when concerning me Genuine article Smashing particles like the Hadron at CERN discerning Emcees Splitting atoms While batting back at’em; scat’em like a cat. Kill every vermin I see Shivering cowards While stylishly delivering streets sermons for fees River of power That is, a strong flow with undertow current; currently Amped up Have them clammed shut; in bomb shelters like the emergency Is national But it’s natural to run urgently when faced by the beast from the murky deep Heard of me? Or been hurt by me? Try me when unworthy and meet A brief defeat By these feet. So take a seat or be beat down vertically Post mortem surgery Quicker to dig six one by ones; bury you very dirtily Curtly asserting Your curtains but far from my encore that’s a certainty Unmercifully Murdering psyches with words alone. Spurring the weak To purr back meek Lying while trying this Lion; King of Zion. Tired of burping these Babies and toddlers Going crazy searching for grown talent; licking talons and fangs thirstily Unnerving these Kids; knowing their lids will get peeled. Villain killing purposely Have curs cursing me Speaking cursively, curbing cohorts. Quit if your nursing teats Hyperbole Not when measured in pen; sink non-thinkers with ink poisoning Vent venom vehemently; little girls and boys playing with alloys Should quit banging noise My thoughts and voice concise Eyes on the prize; ions spliced off and thrown at my enemy’s head Radically rendering your ending; lending the term walking dead Stocking meds by the O-z From North of the O.C. Only importing the best, from Valleys’ in Cali to Co-towns alley’s G-13 and Maui Wowie The Doctor’s in Get re-T.A.R.D.I.S.; needing starting? Got Diesel too if you need to rally Tally the score Weighed straight, bud and not shake with proper tear drops; plus, I don’t dilly dally True wild card; evolved in being involved in anything called sin My balls’ in court never Alcohol in blood no more; instead soar above but feet still on the floor Claws in the ground This is my town. Come down sounding hard and I will leave you scarred With the loss of your crown Scalpel scalping. And if the laws in the Mudd come around? Still won’t be found. Proper noun; capital Artist using absurdly sharp wit for getting capital Known for ripping sharks to bits Sparks will arc; marked by X then know next your neck Will be stretched regardless Of your guards. I'll march right through your gardens. Embrace mayday Because by melee I have been hardened Leave them marveling at my carvings which cause starving Hungry but not eating beef; these freaking vegans are retarded Believe it’s better to give than receive Seas get wetter from here; forever in gear Achieving whatever I can perceive Seize vets ahead of my years; too clever for peers Deceiving none, yet some sectors still don’t bet on me Sieges settled in letters; vendettas never feared Easing at leisure; proceeding on with no etcetera Seasons become bygone; seasoning legions of chickens so long live Cain, King of Weird Erecting a dynasty Weapon selection is free form daggers called forth from the Nether Injecting arsenic Martial arsenal; impartial to arson. Coolly pulling the lever Irreverent to me Intellectual elephant and elegantly eloquent. Resisting transistors Close circuit Verdict shows consequences for the inoffensive; tethered to weather through endeavors On attack like a shredder Chipper sure as this plot runs redder Splendor found in splinters Cheddar made grating big cheeses Donning black and green Stripping clubs; beating pussies together Surrendering before being engulfed in embers Hand over your tender or be berated by Poetry, mixed with soul of the street Wholly complete when competing against the elite Never miss a beat; a capella teller Fellas that think they can swell up; one hell of whale tail Shelling out pain on the jealous Overzealous never. Well prepared with an umbrella Real life, not a telenovela Jotting rotten embellishments; relishing propellers developing yellows Punks pissing themselves when warships need worshipping Blood, sweat and oil mix Until the ill contents become flammable And all the malcontents Bow out; knowing good and well I’ll damn a fool Or a damsel If you think you can lay hands on me; your delusions are fanciful Panty puller Revealing fraudulent broads; inflict wounds that will require some gauze from the gods At odds with society Believe working a desk is a probity And I’m a writer Some consider a prodigy My odyssey cementing my property Foundation laid in Don't play pretend; make fake men Or women Shed their linens. Hollering no apologies; now follow me Make a joke out of any lesser F-5 force like Lesnar. Why so serious? Uncrowned underground jester Bound to pound the pavement With your cranium; straining some with that statement One truth inevitable Julian sliced in way that was absolutely unforgettable Unintelligible Little bulls should quit being foolish before getting whipped cool and made edible Cannibal but not named Hannibal Mechanically distributing electrically compressed waves To enslave your ladies Into behaving like a cowgirl; riding this bull and craving these testicles Undressing tools Cunning tongue; expelling fantasies for sensational pull Lessons blessing illiterate fools Honeys’ dribbling from touch so much they create literal pools In Sin City I rule Will not pity the drooling class; passionately fashioning Jewels Fastening dull blades To this mental lathe to gain edge; allegedly dredging up the typical Satirical lyrics searing spirits Phantom fandoms abandoning idols idling when I crash tidally Spiritually binding Ritual sacrifice; decisively knifing as if practiced on the habitual Basis. Run races never. Pace to slow. Basics way below. Spacing pros with tasteful prose Also slaying joes Embracing complacency only stagnates; changing notes lead to growth Flaying bros even Must stay on toes or fade; daily dough made by not taking a doze I only dose With Mary. Quite contrary to hoes bickering about which nose I’ll be sniffed through Some into inducing rushes via sphincter Keep your stinker away Couldn’t be helped with a bleaching tincture Suffering puncturing For lunch bringing nothing but punch and knuckle sandwiches Damn bitches. My hands twitching, itching to do ditch digging for snitches with no steel brandished Have no advantages Loose leaf my canvases. Not afraid to get scandalous; know y’all cannot handle this Gargantuan tarantulas Manhandled like tea candles as I dismantle men easier than destroying a mandolin Banding in Only amplifies the likelihood of meeting a random end Ranting and rambling Gambling when I'm done that you won't be able to keep ambling Knock you out in your sandals when my spit hits like an Ambien Watch me trample them; sampled but never sampling Entranced with sin Dancing in and out after romance ends Lancing them then off to the stands again Slanted bantering Can offend but also bend inhibitions; renditions of wishful visions and being the one granting them Dammed if dim Stranded in damages; can't get cantering, this Cancer managing Standards that can spin Rabidly rapid; static shock and awe. Addict not dropping off. Elaborate pens Radically pin backstabbing bastards; infinitely outlasting Simultaneously lashing Latching on with a firm grasp. Grabbing and toe tagging then afterward bagging them Meet my jagged friend Egging on until calm is Gone with the Wind On to win That is, magic tactics Exacting backward grins as in upside-down frowns Should I explain that again Batting bad men with a racquet like it’s badminton The raconteur bracket designed for the rhymer in his prime; letterman jacket Personally fitted Custom colors; clique unaffiliated but true Paid dues for these suede shoes Ensue wrath, crossing paths with me. Be phased through. Displace you Vibrate at a rate that frequently frequencies disintegration Blazing you with phazers set to stun Yep son, better run because here I come to erase you Each and every angle will be tangled with Break both ankles Then add in the mad tendency to strangle Take your Angel and go Jangle out the last bit of blood. Lots of love for being painful. But just be thankful Only got your bank; sank like the Titanic. Hitting like an ice cold tank; you're a lukewarm row boat frozen exposing you're shameful Wordsmith, perfectly working an anvil Not a man to steal; but guarantee I can and will Drop your body in a landfill Stop talking, get to walking; gawking awkwardly At the oddity who stands steel Resolute in Will; if looks could kill Mine would; shooting villain’s long as I am still in Adrenaline pumping; dumping loads of shit. Here’s the damn deal Entrepreneur Grade A manure; never has there been a truer Entrees pure Bade losers farewell; after a push down the stairwell Never been surer Any assurances weren’t accounting for me and my allure Got your cure For being average; lock you in a fridge and drop you off a bridge. Got the top rung secure And I haven’t been on tour Demure nature? No. Bigger ego than Troy McClure Stopping simpletons, pop them like pimples Catching them in the temple; listen as the song of a fat minstrel ends Stenciling by pencil Lengthy dismissal brought about by drizzling In a million missiles These difficult insults leave individuals’ pissed; the gist is: their coined phrases aren’t worth a single nickel Series: X Sin-to-Mint Artist: Artist X (Justin Roman Cain)