#i miss this kind of pageantry we should bring it back

[lookninjas]

Anyway, someone brought up SisQó as part of this whole Kendrick/Drake thing (Drake fucking wishes), and it reminded me of this perfect performance. The horse! KOOL MOE DEE! Dru Hill! Surprise Stevie Wonder at the end! The pageantry! The showmanship! The Janet Jackson reference! The fucking purple suit!

[thisisgodsland]

23 Days Left: The Judgment of Solomon

Photo from Friedrich Naumann Foundation

I know it’s Holy Saturday right now and I’m supposed to be focusing on my sins and how I should repent. But I can’t stop thinking about what’s going on in my country. TL;DR I’m disappointed. And here’s why.

My Presidential bet is Leni Robredo. I’ve had no shame in saying that, even when there are louder, much more powerful voices screaming at me to either think otherwise or keep my mouth shut. I read an article recently called “Becoming Leni Robredo.” It was written back in 2016 after she had won the Vice Presidential race against Ferdinand Marcos Jr. who remains to be her rival in the current race. 

The article had this great subheading title: “From 1 percent to vice president.” It chronicled how Leni Robredo went from polling at 1 percent – behind five other VP candidates from long lines of political families – to eventually tying at the top spot in the last set of polls and then winning the elections. I was familiar with how the story ended (and how her main rival dragged it on and on for years on end), but I never knew the beginning – the 1 percent. I knew that my Presidential bet came from humble origins in Naga, with her late husband being the only Robredo who was actually in office, but I never knew how unpopular she was before she became the point of both bravery and controversy now.

The article ends with a quote. She says, “Handa na akong maging nanay ng ating inang bayan.”

I’m ready to be the mother of our motherland.

It reminded me of when Imelda Marcos came back here to the Philippines in 1991 after her exile. I’ve watched the two documentaries about her (The Kingmaker and Imelda) and she has said in all of them that what she’s doing to the Philippines is “mothering.” She said that, after her husband became President and she was helmed First Lady, the main thing she wanted to show our country was what true love feels like. 

Yet, when she came back here and ran for President in 1992 (which she lost), she said that she was ready to become a symbol or a standard for us again. And I quote: “Something like Miss Philippines.”

It’s insane to me to see the juxtaposition of the two. While both of them claim to be mothers of the land, they showed two different kinds of mothering. Robredo was mainly on-the-ground, working as a lawyer on the fringes of society before building anti-poverty foundations as VP of the Philippines. Imelda Marcos wanted to glorify the Philippines, bringing exotic animals into the country and building fascinating structures and centers (never mind the people buried in them).

While Imelda was still mothering us, it reminded me so much of a helicopter mom or a stage mom who does everything they can to make their children appear the brightest or the smartest or the best. That’s not a bad thing per se, but it isn’t love either. To show something off is not to say that you love them but to say that you want others to love them.

Leni Robredo is my bet because she loves us. Because for once in our country’s lives, we actually could obtain the mothering and the love that not just Imelda but every other politician has been promising us. Robredo didn’t come from pageantry and dynasty. She came from the people themselves and now she’s giving back to them.

I saw a TikTok video of this influencer giving the reason as to why he is voting BBM. He says, “Ayaw ko sa Nanay niyo.” Pastor Quiboloy – who is literally wanted by the FBI – throws the same jabs at her. “Pagka ina ka ng bayan [...] hindi puro lugaw ang solusyon,” the sex offender says.

And it’s crazy for me to think that her being a mother is an insult – as if invalidating all the other mothers out there who see themselves in the work, the effort, and the care that Leni Robredo is showing. Because it’s all there. Recorded or behind-the-scenes, it is there. 

Leni Robredo is a mother. No joke, no insult, no punchline needed. And she could be the best one our country could ever have if we just let her. 

[rpmemesbyarat]

RP meme from the Baali Clanbook V2 in "Vampire the Masquerade" Part 2 of 2

"Look at the world around you. No, truly look. Do you see it? The entropy slowly eating away at the fabric of existence? The world is dying."

"Existence has always teetered on the brink in some way or another."

"From the coming of prophets and gods to the turn of the millennium. Mankind has always found some way to turn the metamorphosis of life into an “end of days” scenario."

"It's not hyperbole."

"All things must come to an end. Even our universe."

"We can either fear this new existence or we can embrace it. I know which I choose. What will your decision be?"

"I find humanity both fascinating and boring."

"I find humanity both fascinating and boring. They are creatures who have risen above their state as pure beasts in the wild. They have domesticated the world, bringing it to heel under the boot of technology and enterprise. They have tamed the lightning and created weapons of such incredible potency that they could end the entire world with the push of a few buttons. But, at the same time, they cannot even control their own impulses."

"I do love seeing the hope in a victim’s eyes slowly die."

"We need to talk about vampires."

"They are all in their positions due to back-alley deals, dirty deeds, and betrayals that they fear will one day topple them."

"They are afraid. Afraid of losing power."

"Power is a cruel master."

"Do not put yourself out there in a manner that draws unwanted attention."

"Those who are worthy of your knowledge should seek you out, not the other way around."

"Use what you know to twist their desires to your own ends."

"Utilize every secret desire and urging until your “clients” are nothing more than puppets on your strings."

"Above all, however, don’t forget to clean when guests come to call. It’s embarrassing to have a bloody carpet."

"Arrogance will be the gap in their armor that you can exploit."

"They wounded ego and regret."

"That’s a level of fucked up I can’t wrap my head around."

"So easy to guide around by their rage."

"Get over it already."

"They’re not corruptors unless you want to be corrupted."

"It’s bargain basement degradation at best."

"All good rites have some semblance of pageantry to help build up psychic energy for ritual release, sure. But when you perform the rite more for the pageantry than sacrifice or offerings? You’ve missed the point."

"The beautiful ones have this fucked up perception that they are icons of style, grace, and tact."

"The punks think of themselves as whirlwinds of creative destruction."

"After all, I want to see the world break out of this nascent shell of physicality and witness the birth of a new universe."

"So, I can get behind wanting to push past pain and physical limitations."

"These. . .things will not think twice about skinning you alive and making you part of the furniture. And honestly. . .I can respect that."

"These fucking guys."

"There comes a time in everyone’s life when they look at the world around them and wonder; “Is this it? Is this everything that there is?”

"Life, if we are honest, is nothing but a series of disappointments."

"My youth was spent chasing some phantom of purpose. Some reason for us being here, for going on, day after day, living."

"My desperate pleas were met with unyielding silence."

"We all wander through the world, clinging to half-promises of something greater."

"We will find the bliss of enlightenment only after the trials of our world."

"Why was everything we did destined to age and rot?"

"There was no blissful release. There was no epiphany of understanding. No moment of realizing my place in the universe."

"We are, each of us, insignificant."

"We don’t get rich off hard work. Luck and heritage define who rises to the top."

"We don’t find enlightenment as we grow older, we only find bitterness and fear of encroaching death."

"We race to accomplish something. . .anything, that will live on after our deaths."

"I thought sensation would provoke deeper understanding. It does not. It only burns bright, then fades quickly, leaving a person yearning for the next instance of fleeting bliss."

"There is nothing. No great reward awaiting the dying. There is no great paradise for the enlightened. There are fading memories of life and the swirling maelstrom of oblivion."

"Why would anyone want to deny themselves anything knowing that, in the end, they are only fit for utter destruction and darkness?"

"Take every moment of disappointment in your life. Every hardship. Every heartbreak. And then realize that none of it matters in any form in the end."

"Fuck the universe."

"Fuck every lie and every false promise of salvation or of some “great reward” that never comes."

"Enlightenment is a trap."

"Fuck every self-styled guru that peddles street corner bliss and a side of eternal understanding."

"This universe is a fucked -up failure."

"This universe is a fucked -up failure. An experiment with no principal investigator at the helm. Let’s scrap it and start something new. Something where we can make our own purpose."

"It is the only choice we have —to grasp our destinies and forge something new out of the corpse of the old."

"The end is coming and there is no stopping it. But. . .we can accelerate it. We can end this torturous existence and craft something new and meaningful from its remains."

"We are not destroyers, nor are we heralds of destruction. We are idealists seeking to bring purpose to existence. We are scholars burdened with the horrible truth that this universe must burn so that something new and pure can take its place."

"Evil. I hate the word."

"To the point, however, the word “evil” is such a catch-all that is, at its core, quite meaningless."

"We are the midwives of eternity, here to see to the proper birth of what is to come."

"Evil may be a word that can fit us, but to the darkness, isn’t the invasive nature of light evil?"

"I do what I do out of simple necessity."

"“Good” and “evil” are terms for children."

"They are just as “evil” as we. They simply lie to themselves about it."

"I think the truth lies between these tales."

"While the stain of grievous sins can color the auras of most, yours, for some reason, remains pure and innocent."

"You may not realize it, but your very essence sings with dark power."

"You understand the state of the world. You understand how it hangs so precariously between collapse and a great rebirth in darkness."

"In these dark, twisting visions, the future is revealed in flashes of blood-soaked fate."

"They will still be a missing person and be mourned, but they will be, effectively, simply considered another statistic and efforts to seek out justice for them will fade."

"While friends and family still remember the individual and their name, any efforts to seek out justice for them or to search for them cease after the ritual is performed."

"By sharing the affections of your damned patron, you can grant infernal powers to others."

"The allure of evil can draw in the curious like a moth to a flame."

"What is your most shameful secret?"

"What do you desire the most?"

"Whom do you secretly despise?"

"The most valuable advice, then, would be to act subtle. Be calm. Act comfortable."

"Akkadian script is simple, but apparently too difficult for you to count in."

"The quest for the next horizon has always haunted your mind."

"No matter what you were doing, no matter where you were at. . .there was always the allure of the unknown calling out to you."

"The allure of history and understanding what came before was simply too great to ignore."

"You were ravenous for knowledge."

"By the end of the week, you were no longer alive."

"Cultures died out across the world. Why?"

"The great puzzle of the universe lays before you. "

"The ancients knew secrets that would sear the minds of today’s scholars."

"The old gods are my strength. They are my shield."

"Mankind has forgotten where its oldest, bloodiest rites came from."

"Your traditions were handed down to you by your parents, and to them by their parents."

"Old deities that were converted into demons and devils by Abrahamic religions were once sources of inspiration to the world."

"While you have dabbled in mainstream paganism, practitioners these days ring hollow to you."

"Their worship more out of desperation than any true passion."

"It wasn’t for you."

"You caught the attention of something in the dark."

"There is a strength in the old ways that it seems many have forgotten."

"What you are doing is not evil. It is necessary."

"Do stop squirming. It ruins the effect."

"Something was always broken inside of you. "

"Your questions cut through the niceties of social decorum."

"You weren’t ignorant of the suffering you caused. You just didn’t care."

"They love their work and the pain it inflicts."

"You? You honestly adore the look of terror ."

"After all, what is the point of your work if you do not enjoy it from time to time?"

"You know the best ways to draw out the psychic energy for a proper sacrifice."

"They will come. Have no doubt of that."

"You simply didn’t understand the need for religion."

"You were out of place."

"There is a calmness that comes from knowing the end is inevitable."

"You are existing on the precipice of a new universe and you know this."

"Your faith sustains you."

"Aren’t you a beautiful soul?"

"It was an easy lie."

"You have been an apt pupil."

"I am here to do the Devil’s work."

"Life hasn’t always sucked."

"Being homeless creates a new kind of resentment."

"People walk by, either with contempt or pity in their eyes for you. Both are an insult."

"In your anger, you lashed out, you reached for something new that could explain all the inconsistencies in the world."

"Beings from beyond time? The hell does that even mean?"

"You are the devil’s own."

"Satan was a model of freedom from tyranny."

"Your soul is foul and beyond redemption."

"Power belongs to those who are daring enough to wield it."

"You became the popular one, the one in demand, who’s very expression could elevate someone or dash their hopes."

"So, you arranged the death of your beneficiary and inherited their wealth."

"They admired the grace and style with which you brought your targets to heel and slowly destroyed them."

"It only took a week to catch your eye."

"The world may be destined to die a slow, agonizing death, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have your fun wherever you can find it."

"Who are you to judge?"

"You are only as good as your last rumor."

"It’s the thrill of the hunt that drives you and exhilarates you."

"You don’t understand. I know what breathes in the dark. I’m trying to keep it asleep."

"You were always looking for a place to fit in."

"The desire to fit in is always powerful. It can guide our actions and even our thoughts. It can shift our perspective, causing a realignment of our core values."

"Once you found some semblance of purpose you could identify with—and one that made you out to be a hero fighting back darkness, you embraced it wholeheartedly."

"You will keep doing what you know you must do."

"If they only knew that you were working to protect all of them. . .maybe they would be more grateful."

"You have a subtle contempt for modern society."

"You understand the desires that drive people to extremes. . .and you have no qualms about twisting those needs and urges to your ends."

"Everyone you meet is a tool to be used, a potential sacrifice, or a threat to be neutralized."

"You dress to impress—always in the most stylish manners according to what is in fashion."

"Use every environmental factor to your benefit when possible."

"Make good entrances and silent exits."

"You are a cutthroat negotiator when you need to be but know that sometimes the appearance of defeat can serve you better than a clear victory."

[nandalorian]

the gentleness that comes

Sometimes you just get thinking about random things like “what if Jaskier decided to Eternal Sunshine himself to get over the mountain breakup?” and then proceed to ruin not only your life but the lives of everyone else around you. 🙃

Jaskier/Geralt, PG-13

“No mage can do what you’re asking. Not even, I would wager, something as powerful as a djinn, or at least not in any way that would bring you peace,” Tissaia explains with more patience than Jaskier honestly expected. For all the fearsome tales he’s heard of the headmistress of Aretuza, she is either kinder than he deserves, or the stories have done her very, very wrong. Perhaps both. But her eyes are steady, her expression serene. Absolute. “Just as we cannot induce someone to fall in love, nor can we make them fall out of it.” She pauses to offer a sympathetic smile. “I am sorry. For you to have travelled such a long way, I suspect you do not make this request in haste.”

The compassion in Tissaia’s voice is terrible to hear. After all, sometimes kindness can look like cruelty before you’ve gotten enough distance on a thing. Certainly the opposite is true, anyway. Jaskier would know. He lowers his gaze to his hands, of a sudden fascinated by the calluses on his fingertips, the ragged skin around his nails. He has to take several deep, steadying breaths before he answers. 

“No, not in haste,” he manages at last. “I have prayed for it for some twenty-seven years.”

“Any man would be blessed to have captured such a loyal heart.”

Jaskier can’t resist a scoff. “Any man indeed.”

Several long moments pass, and eventually he must accept that Tissaia has said all she can on the matter. He forces himself to smile and climb to his feet, whereupon he sketches a bow fit for a queen. Tissaia doesn’t rise. She barely blinks, a statue rendered in green velvet and black lace.

“Mistress. I thank you for the tea, and your candor,” he tells her, still inclining his head with a hand pressed over his heart. “It’s not often a humble bard may boast an audience with the great Tissaia de Vries. If ever you are in need of musical entertainment, I proudly volunteer my services. I’m in your debt.”

“You are in no one’s debt, Lord Pankratz,” Tissaia answers, serenely as ever. At no point during their conversation did Jaskier tell her his full name, having introduced himself as Jaskier the Bard and no more. His title is useful to fling around in situations that call for it, but not here; Tissaia would see through any attempt at peacocking. “Nor are you merely a humble bard. You are most welcome here, as any friend of Yennefer’s is a friend of Aretuza.”

“Jaskier, if you will. And I’m not quite sure Yennefer would deign to call me a friend, but I’ll take it.” He smiles back and speaks through the tightness in his throat. “It’s been a pleasure.”

He is almost to the door of her study when her voice rings out again.

“Jaskier.”

He turns.

At some point Tissaia stood without making a sound and came around the desk to face him with her hands clasped together. “I cannot fulfill your wish as such. But I may be able to offer an alternative. One that comes at a great cost.”

Jaskier swallows and hopes the thrill of hope--and fear--elicited by her words isn’t completely obvious. “I’m listening.”

+

Her solution is quite simple, really, and so obvious that Jaskier isn’t sure how he didn’t think of it before. 

However, nor is Tissaia’s warning in jest: the cost is great indeed. So great that Jaskier cannot in good conscience be sure it is one he’s capable of paying.

Not monetary, of course, though he came prepared to empty his pockets and offer his soul if necessary. No, the cost is something more significant and precious than any coin or favour. Much more.

“A memory spell is a rather straightforward matter,” Tissaia explains as she and Jaskier walk the halls of Aretuza. Their destination is unclear, but where Tissaia goes, he follows. He’s not stupid enough to do otherwise. “It’s a spell even a novice can be expected to perform adequately, with the proper training, of course. One never knows when war might be averted by something as simple as a king forgetting an accidental slight, or a maid forgetting a conversation they were not meant to overhear.” She shrugs. “Not always the most elegant solution, but effective.”

A shiver crawls down Jaskier’s spine and makes the hair stand up on his arms and the back on his neck.

Magic, especially the kind taught at Aretuza or Ban Ard, is an ethical grey area, and mages have always played hard and fast with the rules, holding themselves above the trivialities and petty concerns of human morality. That’s why they’re mages: feared, awed, and resented in equal measure. 

That Tissaia speaks so casually about altering people’s memories, of mages’ power to decide the course of history according to their own values and interests, is a frightening concept. Most days Jaskier can’t decide what to eat for breakfast. And yet here he is, about to consider letting one of the most powerful mages in history stick her creepy magical fingers in his brain and give it a stir. He should consider getting his sanity checked instead.

Jaskier casts a sidelong look at Tissaia. “But falling in love isn’t like hearing something you shouldn’t, or being offended by a poor choice of words. It’s--”

“Complicated. Yes, quite. And even erasing the briefest of memories does not always go according to plan.”

Without warning, she stops in front of a heavy set of double doors, which she throws open with a flick of her wrist--a useless bit of pageantry, that, but one that distracts from Jaskier’s increasingly pressing urge to flee. Tissaia gestures for him to follow her inside and walks on.

Jaskier doesn’t immediately obey. Drumming his fingers anxiously against his leg, he leans over to peer inside, mind racing ahead to images of a frightening laboratory, potions bubbling away in vials, screaming victims strapped to tables or floating in giant vats. It’s--

Oh. A library.

Huffing to himself, Jaskier adjusts the strap of his lute on his shoulder and hurries to catch up.

The place is massive, far larger than it looks to be from outside, with soaring ceilings and giant stained-glass windows that reach several stories above their heads. Shelves upon shelves line the walls, stretching from floor to ceiling, and dozens more sit in neat rows upon multiple levels, staggered in tiers like a duchess’s birthday cake. They are filled to bursting with books, of course, interspersed with tables and comfortable chairs for mages at study. Jaskier can count at least four fireplaces burning merrily away. Right now he and Tissaia appear to be the only ones here.

With a theatricality he can’t help but admire, Tissaia turns and holds out her arms, encompassing everything and looking very like a queen showing off her kingdom. “What do you see before you?” she asks, voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space.

Jaskier furrows his brow. The question is almost certainly a trick of some kind, so he answers with the first thing to come to mind. “Uh… books?”

“Precisely.” Tissaia lowers her arms. “Tens of thousands of books, each of them containing spells, histories, first- and secondhand accounts of untold lifetimes, many of which have been forgotten but not lost.”

“Memories.”

She nods. “Yes. But memories are not like books. And magic, even in the hands of the most talented user, is not like taking a book down off a shelf. It is not a matter of selecting a few chapters to discard and letting the person continue on their merry way. The mind is a much more delicate and complex thing. If it were to be a story, it would be a very messy story indeed, with no clear narrative or plot, no chapter headings, and not necessarily even a single voice.”

“Sounds like some of my earliest compositions.” 

He titters at his own joke; Tissaia’s expression doesn’t budge. 

Unnerved, Jaskier clears his throat and has to break eye contact, looks around the room instead. After a moment, and with a smidge more gravity, he asks, “Why are you telling me this?”

Once again Tissaia regards him with that patient look from before. “Because you must comprehend that there is a price to what you’re asking, and why I do not suggest this lightly. If you are truly serious in your quest to rid yourself of Geralt of Rivia, and I sense that you are, there is a possible way forward. But to erase this one chapter of your life will require throwing out many more--whole volumes, whole books, shelf after shelf of memories. Possibly the entire library, if things do not go according to plan.” She pauses and steps forward to touch his chin, forcing Jaskier to look at her. “Do you understand what I am telling you?”

He swallows with difficulty, throat catching on the boulder suddenly lodged there. It wouldn’t do to ruin the moment by asking how she knows this is about Geralt, even though Jaskier definitely didn’t tell her and did his best to avoid thinking about him during their initial conversation. But his reputation precedes him, after all, and if not that, he really doesn’t want to know the extent of the mage’s legendary powers of telepathy. He also thinks to bring it up now would be missing the point.

“Are you saying I will forget my whole life?” he asks.

“Unlikely, though not impossible,” says Tissaia like that isn’t an utterly testicle-shrivelling statement. “That is the worst-case scenario. The best is that you will cease to remember everything since you met Geralt. That is, in essence, what you want, is it not?”

“I’ve known Geralt since I was barely eighteen.” Panic suffuses his voice without Jaskier quite meaning it to. “I’m forty-five years old.” 

Eighteen-year-old Jaskier is a mystery to him now. Oh, he vaguely recalls joints that didn’t creak and a back that offered him less trouble each morning upon rising, a cock that would swell at a hard gust of wind and balls that never seemed to empty. That boy could sing all day and dance all night in and out of people’s beds. He was loud, annoying, impetuous, drunk on the sound of his own voice, and full of love. So full of love that he could saunter up to a complete stranger with white hair and yellow eyes and end up following him around for twenty-seven years instead. Well… twenty-four, if you don’t count the last three since they become estranged. Which Jaskier absolutely does not.

His enduring muse and most steadfast friend; his life’s greatest and most unfulfilled passion. 

His most profound heartbreak.

Not much has changed about the last part, but Jaskier likes to think he’s grown wiser with age, less migraine-inducing. He lived enough to discover what pleased him before it was taken away.

Are any of those lessons worth unlearning, for any reason?

“Eighteen isn’t a bad age,” Tissaia remarks, breaking through his thoughts, or perhaps deliberately interrupting. She has been steadily taking in Jaskier’s internal struggle with that calm, measured gaze, though her attention is sharp. “By then most of us have some idea of who we are and what we want. Enough that you could begin again.” 

Jaskier slants her a look. “Mages are immortal, and you’re one of the oldest still living. Please don’t condescend to me that eighteen is anything but as unbearably young as it sounds.”

A small smile. Perversely, it reminds him of Geralt. “When you’ve lived as long as I have, forty-five is unbearably young too.”

Ruefully, unexpectedly, Jaskier barks a laugh and concedes the point with a nod. “Touché.”

They linger in that shared bit of humour for a moment, Tissaia’s smile widening and making her look abruptly more human since they met, and then she cants her head. She gestures, and from seemingly nowhere a book tumbles off some far-off shelf and flies into her hand. With an enigmatic smile, she turns it over to reveal the spine and hands it to Jaskier. The Songs of Jaskier the Bard is tooled on the front in gold, winking in the firelight. 

“You’re more fortunate than most: there’s an account of your life right here. Should you want it, that is.”

“I’m not sure I do anymore.” Jaskier peers at the book from the corner of his eye. It almost hurts to look at it directly, to think of the tales sung about in its pages, the joy, the adventure, but also the love and heartache couched beneath every note, every clever turn of phrase. The next words are a genuine struggle to get out, and he tries with everything he has not to cry. “No, I think that time has quite passed. I want peace. And if not peace, then at least blissful ignorance.”

“Hm.” The sound is neither pitying nor understanding, merely thoughtful. Tissaia regards him critically. “Then you may have it. You’re still a young man. Not a grey hair on you, and I’ve my suspicions you’ll live for a while yet.”

Jaskier narrows his eyes at her. What does that even mean. “What does that mean?”

She chuckles. “It means you have time. And time heals a multitude of wounds. Not perfectly, but… passably.”

“And--what? I can find love again, or some such tosh?”

“If you like.”

He huffs. “I used to think that. I did. Give it time, and eventually I’d meet someone new who would make me forget Geralt ever existed, blah blah blah--yes, I know, the irony of that isn’t lost on me.” Jaskier is quiet for a moment. “But I don’t know if that’s true anymore. It’s been three years. The wound hasn’t healed, only festered. The more I try to open my heart to others, the more it seems to close.”

“It is said people linked by destiny will always find each other.”

“Oh, I know that one. That’s a prison sentence, not a comfort.” 

“I didn’t intend for it to be.”

At last Jaskier forces himself to look down at the book in his hand. It has a pleasant heft in his hand, the weight of a life lived well. For twenty-seven--no, twenty-four years he gazed upon the face of the man he loved and loves still. Sang of him, to him, the way seabirds call to the sea, a song in their blood even when the crash of the surf is too far away to be heard. 

Is that enough? Can it be enough?

Perhaps it will have to be. Or perhaps he can simply wake up tomorrow and not remember or care what the correct answer is. Forget even that he asked the question.

He sets the book down upon a nearby table and pauses only to run his hand down the cover, leather supple beneath his fingertips. In his mind’s eye is Geralt--not spitting mad and vicious on a mountaintop, no, but as Jaskier first saw him, sitting quietly by himself in the corner of a tavern. Trying so very hard to escape everyone’s notice, and yet once he caught Jaskier’s eye, quite impossible to look away from. Impossible not to love.

Jaskier turns back to Tissaia and meets her gaze steadily.

“I understand and accept the risks,” he says, confident in a way he does not feel. That has always been his way. Even, it must be said, at eighteen. It’s enough. It will be enough. “Now tell me what I must do.”

[annecoulmanross]

A Neko Case Song for (not quite) Every Character from The Terror

In the long tradition of “songs for nearly every character from the terror” that began with Vanishing Act by the brilliant @saintssebastian​ and continued with my Ballroom Thieves insanity, today I give you – Neko Case songs, feat. spectacular selections for Crozier, Silna, and Hickey by the lovely @paramaline​ who also generously encouraged my song choices and decisions to include the women “at the edges” of the terror-story, including those like Esther Blanky, whom I’ve come to know through @thomasblanky and Sarah Hartnell, whom I’ve met through @radiojamming as well as my own beloved Louisa Capper Coningham (Fitz’s Aunt Louisa) and Lady Ann(e) Ross. 

Franklin – Polar Nettles

The force field round her frosty hips Whose shape recalls the wicked spade That buried him

Crozier – Middle Cyclone

Can’t scrape together quite enough To ride the bus to the outskirts Of the fact that I need love

Fitzjames – Winnie

I'm here to tell you a story, I'm here to tell you a lie My poetry's weak and I know it I was drop dead sad and crazy sometimes So I fucked off, wayward cannon to the sea

Blanky – Never Turn Your Back on Mother Earth

I'll admit I was unfaithful From now I'll be more faithful Never turn your back on mother earth

Esther Blanky – A Widow’s Toast

Specters move like pilot flames Their widows toast at St. Angel Better times collide with now

Bridgens – I Missed the Point

And I'm sorry, I'm so sorry That I missed the point of this pageantry But I'm grateful that you love me

Peglar – Stinging Velvet

Sing please, rock me to sleep Quiet as a canyon Up under heaven's eaves

Silna – Hell-On

But you'll not be my master, you’re barely my guest You don't have permission to take any pictures Be careful of the natural world

Goodsir – Magpie to the Morning

I'm on a top secret mission A Cousteau expedition To find a diamond at the bottom of the drain

David Young – Maybe Sparrow

Maybe sparrow, you should wait You'll never pass beyond the gate If you don't hear my warning

Gibson – Dirty Knife

And the blood runs crazy with giant strides And the woodsman failed to breech those fangs in time So they dragged him through the underbrush Wearing three winter coats and a dirty knife

Hickey – People Got a Lotta Nerve

But I'm a man man man man man man man eater But still you're surprised when I eat ya

Jopson – The Next Time You Say “Forever”

The next time you say "forever," I will punch you in your face Just because you don't believe it doesn't mean I didn't mean it You never know when I’ll show you the never

Little – I Wish I Was the Moon

How will you know if you found me at last? 'Cause I'll be the one, be the one, be the one With my heart in my lap – I'm so tired, I'm so tired

Hodgson – Ragtime

The sound that lures me, it says, "Don't you hurry Don't you worry, kid, we'll be seeing you We'll see you when you're ready."

Irving – Afraid

Confuse your hunger Capture the fake Banish the faceless Reward your grace

Gore – Hold On, Hold On

That echo chorus lied to me with its "Hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on"

Le Vesconte – Guided By Wire

In life you learn from someone else That you can only trust yourself And sometimes that is still too much to want

Fairholme – Don’t Forget Me

In the wintertime keep your feet warm But keep your clothes on and don't forget me Keep your memories

T. Hartnell – I’m An Animal

And yes, there are things that I'm still so afraid of But my courage is roaring like the sound of the sun 'Cause it's vain about its mane and will reveal them to no one

J. Hartnell – Lion’s Jaws

Now they meddling sky and my snowy eye Sees a different night The night I fell into the lion's jaws

Sarah Hartnell (née Friar), mother of John and Thomas – Halls of Sarah

A childless widow of a nation You cry like guns across the water Yet we expect you to bring springtime, it isn't fair Searchlights wither in your hair

Sgt. Tozer – At Last

I can say that I've lived here in honor and danger But I'm just an animal and cannot explain a life Down this chain of days, I wished to stay among my people Relation now means nothing, having chosen so defined

Des Voeux – Deep Red Bells

Where does this mean world cast its cold eye? Who's left to suffer long about you? Does your soul cast about like an old paper bag Past empty lots and early graves?

Dr. MacDonald – Twist the Knife

Tenderly, tenderly, please take my breath from me Into the fountain and up from the graves Tearfully, joyfully, burn what is left of me

Dr. Stanley – Gumball Blue

But you come back for me Sometimes only for your own peace of mind Sometimes where there's smoke There's just a smoke machine, honey

Collins – Bad Luck

Are you tired of things going right? Things going wrong? Tired of trying to make everyone happy?

Orren – My Uncle’s Navy

In the tarpit sea memories wear thick coats The kind that pull you down But in refusing to drown You're choked into the shape of a sailor

Morfin – City Swans

I try to slip the marching clock But centipedes invade my thoughts Without free will, I heel and I go

J.C. Ross – Fox Confessor Brings the Flood

Will I ever see you again? Will there be no one above me to put my faith in? I flooded my sleeves as I drove home again

Ann(e) Ross – Oracle of the Maritimes

I planned a dream inside a dream with your uncle I asked him how to tell you how much I could love you ‘Cause I’ve never been so sure of anything

Fitzjames’s Aunt Louisa – Last Lion of Albion

Last lion of Albion Last tiger of Tasmania The last she-wolf to suckle Rome

Lady Franklin – Calling Cards

Singing, "We'll all be together Even when we're not together With our arms around each other With our faith still in each other"

S. Cracroft – Where Did I Leave That Fire

A chill ran through me and I grabbed on tight That was when I left my body for good And I shook off all the strength I'd earned

[angrylizardjacket]

wishful drinking // Charlotte&Lola

Summary: After Charlotte, Peach, and Eileen go missing, everyone else believes they're dead. Everyone but Lola and Tommy. It's difficult to cope and hope at the same time, and sometimes it even reopens old wounds.

A/N: Wow a song fic, christ. Loosely based on Wishful Drinking by Tessa Violet which just gives me so many emotions about Lola. Ido believe this is the single angstiest thing I've ever written on this blog. @misscharlottelee @peachonscreen I'm so very sorry this is so sad and dark jfc. WARNINGS: Focuses on alcohol addiction as a coping mechanism, there is a funeral, acute references to Lola's childhood trauma, a panic attack, and heroin use right at the end there, and there is some very mild implied suicidal ideation

----

separate me from the rest of the herd so I can run away from all of my hurt oh

drink what I want, be what I want, say what you want me to say like I can pretend that I don't wanna end I'm afraid

I'm dangerous

Everyone keeps saying they're dead, but there's no proof so how can they sound so certain?

Lola's already halfway through a bottle of rum, as Charlotte's parents scowl their way through a list of rules that sound more like demands, of what the band is and isn't allowed to do at Charlotte's funeral. For which their is no body. Lola rolls her eyes and takes another drink.

This is the second speech like this that they've had to sit through this week, since Peach and Eileen's parents seemed equally sceptical of the band's ability to behave appropriately at their daughters' funeral. Which was a farce with no bodies. Lola takes another drink and squeezes her eyes shut.

Nikki's got a hand on her thigh, and Tommy's got an arm around her, the three of them squeezed onto a sofa probably built for two.

Nikki was fucked up out of his mind on more drugs than Lola had ever known him to take. Losing Charlotte had broken something inside of him, and when Lola had told him that she and the other girls had gone missing, he'd sworn until his voice was hoarse, crying more genuinely than she'd ever seen him do before. He was terrified of being lucid, of remembering his reality and reacting like that again.

"I wasn't... I was never in love with Charlie, but I really did love her, you know, like I love Tommy; he's like my brother, but she... she was good for us. Better than any of us ever deserved."

Lola takes another drink.

Tommy's lucid and full of rage, two cans of beer and a line of coke before lunch is all he takes now since she's gone, high off anger, demanding people find her, reading maps, triangulating where she could possibly have gotten lost, trying to put together search parties. He, like Lola, won't believe she's gone until he knows for certain, but unlike Lola, he won't take 'her plane disappeared in the mountains of another country, there's nothing we can really do, I'm so sorry' as an answer.

He holds Lola tighter when Charlotte's parents level a teary-eyed glare at him and spit that he's not allowed to start spouting his conspiracy bullshit about her still being alive, at the funeral. He squeezes his eyes shut and turns, pressing his face into Lola's hair and heaving an irritated sigh.

"I know," Lola mumbles back, words spilling into each other. Tommy's breathing is deep and level in a way that's completely controlled, like he's working on subduing his feelings. Nikki gives Lola's thigh a squeeze, but she's not quite sure if he meant to, it could have been a hand twitch. Lola leans against Tommy just a little more, "I know."

She takes another drink.

None of them are allowed to make a speech; Charlotte's mother and Tommy's sister will both be reading eulogies, but if any of the band speaks up, they will be removed from the ceremony.

"What about Razzle?" Vince is the one to speak up, and Lola's breath catches in her throat.

"Nicholas..." Charlotte's mother finally softens her tone, and casts a look to her father, a silent question.

"Nicholas will do his best to prepare an address, but has also told us that he will decide on the day if he will be able to present it," its the fairest thing they've said all day. Their sensitivity to Razzle and his situation keeps Lola from hurling her bottle at them; if they'd shit-talked Charlotte's grieving fiance, she'd have no qualms beating up her missing friend's parents there and then. Instead, all Lola can picture is Razzle, overwhelmingly upset to the point that he can't even bring himself to read a eulogy at his fiance's sham of a funeral.

As much as Lola believes its a sham, she won't push that on Razzle, either way, Charlotte's not here; it hurts like a fresh wound, she can't even begin to imagine how he must be feeling if he really believes she's gone for good.

Lola's bottle is emptying quickly.

"Is Penny okay?" Vince asks, voice soft and concerned for the missing woman's two-year-old daughter.

"She's with Nicholas," Charlotte's mother says, but tears well in her eyes and the words catch in her throat. Charlotte's father puts his arm around her, drawing her in close.

"She keeps asking for Charlotte," his voice cracks, "and... and none of us know what to tell her."

weave a story so I don't have to talk, no, it's not a problem if I never get caught oh

drink what I want, be what I want, say what you want me to say like I can pretend that I don't wanna end I'm afraid

I'm dangerous

Charlotte would either be right furious, or annoyingly understanding, about the fact that Lola is wine drunk and trying to act sober at her funeral. But if Charlotte has a problem with Lola's behaviour at her sham funeral, she should come home and tell Lola herself.

The only people who Lola isn't glowering at are Razzle and Penny. Razzle's in the quietest outfit she's ever seen him in, all black, not a hint of flair or personality, and Penny's been put in a little, frilly black dress, with a black headband which she has thrown on the ground, since she's in the middle of a screaming fit.

Razzle is desperately trying to hold himself together while Penny demands to see her mother at the top of her lungs. Tommy, for all he loathes the pageantry of this funeral, feeling as though it's being put on to make Charlotte's extended friends and family feel less guilty about giving up the search for her, has nothing but kindness and gentle understanding for the man he considered to practically be his brother-in-law.

Kneeling in front of where Razzle's bouncing Penny on his knee, Tommy lays a gentle hand on his other knee, and when Razzle looks to him, as if startled out of focusing entirely on his daughter, there's tears in his eyes. He can't even form words, mouth opening and closing like a fish, but he quickly stills moving Penny, who tries to throw herself on him, her little fists beating his hands insistently, somehow getting louder with her demands.

"I miss mommy! I want mommy!"

Tommy quickly scoops Penny from her father's hands, and Razzle doesn't stop him, just looks on with a painfully helpless expression, like he's not sure what to do with himself now. Tommy chatters away to Penny, hugging her as he takes her to walk around in the sunshine, away from the other guests, and Razzle's lip trembles as his eyes refuse to focus on anything but the beautiful picture of Charlotte her parents chose to display for the event.

Right as he bursts into tears, Lola slides into the seat beside him. No words pass between them, but she wraps him up in a hug, and he holds her tight in response, nails digging into her, apologies babbles almost incoherently, and Lola feels a wave of guilt sweep through her.

The night she'd found out Charlotte had gone missing, she'd gone to Razzle's hotel in tears, full of fury, looking for answers, for anything, knowing only that he and Charlotte had fought right before Charlotte, Peach, and Eileen had taken the spontaneous flight on which they had gone missing. She'd blamed him, at the time, for Charlotte leaving. She'd blamed him, at the time, for Charlotte going missing.

Lola whispers apologies back as best she can in her quietly drunken state, rubbing his back, wishing she'd thought to being her flask; maybe it would have helped ease some of his pain, she knew it definitely would have eased some of hers.

She can't find the words to tell him that she knows its not his fault, not before Tommy comes back right before the ceremony starts, and sits himself on Razzle's other side, Penny quiet in his arms.

When Razzle turns to see his daughter, he sees her reach out with both her arms, asking for a hug. Razzle holds her close, holds her tight, and looks to Tommy with question in his eyes.

"Told her that it was like when you went back to Finland to make music, but a bit longer."

"Momma was sad," Penny's little voice was muffled against Razzle as she refused to let go of her father. Tommy nodded sagely, and Razzle's lip trembled.

"Charlie needed a lot of hugs from Pennylope while you were away; told Penny that you'd need a lot of hugs too, now." Tommy's voice was quiet, his tone gentle like he was still explaining to Penny, and Razzle pulled his daughter back a little, giving her as much of a smile as he could muster.

"You're too good to me, Pennylope; I do need a lot of hugs," and he holds her close again, taking a deep, shake breath, "I'm never gonna let you go."

oh, wishful drinking

tell myself that I'm not thinking bout how I could drown

drown drown drown

wishful drinking

Perhaps part of the reason why Lola can't believe Charlotte's really dead is the fact that Lola had kind of always assumed Charlotte would outlive her. Its morbid, but its not ab inherently false assumption to make, considering Lola drinks probably more spirits than water and gets into fights for fun. Statistically, she should already be dead. So why was she at a funeral for Charlotte.

She finishes her glass of wine and reminds herself firmly that the funeral's a sham.

She can't actually remember how she got to the bar of the hotel that she and Nikki we're staying at in Charlotte and Tommy's home town, but a majority of the people from the funeral were there, to drink and pay their final respects, so Lola assumes one of them had brought her.

She sits at the bar and orders drinks in rapid succession, while Tommy mulls over the same glass of JD for half an hour beside her while chain-smoking and people watching. It feels like they're the only two on the same page, knowing intrinsically that Charlotte's still out there any everyone who refuses to believe that is betraying her.

"Why her?" Lola mumbles into her drink.

"She's not dead, don't you start talking like she is, too," Tommy frowns into his glass. Lola finishes her drink and pushes it out of the way as she rests her arms on the bar, and her head on her arms, looking at Tommy with a strangely blank expression.

"I know, but she's still not here; why any of them? None of them deserve it, deserve to be missing, deserve to have people stop caring about looking for them," Lola's brow creased into the barest frown, "but if people knew that they weren't gone and were just missing, just needed to be found, they'd know they still need the girls," and she gives a forlorn sigh, "they don't deserve this, people still need them."

Behind her, Tommy sees where all of Hanoi Rocks has crowded into a booth with Razzle to keep him company, doing their best to cheer him, to comfort him, each of them taking it in turn to entertain Penny, who was overjoyed at seeing her band-uncles again. The picture looked incomplete without Charlotte.

"Why them?" Lola said softly, sitting back up and ordering another drink, and Tommy hears what she really means this time, the way she implies 'it should have been me'.

go ahead and stop your thinking now

and throw it down

down down down

wishful drinking now

Lola develops a new game over the following weeks, where every time someone mentions Charlotte, she takes a shot. Or four.

Nikki's getting back to normal faster than Lola is, just says that Charlie wouldn't want to see them moping around.

Vince and Mick, still shaken by the loss of Peach and Eileen respectively, agree.

Tommy's still looking for ways to try and find them in his spare time, but focuses on the band so Charlotte will be able to come back and be proud; something about his reasoning makes bile rise in the back of Lola's throat for reasons she can't quite put her finger on.

Lola drinks, because she's come to realise she's useless. She doesn't have the actual band resources to put into helping find the girls, and Doc only keeps her on the payroll because the band won't let him fire her, he doesn't need an assistant.

The only person she would felt safe talking about all of this to was missing.

So Lola drinks.

What else is there to do?

hide your demons where no one can see em, outta sight but in your mind you believe em

drink what you want, be what they want, say what they want you to say like I can pretend that I don't wanna end I'm afraid

I'm dangerous

Lola knows now why Tommy's desperate playing to make sure Charlotte's happy upon her return makes Lola feel sick.

He kept mentioning it, kept asking whether the others thought their new album would be as good as their old stuff, the stuff Charlotte liked, and Nikki had snapped, fed up.

Lola had been in the kitchen when he'd started yelling that she wasn't coming back, and when Tommy hollered that he was an asshole at the top of his lungs.

"If she was alive, she'd be here! But she's fucking not!" Nikki's words rung through the air and were met with stunned silence, "you know why she's not here?" He hissed venomously, and Lola drops the glass she'd been holding, recognising that tone from almost a decade ago.

Nikki, in the present, snaps that its because Charlotte's gone for good, but Lola doesn't hear that. Lola hears her mother.

Lola hears that her father's never coming back because she's a disappointment, because shes not good enough, or kind enough, or talented enough.

The wrong wires connect in Lola's brain in a way that's all too familiar, in a way that makes her scars ache and tears well in her eyes.

And in another moment its gone, and Lola sees the shards on the ground and knows that Charlotte would hate a dirty kitchen. She sweeps them up.

Later, Tommy will find her, and before he can even open his mouth, she's holding his face in her hands, reassuring him that Charlotte would love their new music. His expression brightens, and he kisses her in thanks; something eases in Lola's chest.

No matter where Charlotte is, Lola will never let Tommy believe what was beaten into her for years, she'll never let him believe that he is the reason Charlotte's not here. Nobody deserves to believe that... And yet a voice in the back of Lola's mind tells her she has to do better, for Charlotte.

The voice sounds like her mother's.

do you think do you think that they notice

I keep a bottle by my bed it's the focus

drink what I want, be what I want, say what you want me to say like I can pretend that I don't wanna end I'm afraid

I'm dangerous

After a while, Doc stops praising Lola for showing up to the studio on time and sober - she's absolutely not sober, but she's also not had enough to drink for it to effect her composure. When he stops praising her, she worries that he knows she's always a little buzzed, and then she gets annoyed, thinking that he's just an asshole. It takes her a full week to realise that it's neither, in fact, its just that she's been doing it consistently enough that he's come to expect it of her.

People note her improved work ethic, compliment her even, and its nice, and she knows that if Charlotte were here that she'd be saying nice things right along side everyone else.

Nikki had been right, Charlotte wouldn't want to mope around, so Lola had to actually do well so when Charlotte came back, she could prove that she hadn't been moping.

Sometimes that voice in the back of her mind gets harsh, tells her she's not doing enough, but Lola reminds that voice that Charlotte would roll her eyes at Lola's antics, but she'd somehow always be understanding in the end. Lola didn't need to be perfect, she just needed to be better.

And she was!

She takes a shot to quiet the voice down in those moments anyways, just for good measure.

No-one seems to notice if she's four shots in before noon, one more won't hurt.

this is not a problem if I don't want it to stop

can't call it a problem if I never let a plate drop

this is not a problem if convincing that it's not

don't call it a problem it's the only thing that I still got

Nikki is spiralling into his heroin addiction of his own accord, but Lola knows Charlotte would think they're both better than that; Lola won't be able to convince Nikki, but she can keep herself away from it.

Her job's going well, and she and Tommy are still close, and she is allowed to babysit Penny on nights when Vince takes Razzle out partying. Its trust earned, that she never would have been able to earn if she hadn't been trying to do good for when Charlotte gets back.

But the world goes to hell in a single night.

What the fuck are they meant to tell Penny?

Her dad is dead.

Another thing Charlotte can't come back to.

Turns out they don't have to be the ones to tell Penny; Razzle's parents come to pick up her and their son's body, and though Tommy begs for them not to take her, they're terrified of her ending up just like her parents -

"Charlotte's not dead -"

"Wake up, Thomas, you're putting false hope into this girl's head, it'll ruin her mind if you don't let her live in reality!" Razzle's mother spits, while his father has already taken Penny out to the car to take her to the airport.

Tommy's in tears when he calls Lola.

The pair of them are devastated.

Why would Charlotte come back here if Penny and Razzle weren't here? The only person she'd loved more than Razzle was Penny, and now they were both -

"Lo, what's the point?"

"The point?"

"Of being all good and shit, for Charlie?"

"What do you mean?"

"She's not gonna come back to us," Tommy sighed, sniffling, "she's out there, but she'd go to Penny before any of us, and now..."

"Please don't say that," Lola's voice trembled, her heart beating in an erratic staccato in her chest.

"There's nothing worth coming back here for -"

Lola drops the receiver, curling in on herself, shaking all over as his words play over and over and over in her mind while all she can think about is the fact that yet again, she's not enough for someone she loved and felt safe with.

She's gasping for air, chest tight and tears stinging her eyes, heart beating in her ears while she's shaking like a leaf, in the full throes of a panic attack.

It takes her a long while to calm down, to ground herself in the feel of the carpet beneath her and the sound of the ocean outside, and the cars and the wind and the smell of the sea.

The first thing she does after she stands, is to get a drink, and then another, and then another, then to take the bottle into the bedroom, in to Nikki.

"Babe -?" He sees her red rimmed eyes first as she jostles him awake, and he wants to ask questions.

"I need something to get me out of my fucking mind, please, anything," she begs, lip trembling as she tries to focus on Nikki and not Tommy's words on loop in her mind.

"You sure?"

"Anything, the world is a fucking nightmare, and nothing fucking matters," and Nikki leans over to his nightstand, opening the drawer and pulling out a kit Lola knew was his heroin kit. Now it didn't seem like a bad choice.

"Is this about Razz?" Nikki asks, making quick work of preparing the drug for her. Lola swallows hard, and sits on the bed.

"Neither of them fucking deserved it," and Nikki knows immediately that she's referring to both Charlotte and Razzle, and he pauses, "the world needs people like them."

The room is very quiet for the few moments where Nikki cooks the powder to a liquid, pulling it up into his syringe. He instructs Lola on how to tie off her arm, and carefully injects her after double checking that its what she wanted.

As the tie around her arm is loosened, and the drug hits, Lola laughs, but there's no humour in it, her head tipping back, bottle still clutched firmly in her other hand.

"Its a fucking joke that the world is stuck with people like me."

[emperorsfoot]

Hordak and Entrapta have an actual conversation about their engagement and Entrapta’s motivations. 

Also, bread-crumbs about Keldor. 

...

The first time Hec-Tor met Keldor, he could barely bring himself to raise his head. Not because his condition was in a progressive phase and he felt faint and might pass out –although, the stress of this arrangement hadn’t done any favors for that- but because he was so utterly miserable, he just didn’t want to meet anyone’s eyes.

Anillis –Horde Prime, he must call him ‘Horde Prime’ now- dragged Hec-Tor halfway across the universe to meet the person he would be marrying. The eldest son of the King of Eternia. A Prince, equal to him in status if not power of their respective nations.

Hec-Tor kept his spine straight and his shoulders back when he gave the formal greetings, but his eyes were down. He did not look at his fiancé once during the introductions.

That is, until he heard a stifled laugh. Hec-Tor looked up to see his intended with his hand over his mouth, trying to dampen the sound. But he couldn’t help it. The amusement reached all the way to his eyes. Brown eyes, a brown so dark they might as well have been black. They practically sparkled with humor and formless, unfocussed mischief.

Keldor did not look like the rest of his family.

In his dossier, Hec-Tor read that his mother was King Miro’s concubine, not his legal wife. A Gar woman, one of the many blue skinned races in the universe. Keldor had his mother’s dusky blue skin and straight black hair. An ebony-black that shined in the light of Eternia’s sun. He was not what Hec-Tor was expecting and he didn’t know what to make of his intended.

“What’s so funny?” Hec-Tor demanded. No one dared laugh at a Prince of the Horde Empire.

“You are.” Keldor answered honest, still smiling. “You’re so stiff, like one of those windup soldier toys my brother still plays with. Can you do anything else besides posture and pose?”

Hec-Tor sputtered something as incomprehensible as it was ineloquent.

Next to him, he felt his brother stiffen, chest rumbling with an effort to suppress a snarl. “Is this what you teach your children, Miro? To insult their guests.”

“Keldor!” King Miro turned to his son, more temper in his voice than Hec-Tor felt was necessary considering the offense. High temper, with an undercurrent of exasperation. Apparently, this was an attitude that Prince Keldor took often and King Miro was exhausted trying to teach his son respect.

“Apologies. I was simply overcome by Prince Hec-Tor’s level of discipline. I can only hope to one day be so well trained.” Keldor gave an overly exaggerated bow, lowering his head, ebony hair falling over one shoulder, hiding the fact that he was still smirking with amusement.

Hec-Tor felt a small smirk pull at his lips. Imperial protocol was stiff and confining, but no one had ever mocked it to his face before. Keldor was bold and unafraid.

…

The second time Hec-Tor met Princess Entrapta, the only thing he could think was that she didn’t even clean-up well.

Her hair and face were washed, and she was not wearing that dreadful set of overalls with the straps hanging down like some slovenly plumber. She was wearing a dress, pale lilac, with an empire waste, short puffed sleeves, and a satin ribbon waistband. The dress was lovely. Or, rather, it would have been lovely if it weren’t for one random stain on the yoke of the bodice. Hec-Tor couldn’t tell if it was engine grease, space ship coolant, or gear lubricant. None would surprise him. He could even form a rather clear and vivid mental image of her tinkering with some dirty piece of machinery while wearing her gown.

She was even still wearing a welding mask and work gloves!

After the chaos of their first meeting, the formal introductions were postponed until the following day. The context changed from a formal meeting in the throne room with pomp and pageantry, to an informal breakfast. The gardens would have been better, but the weather had turned bad, with sands washing over the shieldwall and covering the grounds in clouds of brown and yellow dust.

So, they ate in a parlor just off from the gardens. The doors sealed tight and the shutter plates lowered firmly over the windows. The only sounds were the ‘plink, plink, plink’ of sand and pebbles against the shutter plates. And Entrapta’s talking.

“…it really in ingenious.” She was saying. “Horde World shifts classification between an M-Class planet and a Y-Class planet depending on the point in its solar rotation and climate. It’s harsh and hard for organisms to thrive on, yet, your engineers have made your cities not only livable, but thriving! The shieldwall that goes up every time there’s a storm not only protect the city from the most destructive gales, but also take the kinetic energy of the storm and transforms it into energy to power the city. It’s clean, natural power, and one-hundred percent renewable!”

Hec-Tor rolled his eyes. She was stating things that were common knowledge to any resident of Horde World. But Brother seemed to be hanging on her every word. Intently listening to her explain his own home’s technology to him. Hec-Tor suppressed the urge to roll his eyes again. If Horde Prime enjoyed her company so much, maybe he should be the one marrying her.

“Finding renewable or self-sustaining energy sources is one of the hurdles of weapons designs.” Entrapta continued, gesturing vaguely with her hair. “That’s one of the reasons why I find magic so fascinating. They say that any technology that’s sufficiently advanced would look like magic until it’s understood. But I disagree. That implies that magic can’t be understood. But there are countless people all over the universe who not only understand but practice magic! And different kinds of magic too! My hypothesis is that magic, like science, is just another method. Hypothesis, experiment, results, repeat, calculate. Magic has to have a method too, and if I can combine that method, I could make weapons powered by magic instead of coaxium, or tibana gas, or taydenite.”

Absentmindedly, Hec-Tor twisted the old wedding band on his finger, Keldor had been a sorcerer. He understood magic. Hec-Tor did not. But neither did Entrapta seem to either. At least, Hec-Tor heard her talk about anything but weapons, robotics, and engineering since she arrived. But only mentioning magic in the context that she was ‘interested’ in it.

“That’s so interesting.” Horde Prime grinned. “Isn’t that interesting, brother?”

“Riveting.” Hec-Tor sipped his breakfast tea.

Prime frowned at him, then kicked the younger man under the table.

Hec-Tor glared at him.

Prime flicked his eyes to Entrapta then back. A silent command to ‘talk to her!’

Hec-Tor sighed. “Was your journey peaceful, Princess?”

“Oh, it was great!” She spread her arms wide, hair spreading with them. “We passed by this energy cloud that turned out to be a sentient being, and almost got caught in the shockwave of Krypton exploding as we passed the Rao system, and were nearly hit by a stray energy blast from Namek. It was so exciting!”

That was a string of utter nonsense. There were no such planets as ‘Namek’ or ‘Krypton’ and energy clouds were not sentient. Hec-Tor shot his brother a pleading look. Entrapta might be bringing powerful weapons to the Empire, but the woman herself was clearly insane –and not in the traditional way that members of their family sometimes were.

Horde Prime met his younger brother’s eyes, smiled, then stood from the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I have affairs to attend to. Brother. Princess.”

He left.

Hec-Tor suppressed the urge to scoff. Horde Prime rarely attended to anything himself. He had a battery of aids and officials to attend to things for him. Hell! Most of his important ‘Emperor duties’ were delegated to Hec-Tor anyway.

A silence descended over the table.

Hec-Tor finished his tea. A servant appeared with a fresh teapot, then disappeared again.

Hec-Tor continued to sip at the new tea.

“I’m not good at this.” Entrapta blurted out.

It was such a non-sequitur that Hec-Tor was a bit thrown. He wasn’t sure if he’d missed part of an earlier conversation or not. He blinked at her, hoping she would elaborate.

“Getting along.” She did elaborate. “With people. People don’t understand me, and I don’t understand them either. I’m sorry if this is awkward.”

“Arrangements such as this are always awkward.” He informed her without inflection. “You are the ruler of your nation. No one is forcing you to do this. So, why are you?”

“Oh, well that’s easy!” She smiled at him as if it were a silly question. “Your brother promised me unlimited resources for my research! Just imagine the advancements I could make with the near-unlimited resources of the Horde Empire at my disposal! And all I have to do to get it is sign a contract with you. I’d say it’s a small price to pay!”

Hec-Tor just continued to stare at her. His teacup, halfway to his lips was paused forgotten in his hand. “It’s more than just a simple contract! You are aware of what marriage entails, are you not?”

Before an answer to this question could even be attempted, something dropped down from the chandelier. Fluttering down on dusky-blue wings to land with feet on the table.

“Imp!” Hec-Tor barked.

“Oh. Hello again.” Entrapta smiled. “You’re the boy from the vent.”

Imp made several quick motions with his hands, introducing himself to her properly. Since she saved him the previous day, he decided he liked her.

The Princess only stared at him with incomprehension. “I don’t know what that means.”

Hec-Tor grabbed the empty chair Prime had vacated and dragged it over to his side of the table. “Sit down.”

The child complied, sitting in the seat next to his father. Then made series of quick hand motions at the older man.

Hec-Tor sighed. “He wants me to tell you that his name is Imp and he thinks you’re ‘cool’.”

“Oh. Thanks!” She smiled as if she was not used to people thinking she was ‘cool’. Entrapta rested an elbow on the table. “So, you like to hide in vents too huh? I agree, it’s the best way to get around if you don’t like being bothered by people or having to answer a lot of really pointless questions.”

Imp signed that it was great that he was still small enough to fit in the vents and that he liked to use them to hide from his tutors (something that Hec-Tor was not aware he did). Entrapta, however, did not understand this, so Imp signed to his father to translate for him.

Instead, the Prince only glared at the boy. “Why have your tutors not notified me of these antics?”

Imp looked away awkwardly. Guiltily signing, ‘No reason…’ The actual reason was he was also intercepting the messages and datacards before they could make it to his father’s desk. Being able to fit through the palace vents was also great for spy work and espionage! (Not that Imp yet knew the word ‘espionage’.)

Hec-Tor just massaged his forehead, feeling a stress headache threatening. Luckily, he did not feel lightheaded or faint, so there was no danger of him passing out.

“So, Imp is your son.” Entrapta made another attempt at conversation. As she already warned him, she was not good at it, and had no idea what was too personal. But, asking the person you were going to marry about your future step-child had to be on the list of acceptable, right?

“Yes.” Confirmed Hec-Tor. “My son from my previous marriage.” He placed extra stress on the last two words as a subtle reminded that marriage was more than just a contract. Marriage came with a certain expectation, and –if she didn’t already have any heirs of her own- certain requirements.

“Hi, Imp, I’m Entrapta.” She waved at the child, her hair mimicking the same motion as her hand. “Imp is such a cute name! Is it a nickname or did your father give it to you?”

‘Imp’ was actually what Keldor kept calling the little hybrid creature when he was still in the vitrine. Hec-Tor was sure he didn’t mean it to be a real name –Keldor probably would have chosen an Eternian or a Gar name for their son- but after Keldor disappeared, Hec-Tor couldn’t imagine calling his son anything else but what Keldor had been calling him for months. Brother always disapproved. He felt it was not commanding and imposing enough for a Prince of the Kur Dynasty. Ha! As if ‘Zed’ was any better!

“It is his name.” Hec-Tor informed her with a completely straight face, expression impassive.

“Aw…” Entrapta smiled. “Your dad’s secretly a softy.”

How rude! Hec-Tor sipped his tea to hide his frown.

“Imp, go terrorize someone else for the moment.” He commanded the boy. “Entrapta and I have to discuss subjects you are too young to hear.”

Imp made a rude sign that Hec-Tor knew none of his tutors would have taught him. Then flew away.

He waited to make sure the child was truly gone and not just lurking somewhere where he could eavesdrop. When Hec-Tor was satisfied that his son was no longer within hearing, he pushed his tea to the side and leaned over the table, making eye-contact with Entrapta.

“You are aware that marriage is not just a simple legal contract.” He informed her. “Both of us will be expected to-“ here he hesitated, unsure how to phrase what he was trying to say, the need for clear communication battling with the modesty that had been drilled into his since his infancy “…perform…” no, that was not clear at all. Time to try a different tactic. “A marriage is not legal until it has been consummated. I do not know how things are done on Etheria, but in the Empire we have a specific tradition-“

“Beilager.” She nodded without inflection. Then reached up a tendril of hair to slide her welding mask down over her face to hide her expression. “I know.”

Of course she would know if she was the one to agree to the arrangement. If he was given a dossier on Dryl, then she must have her own files on the Empire. She struck him as the sort of woman that would do her research. She would know that, to confirm the marriage had been consummated, the wedding night would be observed by an Imperial lawyer, the Justice who performs the ceremony, and anyone from the wedding party that wished to witness.

Hec-Tor closed his eyes, mixed feelings over his first wedding night bubbling to the surface. Brother standing closer to the bed than was probably appropriate, feet planted, arms cross, leering at him. But Keldor took his face in his hands and whispered words of comfort. Made him feel safe. ‘Close your eyes. There’s no one here but us…’ Hec-Tor opened his eyes again and glared challengingly at that expressionless metal mask. “And you are fine with that?”

Still not lifting the mask, Entrapta only shrugged. “It’s just one night.”

Drumming his talons on the table, Hec-Tor studied her.

Their first meeting was unorthodox and unexpected. At the time, he was more concerned for his son and shocked at having a part of his palace cave in, and he wasn’t in the right state to really consider this woman that would be his spouse.

She was small. Short in stature, her frame slender but muscular. She might be a Princess –Queen- but she was not the type to sit in palaces or on thrones and let others do things for her. If her musculature and the grease stain on her gown were any indication, she was not afraid of getting her hands dirty and doing things herself. That was something Hec-Tor could admire. Even if she didn’t seem to grasp that there was a time and a place for such things and over the course of this week leading up to their wedding was not the time.

The thing that bothered him now was that Entrapta seemed to view this marriage as nothing more than a business transaction. Which, it was that in part, but as one of the parties that had to be married, he would have hoped she’d realize that it was much, much more than just clear-cut and cold business.

“And after the wedding night?” He asked, still speaking to her welding mask and wishing he could read her face to get some measure of her thoughts.

“I…” She began haltingly. As if unsure of her own views on the matter. Surely she must have thought this through if she was the one to agree to the marriage and wasn’t being forced to by others. “I’m not the most romantic person in the universe.” She confessed. “I’m really bad at reading body language and understanding non-verbal ques. You’ll need to tell me directly when you want to... perform like that.”

This was actually a bit of a relief to Hec-Tor. “And if I never want to perform like that with you?”

“That’s fine too, I guess.” She nodded, as if that was a relief to her as much as it was to him. Then she looked away, her face thrown into profile Hec-Tor could just barely glimpse a fraction of her expression behind the mask. She looked conflicted. “Except- except at some point in the future I will need a daughter. I guess, so long as she comes out of my body her legitimacy as Heir of Dryl would be secure, so she need not come from you. But… I just think- since we’ll already be married, it would just be more convenient if my children came from my spouse.”

Their children would be members of the Imperial Royal Family, and Heirs to the weapons manufacturing titan of Dryl. That was why Brother wanted this marriage so bad. And Dryl required a female to inherit. Brother wanted Hec-Tor to sire a daughter with this Etherian Princess so that he could wed her to Zed, thereby insuring that the armory of Dryl would always be under Imperial control.

It was actually a rather genius amount of planning on Horde Prime’s part.

Hec-Tor hated it.

“Do you, um, do you require any more children?” She asked, hesitant.

“No.” He stated flatly. “Imp is sufficient.”

Entrapta sighed, as if relived. She did not want to have any more children than was absolutely necessary. Then she smiled. “Imp is gonna love the Crypto Castle! That’s where I live, by the way. My castle in Dryl. It’s got so many secret passageways and hideaways. I’m sure he’s gonna have a lot of fun living there!”

The idea of his son hiding –and getting lost- in secret passages did not sound fun to Hec-Tor. He would prefer Imp not spend time lurking and hiding at all.

“I do not want my son getting lost in an unfamiliar castle.” He informed her. And also, made a mental note to ask his brother why she assumed he and Imp would be living in Dryl instead of the Imperial capital of Horde World.

“Oh. He won’t get lost.” She promised. “I give trackers to all the residents and staff of the castle so no one gets lost.”

If no one else was using the secret passages, why would everyone need trackers to keep from getting lost? Hec-Tor was concerned.

“You won’t get lost either.” Entrapta assured him. “I’ll probably give you master privileges on the tracker app so you can not only locate yourself but everyone else in the castle. I spend most of my time in my lab, anyway. So it’ll be nice to have a spouse I can delegate the work of actually ruling and running Dryl to. Actually, that’s another benefit I get out of this deal! Few responsibilities to cut into my experiments!” She smiled at him from across the table. “I think I’m gonna like being married, actually.”

Hec-Tor pulled his tea back to him and sipped it for lack of anything better to do. From the sound of it, he was not going to enjoy being married at all.

[flourchildwrites]

64 and 25 on the AU mashup. I know I usually ask for Royai, but this time around can I request Havolina? Please? :D Thank you

A/N:  Oh my, @ruikosakuragi !  I fell in love with this prompt the moment I saw it.   You requested numbers 64 (star crossed lovers) and 25 (fairy tale AU) with a havolina ship.  And when I sat down to write, I was in a terrible, terrible funk.  Nothing like a little havolina angst to put me in a better mood.  (We don’t have time to unpack why writing angst brightens my day.)  Thank you for this prompt, and thanks for being one of my favorite readers and writers!

Read on AO3

Whenever Jean Havoc went missing, his mother knew where to find him.  Up the stone staircases of the ivy encased castle, through corridors cloaked in thick tapestries bearing the Armstrong family crest and into the hall of portraits she went.  A young boy of 12, already a knight in training, stared up at a dark-haired woman with enigmatic eyes and a kind smile.  Squire Havoc didn’t put much stock in the written word; he preferred his daggers and swords, but he learned enough to decipher her name, etched into the golden plaque beneath the frame.

Princess Rebecca Talia of Catalina

La Belle au bois dormant

The boy was favored amongst the castles’ inhabitants.  With sun-bleached hair, boyish freckles and a penchant for lighthearted mischief, he captured the hearts of every last scullery maid and made fast friends with the king’s young son, Alexander, a mere six months Havoc’s junior.  His mother, Claudia frowned, as she watched her boy munch a stolen croissant from the kitchens while he gazed longingly at the portrait.  Practically the only person who had not taken a shine to Jean was the queen, and her bedchambers were too close for comfort.

“Come away from there, my son,” Claudia beckoned.  “Come quickly before the queen sees you.  Why must you always return to this picture?”

Young Jean sighed, shoulders hunched forward as he tore his eyes away from the old portrait and heeded his mother’s call.  He didn’t know why he returned to gaze at the woman day after day, sneaking up from the stables with straw in his sleeves and mud on his boots.  But there was an undeniable connection, a pull in her directions like an invisible string of fate that bound them together no matter how far he strayed.  Still, Havoc knew his mother had no stomach for such fairy tales.

“I like to keep her company,” he answered.  “She’s so pretty, but her eyes are lonely.  Don’t you think?”

Claudia grabbed her son’s hand and guided him quickly through the castle with featherlight footsteps.  “I shouldn’t like to find you there again,” she said pointedly as if she knew he would return regardless.

Jean understood her perfectly.

…

Sixteen-year-old Jean visited her in the night when the light of the full moon spilled through the windows of the castle.  While other senior squires warmed the beds of those with bodies, the sins of the flesh never occupied Jean for long.  He loved them but left them with ease, ever drawn to the beloved portrait of Rebecca.

In his youth, Jean had always known to her to beautiful.  But as the years passed, the young squire noticed the fullness of her rosy lips and the blush in her cheek.  The swell of her breasts entranced him further, hastening lustful dreams where she led him toward a cobwebbed bedchamber.  Still, Rebecca’s chestnut eyes were her most alluring feature.  Ever pleading, wanting the company of a man who lived a century after the date scribbled in the corner of the painting.

“Who goes there?”  A booming voice interrupted Havoc’s reverie, sounding from down the hall.

Jean stirred, muscles sluggish from the day’s exertions.  It might have been better to turn tail, but the squire stood his ground.  He adopted an unassuming posture and ran a hand through his unkempt hair.

“Just me, Prince Alexander,” he announced.  “Squire Jean.”

The prince approached with heavy footfalls against the thick, red rug.  Even in his night clothes, Alex looked intimidating, burly and otherwise big.  His muscles tested the elasticity of his night tunic.

“I might have known,” he chuckled.  “You’re not here for my sister Catherine, are you?  I’d hate to have to challenge you to a duel, friend.”

“Too young,” Havoc smirked, cocky as ever.  “I’ve always liked this painting.  The woman in it is… There’s no one else like her.  Too bad she’s long gone.”

Alex grinned, too broadly for Jean to ignore.  He was a terrible liar at the best of times, and he loved gossip more than the washerwomen who babbled ceaselessly as they worked.  Havoc cast the prince an expectant sideways glance.

“Isn’t she dead?  What aren’t you telling me, Alex?”

The prince kept his own counsel for a moment, no more, before letting loose the story of sleeping beauty, Princess Rebecca, with glee.  Enchanted by a bitter alchemist as an infant, the young women fell victim to a ghastly prophecy.  In retaliation for her father’s hubris, she plucked her finger on a splinter while spinning flax and fell into an endless slumber.

“The sage Hohenheim managed to save her,” Alex explained, “but his counter-circle put the rest of Catalina to sleep in exchange for the princess’s life.  His prophecy foretells that she will sleep until the firstborn son of the Southern Kingdom’s 12th king wakes her. And should she rule with him standing by her side, their united kingdoms will be prosperous.”

Havoc could barely believe his ears.  He made a face dripping with incredulity.  “And how much longer does the princess have to wait?”

“Until I wake her with a kiss,” Alex replied.  “The firstborn son of the 12th king is me.”

…

“Ami Jean, lève ton verre, et surtout, ne le renverse pas!  Et porte-le du frontibus…”

King Alexander’s boisterous song rattled the dust from the rafters in the great hall as he drunkenly lumbered amidst the merrymaking.  The knighting ceremony was a festive occasion, beloved by the Southern Kingdom for its pageantry and splendor.  Sir Vato sat in deep conversation with a Northern scholar as Sir Roy and Dame Riza cut striking figures on the dance floor.  The pair’s silver armor glinted in the soft candlelight as they sashayed past Sir Kain, his arm draped over the shoulders of an attractive stable hand.

Claudia caught her son’s eye from around the curtain of the servant’s quarters.  The proud glint of her gaze spoke of volumes of pride, and Sir Jean grinned dashingly in response with a toast in her direction.  Claudia, whose once brown hair was now stained by starlight, would never be permitted to make merry with her son, but she watched, happy for his good fortune.  And Havoc silently thanked the anonymous benefactor who championed his cause all the way to knighthood.

“Sir Jean!”  Havoc turned, searching for the regal body matching the royal voice.  Its owner appeared behind him, dressed in decadent purple robes.

“King Alexander.”  Jean bowed with the balanced poise.

“None of that now, Havoc,” the king chuckled.  “We’ve known each other too long to be beholden to formalities.”

“My greatest ambition is to be of service to you, sire.”  The practiced words fell from his lips like butter, and not for the first time, Havoc wondered if he meant them.

“Then be of service, you shall,” he announced.  “My father has been dead these nine months, and I find myself in want of a queen before my coronation.  You will help me fetch her.”

Jean hadn’t visited Princess Rebecca’s portrait in quite some time, and at the age of 21, he had seemingly caught up to her.  Nevertheless, time had ticked by quicker since King Phillip has passed.  All eyes had turned to his friend, Alex.

“I hardly think you’d need me to help you find a wife,” Sir Jean offered.  “Lady Maria, for example, seems up to the task, and you like her, as I recall.”

“I do like her, but,” Alex pulled Jean in close, ducking his head to whisper in his ear, “Lady Maria will not bring prosperity to my kingdom and unite us with the Catalina territory.  I want her.  I want Princess Rebecca.  Are you with me, Sir Jean?”

Who was a knight to refuse his king?

…

The bramble of thorns encasing the Catalina territory was worse than expected.  Poisonous fog stung the eyes and hovered low to the ground, claiming the lives of the wounded fallen.  Dark creatures of legend and myth with tattered black wings swooped from the skies to pierce intruders with their filthy claws. Early on, Sir Roy was blinded by the gas, and Dame Riza nearly bled out after being attacked by a vicious airborne beast.  Sirs Heymans and Kain escorted their fellows back to the relative safety of the Southern Kingdom.

And on the fifth day, madness set in; King Alexander was affected.

Summoning all his mental fortitude, Jean pressed onward with his ruler in tow.  He grabbed the reins of the king’s horse and followed his instincts.  The young knight’s sense of direction was clouded by muck and mire of his mind’s own creation, but something primal stirred, pulling Havoc along a clear path hidden in the quagmire.

At daybreak, he saw the tall turrets of an ancient castle, older and more massive than any building in the Southern Kingdom.  At the foot of the castle, royal guards in dust-covered tunics slumbered, slumped against the frigid stone; their weapons still poised in their hands.  The air was stale, but decay had inexplicably spared the old Kingdom of Catalina.  Every detail of daily life was still and held static, tinged with a purple glow, the calling card of alchemical mayhem.

“Oh mon Dieu! It’s true,” Jean gasped.  He took in greedy breaths of clean, if dank, air.  Alongside him, Alex followed suit, recovering from his mania.

“I should name my firstborn son after you if we live through this,” Alex said, coughing.  “How did you know that way?”

“Just lucky, I guess,” he quipped, ever the picture of ease under pressure.

Sir Jean and King Alexander navigated the winding staircases of Catalina castle.  Climbing ever higher, they sought the tallest turret of the highest tower, a room that kissed the edges of the darkened clouds overhead.  Somewhere along the way, Sir Jean’s feet began to move of their own accord.  Without rhyme or reason, he followed a siren’s call, a haunting tune that resonated in his heart.

At last, they found her chamber.  The walls were draped with dusty tapestries, and long canopy curtains fluttered in the dreary breeze, obscuring her sleeping figure from Jean’s prying eyes.  Alex moved forward, pushing the curtains aside.  He sat cautiously next to the sleeping woman with red lips, raven hair and slender fingers folded over her flowing red robes.  Princess Rebecca looked serene but deathly pale.  Havoc fought the compulsion to go to her as his friend and king laid a tender kiss on his beloved’s lips.

She remained as still and silent as the grave.

“I don’t understand,” Alex exclaimed.  “I am the firstborn son of the 12th king of the Southern Kingdom.  I am the only one who can break the spell.”

“It’s alchemy,” Sir Jean responded.  “Things go wrong in the best transmutations.  Princess Rebecca might be stuck in eternal slumber.”

The king left the princess’s bedside, not bothering to draw the curtain as he turned to leave.  “Some of my best knights were harmed during this foolish endeavor,” he growled, “and for what purpose?”

Jean couldn’t help himself.  He ducked under the gossamer curtain and kneeled next to the bed with a reverent posture.  Havoc brought the beauty’s hands to rest in his own, so cold and small.  He noticed the fabled splinter still lodged under her fingernail and plucked it out, regretting that she should be left so beautiful and unblemished against the current of time.

A breath. A twitch.  The delicate flutter of her eyelashes. 

“My king!  She wakes!”  Havoc exclaimed, standing up and pushing himself back from his intimate pose.  He embellished for good measure as Alex entered the room.  “You have awakened her.  See?”

Chestnut eyes, a heartbreaking shade of gold veiled in melancholy cream, fluttered open and stared into Jean’s face.  Her lips moved uncertainly, drawing Jean back to her bedside.  He smiled, as brilliantly as the sun.

“Don’t try to speak so soon,” Sir Jean cautioned.  He wet her lips tenderly with water from his canteen.

“My king,” she said, looking up at Jean.

“It is I who am your king,” Alex interrupted.  He scooped her up in his arms as Havoc pocketed the splinter along with his broken heart.

…

Prophecies were a funny thing, Jean decided, as he gazed up at the official portrait of the Southern Kingdom 12th king, hung proudly in the royal family’s private suite.  King Philip had always been kind to Havoc, favoring him to a fault, and promoting the child to squire at a young age despite his discipline issues.  What’s more, Havoc recalled that King Phillip had never once corrected foreign dignitaries when they mistook Jean and Alex for brothers.  Perhaps, Jean should have put the pieces together sooner.

Why say “the firstborn son of the 12th king” when one could simply say the 13th king?  Havoc knew the answer (for all the good it did).

Princess Rebecca Talia of Catalina was now Queen Rebecca, bound by the ties of holy matrimony to Jean’s childhood friend and king.  Alex was a good man and a just ruler.  It pained Havoc to harbor lustful thoughts for his friend’s bride.  Yet, however wrong it felt, the feel of Havoc’s mouth against the hollow of Rebecca’s throat eased his ailing conscience time and time again.

In any other life, their stars would have aligned.

“Must you always leave me so soon?” Rebecca cooed.  She drew the covers playfully over her swollen belly as she watched her lover dress, preparing to leave using the secret passageway behind the bureau.  Havoc tried not to stare, but it was hard to remember that, in the light of day, they could be no more than a queen and her knight.

“Damn,” he exhaled, half-tempted to throw it all away right then and there.  He pressed his nose into the soft lavender scent of Rebecca’s hair and caressed her waist possessively, in awe of the new life dwelling within her.  Like all their other stolen moments, Jean tucked the memory of holding her so close away for safe keeping.  Bedding a queen was hardly a luxury that a knight could regularly afford.

…

Princess Chloe was christened on a blustery Autumn morning just as the leaves began to fall from their trees.  Naturally, King Alexander and Queen Rebecca were wary, refusing all gifts from the alchemists in attendance, including the famed Brothers Elric, for fear of history repeating itself.  The ceremony was brief but beautiful, drawing attendees from across the four kingdoms.  Banners in the great hall proudly displayed the Southern Kingdom’s union with the rediscovered Catalina territory, and as far as anyone besides the queen and her favorite knight knew, there was no better symbol of that unity that the princess.

Sir Jean stood sentry beside the Queen, watching over Rebecca as their newborn infant suckled at her mother’s breast.  It wasn’t much, Havoc knew, but it would have to be enough.  For as long as his body drew breath, he would never leave Rebecca, bound by ties of duty and fate. He stood silently by his beloved’s side as she ruled with King Alexander. 

The Southern Kingdom prospered, as the sage Hohenheim had foretold.

Like what you read?  Send me a FANFICTION TROPE MASH UP ask.

[thesumofmychoices]

Korítsi Mou

Disclaimer: [1] I do not speak Greek, anything in here was taken from Google Translate so I apologize if it’s wrong and makes no sense.  [2] I have not written fanfiction for public consumption is a very, very long time (like, over a decade) and this is un-beta’ed, all mistakes are my own. [3] I’m not sure what tags to use in this fandom yet, so if I mistag, please let me know!

Pairing: Drake x MC (my MC for Drake is Rhiannon Starr)

WC: ~2500 Music was echoing through the halls of  her estate (it was hers; had been given to her directly, he was just lucky enough to share it with her) when he got back.  ‘Music’...if you could even call it that, he scoffed with a roll of his eyes.  The house was abuzz with activity while the staff prepared for the banquet tomorrow.  Drake made his way in through the foyer, offering curt smiles to any of her staff he crossed paths with, while loosening his tie as his hastened, deliberate steps brought him to the source of the noise.  

He leaned against the frame of the door, smirking behind his hand, while watching his wife dance across her large kitchen with reckless abandon, singing along to an electropop song he knew to be one of her favorites.  Her long hair was twisted in a great messy knot atop her head, with wisps of red escaping in every direction; wearing the same pajamas pants (his) and tank top (also his) he’d left her in, still asleep in their bed.  Rhiannon was swaying her hips to the beat, still with her back to him, fixing something on the counter.  Her task completed, with a surge of the music and her own singing, finally turned and startled horribly when she found him watching her.  

Her hand over her heart, and a shaky breath on her lips, she met his gaze and smiled.  Drake couldn’t help but think she was glowing, the lighting in the kitchen and the embarrassed flush of her cheeks made her look radiant.  She lowered her music, before practically skipping across the kitchen to be in his arms.

“How long were you watching me?”

“Long enough,” he replied, still smirking while placing a kiss on her crown.

“Happy Anniversary,” she murmured into the crook of his neck, “Part one.”

“Happy Anniversary.  What were you doing?”

“Oh!” she popped her head off his chest and looked up, bouncing on her toes.  “I was packing us a lunch.  I thought we could have a picnic in our spot for the quiet day before all the pageantry starts tomorrow.”

Ever since they eloped on this day three years ago, Rhiannon and Drake always made it a point to keep it to themselves.  In her first year, the people of Valtoria had petitioned their duchess to move the Lantern Festival to coincide with her wedding anniversary (a difference of little more than a week in truth) so they could also celebrate the victory over Anton Severus.  The Lantern Festival kicked off what was quickly becoming a national week of celebrations that culminated in a grand Victory Gala in the capitol palace.  Not exactly the kind of pomp and circumstance either of them wanted associated with what should a day for them.  But, their wedding day also marked a great victory over evil in Cordonian history, and so was swept up in lavish celebrations.  

But not this day.  It was for them alone then, and would be forever.  

“That sounds perfect, Ray,” he replied, kissing her forehead again.  “I'll change and get the horses prepped.”

“Actually,” she interrupted, looking up at him through her long lashes.  “Do you mind if we take the Jeep out there?  I'm not up for horseback today.”

“You okay?”

She nodded, biting her bottom lip.  “I’d rather save my energy for riding y--”

Drake cut her off with a kiss that she laughed into.  “Seirína,” he whispered to her in his native language.  He swatted her ass playfully, causing her to squeal and laugh more.  “Come on, korítsi mou, let’s get changed and head out for your picnic.”

They drove out about twenty minutes from the house onto the property before coming up to their spot next to the lake.  Where once had been wide open space now sat a small cabin that Drake had constructed himself.  It was a cozy getaway, a single room that held a bed, a couch and leather recliner around the fireplace, a small efficiency kitchen, and a separate bathroom.  They never invited their friends, and no one else had ever stayed there.  It was their perfect getaway for when her estate overwhelmed them, just like they'd talked about.  

Rhiannon set the blanket out on the lake shore, busying herself with preparations while Drake lounged casually on the sand next to her.  They munched on sandwiches and enjoyed each other's company in peace.  Her laughter rang out against the mountains themselves as Drake chased her around the field and eventually into the water.  And as the sun hung heavy in the sky, Drake gathered some wood and started a fire in the pit while Rhiannon ran to the Jeep for the last of her supplies.

Drake brought down a bench from the porch to into front of the fire, grabbing a blanket from inside the cabin, because even in the early summer it still could catch a chill around here at night, and a bottle of whiskey with two tumblers.  Rhiannon sat with graham crackers and chocolate at the ready while he toasted two marshmallows to perfection.  They ate the deliciously gooey dessert as the night sky darkened and the sky lit up with the most perfect scene of stars imaginable.  

With their s’mores finished, Rhiannon wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and beckoning Drake into her embrace.  He melted down into her side, resting the back of his head at her collar bone, looking up to only for a moment to steal a quick kiss.  Wrapping the blanket around them both as best she could Rhiannon rested her head on top of his, lost in the moment between.

“How hard would it be for you to add another room to the cabin?” she asked suddenly.

“Huh?”

“The cabin… another room…”

“I don't know.  Why?”

She shrugged the shoulder he wasn't resting on and looked away.  “If we ever brought anyone else here…”

“Why the hell would we do that?”

Rhiannon sighed softly and rested her cheek on the top of Drake's head.  “I just thought because maybe we would want to come here with the baby,” she told him, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Rhiannon felt him tense.  “What?”

“Well, I guess he could sleep with us for awhile but eventually I'm just thinking we're all going to want him to have his own space,” Rhiannon continued as if it were the most obvious thing.

Drake sat up, twisting to face her now.  “You're pregnant?”

Rhiannon bite her bottom lip as she smiled and nodded.  He moved quick, taking her face in his hands and bringing her lips to his.  It started soft before growing into something deeper.  They broke apart and then he was kissing every inch of her face as she smiled.  

“Wait, you said ‘he’... you already know?”

“Just a feeling.”

Drake’s mouth turned as he shook his head and placed his hand on her stomach.  “Aftó eínai to korítsi mou.”

“I thought I was your girl?”

“That was before she came along,” he told her matter of fact.

Rhiannon cocked an eyebrow at him.  “I don’t think your son is going to appreciate you calling him a girl.”

Drake shrugged, shifting them so he was now holding her.  Tucked against his chest, he wrapped her in his arms and squeezed, tight but gentle, a balance only he was able to pull off.  

“Want to bet?”

Rhiannon’s shoulders shook with her laughter.  “Oh my sweet marshmallow, are you sure you want to do that?  You have a terrible track record against me.”

“I’m sure.  Set the terms.”

Drake jumped from the still moving car, while Liam hopped out when it came to a quick stop and jogged to catch up with Bastien hot on their heels.  The latter two had just endured a nearly twelve hour flight fighting the urge to knock Drake out.  They’d been on the floor of the United Nations, discussing the strides Cordonia was taking in it’s clean energy initiative when the call came through to Bastien that Rhiannon had gone into labor almost two weeks early back home.  Drake had been unable to sit still since he found out.  They were fairly certain he’d actually made himself sick with worry in the plane.

It was too much; he was a ball of nervous, tense energy and beyond angry that he’d allowed her to talk him into going to New York for this when she was so close to the end of her pregnancy.  They’d fought about it all week leading up to his departure, Rhiannon insisted that he go, that she would be fine.  She wasn’t alone in Valtoria as his mother had come to stay with them for a time, along with Savannah and Bartie while Drake was away, and of course Hana still lived with them.  In the end, he convinced him and sent him off to her hometown for the UN Summit with a kiss and a shopping list of foods she’d been craving that were “only worth it if they are from New York.”

Mara was waiting for them just inside the hospital doors.

“How is she?” he asked, his voice tight and words clipped.

“She’s well.  They’re together in her room now,” Mara informed them.  

“Let’s go.”

Liam grabbed Drake’s shoulder and halted him.  “You need to calm down before you go up there.”

“I’m fine.”  Liam fixed Drake with a knowing look.  “How can I be calm at a time like this?  She… I missed it,” Drake ground out.  He missed the birth of their first child.  An experience he could never get back… and Rhiannon had to go through it alone.  As mad and upset as he was, he could only imagine how she felt.  She needed him and he wasn’t there.

“I can’t begin to imagine how you feel, but you cannot go in there all out of sorts as you are.  That’s not good for anyone.  So, get calm.”

That really snapped Drake into himself.  “Heh, you sound just like her… when we found Savannah, she said something just like that.”  Drake shook himself out, trying his best to calm down as they all entered the elevators.

Even after the flight, and then another hour by car to get to her, the elevator ride to the maternity ward was by far the longest minutes of his life.  He reached the desk and the nurse on duty smiled, bowing her head slightly and pointed them to a room down the hall just as Hana was walking out.  She caught sight of them and smiled, waving them down.

Drake broke into a run, and without even greeting Hana, flung the door back open and finally saw his wife again.

She was resplendent.  She hasn’t seen him yet and for that Drake was so glad because he was completely taken with the scene before him.  Rhiannon was seated in the bed, wearing what he was certain was one of his shirts; her hair loosely tied back into an intricate braid, she was beaming, her smile so bright as she looked down to the baby she held lovingly in her arms.  He could hear her whispering sweet little nothings in Greek down to the child and he was lost, unable to move or speak.  She must have sensed she was no long alone because Rhiannon looked up and locked eyes with her husband.  If he thought her smile was bright before, the one she graced him with was dazzling.

Rhiannon’s bright blue eyes never left his as he crossed the room and sat as close as he could manage to them without disturbing the baby.  She looked imploringly to him and he gave her a quick nod.  “Your Grace,” she said, with far more serious reverence than she ever used with just him.  “May I present to you, your son,” she told him with a self satisfied smirk, “Lord Jackson James Walker of House Starr, Earl of Asteria and the future Duke of Valtoria.”

“You -- you don’t have to… Jackson I mean, it’s alright if you --”

Rhiannon rolled her eyes as Drake stammered out his flustered thoughts.  She shifted the baby around in her arms and with no warning, handed the boy to his father.  “It feels right,” she explained.  Drake couldn’t help but agree, captivated by his son.  “Besides, a bet is a bet.  Whoever was correct got naming rights.”

“Heh, those were the terms.”  Silence fell over them; Drake enraptured with Jackson, and Rhiannon beaming over both of them  “Thank you,” he said, breaking the still room.  “You’re… I never thought I would get this… when we met… hell, Ray.”

“Hey, look at me,” she asked.  He brought his eyes to meet hers and let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.  “I love you.”

“Love you too, korítsi mou.”

“Pánta.”

“It's a boy, Your Grace!”

Rhiannon huffed out a final labored breath and smiled.  Her second child this year (they maybe should have heeded the doctor's postpartum warnings better… but hello has anyone seen her husband?)  She jerked her head at their son across the room where they were cleaning him off and gloated at Drake.  “Told you so.”

“You did.  So, what is my boy's name?”

“Theodore Bastien.”

Drake smiled, “That's perfect, korítsi mou.”

They added another boy, Silas Maxwell, a little over than a year and a half later.

“Aw, little blossom,” Maxwell said, dramatically wiping away a fake tear from his eye.  “Drake buddy… I'm so honored.”

“Don’t thank me, I would have picked Thomas.”

“And if you’d guessed right, you might have gotten to pick!” Rhiannon gloated in a sing-song.

“This is definitely the last one,” Rhiannon ground out, bearing down for a final push.  The baby was out and Rhiannon closed her eyes and dropped her head back relieved the thirty-hour ordeal was finally over.

But after a beat of silence, Rhiannon’s head snapped up, as she pushed herself up to see the doctors quickly rushing around their fourth child.  She looked to Drake who was also staring at all the people buzzing around their silent newborn.  Rhiannon reached for his hand and together that sat stock still waiting as seconds shifted by like an eternity.

The shrill cries of the newborn broke the silence after a moment and the Walkers both sagged in relief.  Another moment passed and a nurse came cradling a swaddled baby which she presented to Drake.  

“A girl, Your Grace.”

The room was cleaned and cleared out quickly leaving Rhiannon and Drake alone with their baby.  Drake hadn't stopped staring down at the sweet girl in his arms since she was put there.

“I feel bad for the first boy that breaks her heart... face off against three big brothers AND Drake Walker?  No thank you,” Rhiannon joked.

“You lost your title now you know,” he responded, finally looking up at his wife.  

“Wife.  Mama.  Duchess.  Champion of the Realm,” she listed nonchalantly.  “I've got titles to spare, I think I can give her that one, you waited for her long enough.  Besides, you can always go back to calling me ‘Starr’,” she added with a chuckle.  “So?”

“So what?”

“Seriously, Walker?  You've been holding onto this for like five years.  What's my daughter's name?”

“Charlotte Korina… korítsi mou.”

[flxblog]

Catriona: The Diosa!

I was lucky enough to be accommodated by the Miss Universe Organization to have a one on one interview with the Philippines' fourth Miss Universe, Catriona Magnayon Gray, who began her Media Week in New York last January 7, 2018.

I was able to interview her on the second day of her Media Week after appearing in a morning show. She has already appeared in "Good Morning America", Live! With Kelly and Ryan and several  tv shows here in NYC and did interviews with ABS CBN and GMA7 (Jessica Sojo flew to NYC and stayed just less than two days)

. I am publishing  the interview verbatim.

Felix: Good Morning Catriona!Happy Birthday and Congratulations. Thank you for making more than one hundred and four million Filipinos proud!

Catriona: Great to see you again. it is my honor to make everyone happy and proud.

F: It is interesting to note that your victory came at the end of 2018, the 110th year of pageants in the Philippines. ( I explained to her that the first Filipina beauty queen was crowned at the 1908 Manila Carnival) 

C; Oh my, i did not know that.

F: If you were to magically travel back in time and meet Pura Villanueva, the first Filipina beauty queen, what would you like to tell her about the future?

C: I would like to tell her that women are more celebrated in so many ways now and that she has pioneered something amazing. A movement of pride, a time to be proud of our culture and our beautiful people that would allow us to participate in different platforms. Definitely, the status of women has changed so much and that she can be proud to know that she is part of history that steered women to where they are now today; to be empowered, to be celebrated in so many ways.

F: Many women from the Philippines, Indonesia, Vietnam and Thailand ( these four nations made the cut during the 2018 Miss Universe Pageant) are working overseas to provide a better future for their families, What is your message to these courageous women and their children?

C: To these women, thank you for you sacrifice. I can imagine the feeling of having the decision to provide for your family to have a better life by being away from them. There is an immense sense of sacrifice there and that is such a beautiful, to put yourself away from your homeland, away from everything you know, your comfort zone, your family, your loved ones to provide...and I think that should really be celebrated and really acknowledged for what they do. To their children, no one can ever really take a parent's place, but just know that they are doing it because they love you. It is all sacrifice, but it is also a form of love. They do that work to provide for their children, I just hope that these children would know of their parent's sacrifice and that they just don't see their absence.

F: Your fans have been with you since Day 1, what is your message to them?C: My fans are the real reason why I even considered joining again. I really asked myself why do they believe in me the way that they do. I have already done my first pageant and I have done my best, so I thought I could take a rest na. They were persistent. They really believed in me and kept telling me "Please Cat join again, we would love for you to represent the Philippines again"!. Their persistence really made me think to consider joining again. I just started thinking, what if I join Bb Pilipinas? What if I were to win Miss Universe Philippines? What if I could compete in Miss Universe? I am that kind of person who would not like to have regrets in life and that is what really made me consider joining. Last year, January 8, exactly a year ago, it was the day I screened for Bb Pilipinas. The fans are actually the reason why I walked into those doors.Ever since Day 1, the support that rushed in and carried me all the way to Bb, all the way in preparing a Philippine delegate, all the way to Miss Universe and the crowning moment, up until now. Whenever I have moments that I feel overwhelmed or doubtful, they were always my strength and inspiration.

F: Ladies from other nations are amazed with the support the Philippine delegates receive when competing in pageants, What experience did you have in Bangkok?

C: To be supported this way is very unique to a Filipino candidate, that's why I know what a blessing it is to have the best fans in the world. To see that I can bring them so much joy and be my source of strength...This exchange fpr me is just as fulfilling. I thank them for this whole journey. I would not be able to do this without them.

F: What can you say about bullying, bashing and negativity in the pageant world? C: I have always used my platform to speak about positivity in social media when it comes to pageantry because it is one of the main problems I have experienced. Negativity, bashing and bullying online are not good.I just want to cultivate a positive environment in pageantry and socia media. Even if someone does say something negative, it does not give us a reason to retaliate; just take the high road and don't say anything.

F: You have already released a single, would you venture into acting after your reign?

C: Why not? I am always open to every opportunity, I am very open to learning. I am like a spomge, I'd like to soak up in new things, new skills. So if I will be given the opportunity, I would take it!

F: Any exciting news for pageant fans?

C: For the first time in Miss Universe history, select items worn or used  by me and the contestants will be auctioned online! Fans can go to screenbid.com to view the items and learn more. Miss Universe enthusiasts can go to the site to learn how to get their hands-on-props, set decorations and other memorabilia including: the winners card, finalist swimsuit,, national evening gowns, national tiara, national earrings and so much more!

[thotyssey]

On Point With: Jasmine Kennedie

One of the city’s breakthrough drag entertainers of the past year, FIT’s crown-winning queen Jasmine Kennedie is known for igniting venues with her electrifying "shablams” and gorgeously glam looks. She’s now in the cast of the popular revue TURNt at the Ritz, which celebrates its second anniversary this week. Thotyssey learned how Jasmine got here, and where she’s going next!

Thotyssey: Jasmine, hello! So last week you performed at the East Village Standard’s Narcbar for their RuPaul’s Drag Race viewing party hosted by Rify Royalty, Bootsie LeFaris and Lucy Balls. Kim Chi was there too, as a special guest! How did it go?

Jasmine Kennedie: It was an amazing viewing party!  Kim Chi was such a sweetheart, and the audience was amazing. I love Rify, and I’ve worked with Bootsie in the past. Always a fun time. And it was my first time working with Lucy Balls--such a sweetheart, and a really smart entertainer.

That’s a crowded panel of performers! Did you get your chance to slay?

Of course! Or at least I tried. The crowd was amazing, and had amazing energy. And everyone at Narcbar and the Standard were amazing. It’s a great venue, because of the outside and inside space. It gave me room to do the shablams.

You’ve become one of nightlife’s go-to Shablammer over the course of this past year! You bring beauty and showstopping dance to every show that you appear in. How long have you been at this?

I’ve been doing drag for four years now, but the first two years were more “playing in drag.”

Where are you from?

I was born in Binghamton, and lived there and Morgantown, West Virginia for the majority of my life.

What were your early creative interests / pursuits?

I wasn’t into a lot of arts, as a lot of people may think. I was really into sports. I played soccer for eight years, I swam and dove for three. I played lacrosse, did cross country and track as well as cheering--which was my number one passion for three years. But I used to always play in my mom’s makeup and clothes as any drag queen did. And I always use to say when I was a kid, “I’m going to Hollywood, Mom!" So that’s always been in the back of my head since I was a child.

 I’m guessing it was RuPaul who exposed you first to drag?

Yes and no, I like to say. I remember when It was Raja’s season; it was the reunion. I was flipping through the channels, and it was Raja with just a spotlight on her... and I was in such awe at what I thought was a woman. After that, drag left my life until my senior year of high school, where I found videos of pageantry drag like Continental and EOY and Miss Gay USofA, and I fell in love with drag from there. From then on, I started watching Drag Race.

How did you begin experimenting with makeup and looks? 

At first, I had my sister teach me the basics of makeup when I was playing in drag. And than I watched the really old, 45 minute YouTube tutorials where it was all fast forwards, and looked like it was filmed on a laptop. But I found out the basics from there, and than just experimented from there. I feel I paint more on the “old way” of drag: a lot of powder, and seven different colors for contour. Taking off my makeup takes as much effort as getting to the center of a Tootsie Pop!

How did you Drag Name yourself?

So when I first started drag I wanted to be a slutty drag queen, as everyone does when they start. So I was originally Jasmine Rikers, like the jail! But then, when my mom (not drag mom) found out I did drag, she said “if you're going to be a drag queen. you're gonna be a classy one.” ”

Good work, Mom! 

Right! Gotta love Joy. So I got “Jasmine” from Aladdin, and “Kennedy” from JFK. But Instagram already had a user with that name, so I switched the “y” in Kennedy to “ie!

And you're an FIT student now. What are you majoring in?

Right now I’m in advertising and marketing, but in the winter I am switching my major to fashion design. Coming to NYC and seeing how cutthroat NYC drag is, it pushed me to use more of my sewing skills, and it made me realize my true passion. Now I am no expert at making clothes, but I wanna further educate myself so I can make a business out of it--as well as be a drag queen--at the same time.

Sounds like you have it all worked out! Where did you start going out as Jasmine?

I started in upstate NY, and my town only had one gay bar--that was the only bar exposure I had before coming to the city. When I came here, Shequida’s Drag Wars is where I started.

Shequida was probably an important figure in your “dragucation.”

She was a big help when it came to behavior and getting myself out there, and she really gave me the initial push. But my drag mother Mancie Mandell really took me in and helped me shape my character into who Jasmine is. 

As well as Maddelynn Hatter giving me such an amazing opportunity as being part of the the cast at the Ritz. Also, Look Queen! Dusty Ray Bottoms really helped me, and let me perform at her show she used to have at Hardware on Wednesdays, before the Ritz.

All great queens! Mancie is a New Jersey pageant queen, how did you meet up with her?

We actually met at Look Queen. She was there with one of her friends, and we kind of just clicked. And then a month or so went on, and I made a joke saying “you're practically my mom.” The next day she called me and asked if I wanted to be her daughter, and it all started there.

You have a very high-energy, splits-and-flips performing style. We mentioned an athletic background, but where did those particular moves come from? And also, where does that great onstage confidence come from?

My cheer coaches [trained us to be a] very dance-driven team. My head coach, who used to cheer as a Buffalo Jill, really helped me clean up my technique.

I used to wear heels in my living room at my mom’s house, and when I started performing I used to practice routines and all the “shablams” and backflips. I practiced on carpet, and then over time I got more control of my body and more confident in my dancing and performing. 

And my confidence on stage comes from the work I put into drag. Over the last months, I’ve been making all my clothes and doing all my hair. Thinking of new things. And when I can say I made my entire look, I feel ten times better about what I’m giving to the audience, as well as the confidence to not hold back and just be myself.

Congratulations on recently winning FIT's 12th annual drag pageant! What was that whole experience like for you?

It was honestly such an accomplishment for me. Ever since I applied for the school--and I knew about the pageant before applying--I wanted that to be a personal goal I reached. And it was a lot of work! We didn’t know any of the categories, or how the pageant ran, until three weeks before the event. So I had that amount of time to make and conceptualize everything. It was a lot of fun, and I had a blast doing it.

That's incredible! Along with DiDi Disco, Shangela co-hosted that. Were you able to tell her that she was robbed in All-Stars 3?

No, lol! But she was in need of oil sheen, which I did have, and she was an amazing host. Very nice queen. I really like how she treated everyone the same, and was very raw and real with her personality.

You've been a frequent guest performer at TURNt--the high-energy, late night dance party and show at the Ritz on Wednesdays that Maddelynn runs--and you've recently become a regular weekly cast member there. It's an insanely popular night! What's your experience been like thus far, being a part of TURNt?

It’s honestly been amazing. To be so lucky to get to perform with girls like Maddelynn and Sherry Pie--who are so amazing in their craft--and we are all like a lil’ family there. We are really about making the show an epic nightlife party. Even though it is already crazy amazing, we are trying to push it to new limits! And Maddelynn has everyone involved in the show. It’s really a team effort, and it’s my favorite gig to perform at.

Egypt, Black Widow and yourself were all just recently recruited at around the same time.

We all are the “newbies” in that sense! Us three are always just giving each other reads and messing around in the fitting room. They’re really good friends to have.

This week, the show is about to turn 2 years-old, and it looks to be pretty epic. First of all, Jasmine Rice LaBeija is joining the cast! Is there room in the Ritz for two amazing Jasmines?

Haha, of course there is! And that’s the best thing about TURNt: we have such a variety of queens there, and we all get along. We all encourage each other to be ourselves, and we really try to help each other out. And Jasmine is also my drag father Ken Mandell LaBeija’s mom, so I’ve worked with her in the past as well! She’s super funny, and always a blast.

And Aja and Miz Cracker, both former castmembers, are returning as well.

Yes! I love them both. Aja is alway crazy, and I love her--she’s so sweet. And Miz! She was always a blast, and always had a funny thing to add to a convo. And Katelynn her assistant, I love. I would hang out with her a lot when we weren’t performing, and we were in the changing room.

So this anniversary show will basically be Everything.

It is going to be CRAZY! We have really big productions planned, and it’s going to be a show you don’t wanna miss!

What else is coming up for you?

I just shot for a music video, actually! For an artist named John Presnell, which should be coming out in October if I’m correct. And than other than that, I’m just trying to better my drag and getting out there! Always open to new adventures!

Also, I’m at Sinful Saturdays with Bootsie and Merrie Cherry every second Saturday at Pieces, which is always fun! I like that Bootsie and Merrie are both from two different scenes, and they are really great hosts.

Okay, final question: what's the most surprising thing you've learned about drag since you started?

The most surprising this I’ve learned is that if you put in the effort and you really give yourself the time and the tools, you can achieve anything you want with your drag--as long as you’re always open to learn. That’s probably the hardest part of drag: learning about so many different things, and then using what you learned and adapting it to your drag. 

Also, I’ve always tried to be nice to everyone: patrons of the bar, the queens, the bar staff... everyone. Not only to keep a reputation for being nice, but also for myself. I’ll always talk to someone who comes up and has questions. Because at the end of the day, you have to live with yourself. And I want to live with myself being nice to people. Not mean, because you never know what someone else is going through.

Preach! Thanks, Jasmine!

Jasmine Kennedie is part of the cast of TURNt Wednesdays (11pm) at the Ritz. She also performs every second Saturday of the month (11pm) for Sinful Saturdays at Pieces. Check Thotyssey’s calendar for a full list of scheduled appearances, and follow Jasmine on Facebook, Instagram and YouTube.

On Point Archives

[rschristian]

We Want a Revolution: Black Women Artists at the Brooklyn Museum On Artefuse (August 2017)

Lorraine O’Grady smiles and struts down a dimly lit hallway in a long white evening gown, tiara, and silken sash reading “MLLE BOURGEOISE NOIRE” across her torso. The year is 1980, and O’Grady is enacting her first and arguably most famous performance piece, named after the titular character. With her pageantry, pleasant manner, and seemingly elegant dress, Mlle Bourgeoise Noire appears to be a beacon of congeniality and beauty – an effect used to mask her true critique.

Wearing a costume made of 180 pairs of white gloves, procured from various Manhattan thrift shops, and carrying a white cat o’ nine tails made of sailing rope from a seaport store and studded with white chrysanthemums, Mlle Bourgeoise Noire (Miss Black Middle-Class) invaded art openings, both literally and figuratively disrupting the segregation of the art world. With its layers of long white gloves, O’Grady’s dress resembles a kind of medieval armor and perhaps functioned in a similar way. With one component of her costume being used to make the ensemble whole, O’Grady created something like a physical synecdoche.

The construction of Ms. O’Grady’s dress and the relationship between her materials and her message represents one part of the larger narrative of black womanhood, a narrative that is comprised of both shared and individualized experiences.

Lorraine O’Grady (American, born 1934). Mlle Bourgeoise Noire Goes to the New Museum, 1981. Performed at the New Museum, New York. Gelatin silver print, 9 ¼ x 7 in. (23.6 x 17.8 cm). Courtesy of Alexander Gray Associates. © 2017 Lorraine O’Grady / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York

Focusing on the interwoven narratives of more than forty artists and activists, We Wanted a Revolution: Black Radical Women, 1965–85 at the Brooklyn Museum explores the political, social, cultural, and aesthetic priorities of women of color during the emergence of second-wave feminism. The first exhibition of its kind, We Wanted a Revolution brings to light the intersectional experiences of women of color, experiences that often subvert the primarily white, mainstream feminist movement of the 1960s in order to reorient conversations around race, feminism, political action, art production, and history in this crucial period.

Carrie Mae Weems (American, born 1953). Mirror Mirror, 1987-88. Silver print, 24 ¾ x 20 ¾ in. (62.9 x 52.7 cm). Courtesy of the artist and Jack Shainman Gallery, New York. © Carrie Mae Weems

We Wanted a Revolution opened in April and runs for another month as part of A Year of Yes: Reimagining Feminism at the Brooklyn Museum, a yearlong series of exhibitions – beginning last October with Beverly Buchanan—Ruins and Rituals – celebrating the 10th anniversary of the Elizabeth A. Sackler Center for Feminist Art. The artists represented in the exhibition include Emma Amos, Elizabeth Catlett, Blondell Cummings, Dindga McCannon, Senga Nengudi, Lorraine O’Grady, Faith Ringgold, Lorna Simpson, and Carrie Mae Weems.

The exhibition is noticeable and exceptionally diverse, including conceptual work, performance, video, photography, painting, sculpture, and print. Portraits of elegantly dressed black families and historical figures, crowd shots of civil rights protests, boldly colored textiles and mixed media canvases, and striking abstractions come together in a sort of archival presentation. Faith Ringgold’s For the Women’s House (1971) and Maren Hassinger’s large sculpture Leaning (1980) are adjacent to one another in direct visual opposition. Ringgold’s brightly colored mural, dedicated to the women incarcerated in the Correctional Institution for Women on Rikers Island, imagines the first female president and professional women basketball players among other positive female role models suggested Ringgold by incarcerated women. Hassinger’s sculpture, on the other hand, is a cold, yet beautifully precise installation of bush-like forms made from twisted, welded, and bent wire rope. These resolute fixtures evoke an artificial landscape, but oddly enough also possess a human-like quality that allows the viewer to reflect back on themselves, and even on the Rinngold’s neighboring painting. This dynamic does not end here but persists throughout the rest of the exhibit.

Faith Ringgold (American, born 1930). For the Women’s House, 1971. Oil on canvas, 96 x 96 in. (243.8 x 243.8 cm). Courtesy of Rose M. Singer Center, Rikers Island Correctional Center. © 2017 Faith Ringgold / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York 

We Wanted a Revolution: Black Radical Women, 1965-85 Installation Views (C) Jonathan Dorado Maren Hassinger (American, born 1947). Leaning, 1980. Wire and wire rope, 16 in. x variable width and depth (40.7 cm x variable width and depth). Courtesy of the artist. © Maren Hassinger.

Walking through the exhibit, anyone who has heard about the controversy surrounding Dana Schutz’s portrait of Emmett Till in the 2017 Whitney Biennial should be keenly aware of the significance of a show where the narrative of blackness is articulated by black artists. The artists presented here create figures with dignity, even when cast as radical or victimized because of the color of their skin. Dindga McCannon’s striking mixed media painting Revolutionary Sister (1971) is one such example, featuring a figure who resembles a cross between an African warrior and a comic-book superhero. McCannon wrote about her inspiration for making Revolutionary Sister: “In the 60’s and 70’s we didn’t have many women warriors (that we were aware of) so I created my own.” Inspired by the Statue of Liberty, the figure bears a headpiece made from recycled mini flagpoles, and a belt made from bullets, validating her warrior status and inspired by Blaxploitation films of the time, which featured prominent elements of black pop culture for black audiences.

Dindga McCannon (American, born 1947). Revolutionary Sister, 1971. Mixed media construction on wood, 62 x 27 in. (157.5 x 68.6 cm). Brooklyn Museum (Photo: Jonathan Dorado, Brooklyn Museum).

Another artist in the exhibit, Elizabeth Catlett (1915 – 2012), began her career in the 1930s, but her work was not regularly exhibited until the 1960s when the Civil Rights Movement drew new attention to her prints of revolutionary figures like Harriet Tubman, Rosa Parks, and Malcolm X. Like many of her contemporaries, Catlett employed print for its ability to be widely disseminated, and for its historic association with protest and freedom of expression.

Her sculpture Target (1970) features the bronze bust of a man on a wooden block framed by a rifle sight. The stoic expression of the sculpture – made in response to the killing of prominent Black Panther figures Fred Hampton and Mark Clark by the Chicago police in the winter of 1969 – signifies a kind of passive resistance. The work is emotionally charged by the sociopolitical climate in which it was made, as well as the one we find ourselves in today with the deaths of Michael Brown, Eric Garner, and Freddie Gray among many others at the hands of the police. By using a riflescope as a framing device, Catlett forces the viewer to stand witness to this act of injustice. Another sculpture by Catlett, Homage to My Young Black Sisters (1968), while less daunting in its tone, conveys the same sympathy the artist shows towards all her figures, once stating, “I have always wanted my art to service my people—to reflect us, to relate to us, to stimulate us, to make us aware of our potential.”

Others, like renowned dancer Blondell Cummings (1944 – 2015), question the boundaries of race and gender through performance. In Cummings’ performance piece Chicken Soup, the dancer oscillates between re-enactments of kitchen work and convulsively choreographed movements, (1961) painting a portrait of a woman as a drudging housewife in an ironic pas de deux with a cast-iron skillet. Cummings’ movement is graceful yet violent, like an automaton designed to follow a predetermined sequence of operations. As she moves about the stage occupying the space surrounding her, she remains beholden to her task. If O’Grady’s performance of Mlle Bourgeoise Noire is an implicit act of defiance, Cummings’ is explicit, but both women effectively evoke the rage and resentment of being told to “stay in their place.”

Lona Foote (American, 1948-1993). Blondell Cummings performing “Blind Dates” at Just Above Midtown Gallery, November 1982, 1982. Photograph, 10 x 8 in. (25.4 x 20.3 cm). Special Collections and University Archives, Rutgers University Libraries. © Estate of Lona Foote, courtesy of Howard Mandel

For many women of color, the word “feminism” has long carried the pangs of inequity and psychological segregation. We Wanted a Revolution not only manages to reclaim some of the meaning of this word for black women; it also manages to do so in our current sociopolitical climate when such narratives are being actively pushed aside. In his review of the exhibit for the New York Times, art critic Holland Cotter noted “The only change I would make, apart from adding more artists, would be to tweak its title: I’d edit it down to its opening phrase and put that in the present tense.” I am inclined to agree with Mr. Cotter – we do want a revolution.

We Wanted a Revolution: Black Radical Women, 1965–85 will be on view until September 17, 2017, at the Brooklyn Museum.

Title image: Jan van Raay (American, born 1942). Faith Ringgold (right) and Michele Wallace (middle) at Art Workers Coalition Protest, Whitney Museum, 1971. Digital C-print. Courtesy of Jan van Raay, Portland, OR, 305-37. © Jan van Raay

[itsfinancethings]

New story in Politics from Time: Balloon Drops? Out. Roaring Crowds? Gone. But, Says NBC’s Lester Holt, There’s Still A Convention to Cover

This article is part of the The DC Brief, TIME’s politics newsletter. Sign up here to get stories like this sent to your inbox every weekday.

We’re only a few hours away from the first virtual political convention from gaveling into session and it’s already clear things are going to be very, very different.

For one, the journalists who normally crowd the convention hall for the big moments are going to be dialed in from their kitchen counters and living room couches like other Americans still stuck at home in the middle of the pandemic. There won’t be rogue delegates to interview or random chants from the floor to cause embarrassing, off-brand moments. There may still be surprises, but they’re likely to be the kind that have been scripted and executed by the conventions’ producers.

For veterans of past conventions, the all-remote set-up is just the latest hiccup in this year’s election season as the world grapples with coronavirus. Both parties have almost entirely switched to streaming schedules and cut way back on the hours of floor programming. The Democrats’ convention starts tonight, followed by Republicans’ show this time next week. News organizations will still treat the evenings as the political ground zero that they are, but there’s just a lot less sizzle in the offing as the very campaign trail has turned into a very long Facetime. There may be some upside to cutting back on the hours and hours of speeches: a quicker and less inefficient night of political preening.

Ahead of the conventions’ start, I caught up with NBC News’ Lester Holt, the first Black man to be a U.S. network newscast’s solo anchor. He will be leading the network’s coverage of the conventions during 10 p.m. hour. With ratings up for flagship news broadcasts across the networks, we talked about how he’s been framing the colliding stories of a pandemic, racial justice, and a presidential campaign that politicizes everything, including masks. For the next two weeks, Holt will be reporting from NBC’s Midtown Manhattan studios — a spot he’s only seen a handful of times since March. Our conversation has been edited for concision and clarity.

You’re about to anchor a global event while not there. What is that like?

Well, it’s particularly strange for me, because one of the hallmarks at Nightly News is that I like to take viewers to the story. I want to talk to people. I want to bring a personal connection to the story. And, of course, we have lost that ability on a lot of the things we cover. Part of conventions are the conversations in the hallway, it’s the people you run into. You pick up little nuggets along the way. This is going to be very different watching in a studio people who may be giving speeches from their living rooms or their kitchens.

This is kind of terrible on a personal level, isn’t it?

Oh, sure. It is. It’s just one thing that we took for granted that’s been taken from us. From a personal level, I had a lot of expectations this summer. I was going to be covering the Olympics. I was going to be covering these two conventions, traveling to wherever the debates are. None of those things are happening, but the process of electing a President goes on. Like so many Americans and so many businesses, we’re figuring it out as we go along.

This year has been a rough one for our business. You mentioned the Olympics, which is an NBC institution. That’s off the table for the moment. We’ve got no conventions, no campaign road warriors. How do we as an industry make it through this while also continuing to do exceptional journalism?

The candidates simply aren’t traveling. I mean, the President has been traveling some and within the White House bubble. We’ve had some access in Delaware to Joe Biden, but you’re right. We’re not able to cover things the way we used to. Thank God for Zoom and some of the other technologies we’ve been able to employ. But I’m not going to lie: It’s hard to replace that one-on-one contact, that ability to cultivate sources and just listen to people and voters and decision-makers about what’s happening.

Your audience is used to a visual medium. We’re going from balloon drops and pandemonium to what is basically a Zoom happy hour. How do you get your audience ready for that?

The speeches will be the speeches. But at least with the Democrats, you’re not going to hear a crowd roaring its approval or reacting in any way. I guess in this aspect, we’re going to be really focused on the words themselves, because the performance art that is part of conventions, that part is going to be missing. The imagery is so different. You mentioned a hall with balloons dropping. We’re going to see somebody’s toaster in the background.

Might we actually be getting to a point where we’re looking at the ideas instead of pageantry?

I think so. Look at the four years ago. “Lock her up” became a mantra for some of candidate Trump’s supporters of that time. Those moments, we probably won’t see. And so we’re going to be forced to focus on the messages, the timing, the words as opposed to how the crowd reacts or those surprise moments in the crowd or the demonstrations. I would argue that we’re not going to have as many distractions that we might otherwise have.

If this whole thing is scripted from the start, why bother with it?

They bother because they know that they’re going to get the television coverage. You and I are old enough to remember the days when it was wall-to-wall convention coverage on the networks. That’s not happening anymore. But it’s still valuable real estate on network television. So I can’t imagine either candidate even considering for a moment not doing a televised convention. It’s still part of the process.

Where will you be physically sitting during this?

I’ll be in Studio 1A, The Today Show studio, with Savannah Guthrie. Of course, we’ll be physically distanced. Andrea Mitchell and Chuck Todd will be in a studio in Washington, D.C., so four of us will navigate through the evenings.

On the personal side, being able to go to the studio, and sit next to Savannah is a huge upgrade. I’ve been sitting in a spare bedroom for the last several months doing Nightly News by myself every night. It’s been a lonely existence. I’m not complaining. Obviously, there are a lot of people going through tough times. But the ability to come back to 30 Rock and sit in the studio is something that I’m personally excited about.

Have you embraced what the rest of us have during this: a suit, tie and athleisure below the desk?

I’ll be honest. I’m usually wearing jeans, but I gladly put on that jacket and shirt and tie. Now, having said that, I have gone out to do interviews for Nightly News pieces and Dateline. So I’m not inside all the time. But in terms of anchoring, it’s primarily been from a home.

We’re in the middle of three major stories converging at once, and the story on race has been one where you’ve been pretty frank. Do you have a platform that perhaps Norah O’Donnell and David Muir don’t?

People look at me. They expect me to have an opinion or to be affected by these things. That doesn’t necessarily show a bias but it’s a recognition of who I am as a person. People come to this broadcast presumably because they trust me and they respect me. If I didn’t say anything, I think it would be disappointing. Now, I choose my words carefully. But I don’t think it’s a bias to want this country to live up to its ideals, that it’s a bias for this country to be fair, that it’s a bias for people to want their police to function in service of people.

This might be the biggest story of our career. The whole mantra is journalism is a first draft of history. You have a say in what goes in the history book. What makes the cut?

I wrote the intro to the broadcast last night. We’d just come off another weekend of huge crowds of people, openly defying local and the state regulations. This didn’t air, but it was something to the effect that when the history is written of why this country failed in dealing with this pandemic, volumes will be spent on our inability to do the simple things like wearing a mask and socially distancing. That’s a paraphrase, but it’s pretty close. I think it’s appropriate sometimes to call it like it is.

This is an important time for journalism. This is an important story. And when it landed at our doorstep, I thought, ‘Alright, you know, we’ve taken three and a half years of a beating, of people trying to discredit us, but this is a story that everyone has to pay attention to, that people will recognize the importance of a free press.’ That happened, but then the politics creeped back into it. I guess I was a little naïve. I didn’t expect that.

I thought that this could be seen for what it was: a health threat that we all shared. Instead, suddenly it became seen through the lens of blue and red again. That was crushingly disappointing. It worries me about our future that even something like this has been marred by politics.

Can we purge the politics from it, or is it too late?

I think it’s too late. Most people get what it takes to fight this disease. They understand masks and social distancing. This has become almost the new global warming. The planet is getting warmer. That’s not a political statement, but it is for some people. COVID is spreading because too many people are crowding together. It’s not a political statement, but some people will see it as such.

How dare you embrace science and fact?

The thing is as journalists, we obviously have to report the body of science on this, which is huge in the direction of social distancing and get that mask wearing. We don’t want to be caught up in a political debate. I don’t want people to think I’m being political when I say we should all be wearing masks. Unfortunately, that’s what the environment has kind of led us down the road to.

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[cutsliceddiced]

New top story from Time: Balloon Drops? Out. Roaring Crowds? Gone. But, Says NBC’s Lester Holt, There’s Still A Convention to Cover

This article is part of the The DC Brief, TIME’s politics newsletter. Sign up here to get stories like this sent to your inbox every weekday.

We’re only a few hours away from the first virtual political convention from gaveling into session and it’s already clear things are going to be very, very different.

For one, the journalists who normally crowd the convention hall for the big moments are going to be dialed in from their kitchen counters and living room couches like other Americans still stuck at home in the middle of the pandemic. There won’t be rogue delegates to interview or random chants from the floor to cause embarrassing, off-brand moments. There may still be surprises, but they’re likely to be the kind that have been scripted and executed by the conventions’ producers.

For veterans of past conventions, the all-remote set-up is just the latest hiccup in this year’s election season as the world grapples with coronavirus. Both parties have almost entirely switched to streaming schedules and cut way back on the hours of floor programming. The Democrats’ convention starts tonight, followed by Republicans’ show this time next week. News organizations will still treat the evenings as the political ground zero that they are, but there’s just a lot less sizzle in the offing as the very campaign trail has turned into a very long Facetime. There may be some upside to cutting back on the hours and hours of speeches: a quicker and less inefficient night of political preening.

Ahead of the conventions’ start, I caught up with NBC News’ Lester Holt, the first Black man to be a U.S. network newscast’s solo anchor. He will be leading the network’s coverage of the conventions during 10 p.m. hour. With ratings up for flagship news broadcasts across the networks, we talked about how he’s been framing the colliding stories of a pandemic, racial justice, and a presidential campaign that politicizes everything, including masks. For the next two weeks, Holt will be reporting from NBC’s Midtown Manhattan studios — a spot he’s only seen a handful of times since March. Our conversation has been edited for concision and clarity.

You’re about to anchor a global event while not there. What is that like?

Well, it’s particularly strange for me, because one of the hallmarks at Nightly News is that I like to take viewers to the story. I want to talk to people. I want to bring a personal connection to the story. And, of course, we have lost that ability on a lot of the things we cover. Part of conventions are the conversations in the hallway, it’s the people you run into. You pick up little nuggets along the way. This is going to be very different watching in a studio people who may be giving speeches from their living rooms or their kitchens.

This is kind of terrible on a personal level, isn’t it?

Oh, sure. It is. It’s just one thing that we took for granted that’s been taken from us. From a personal level, I had a lot of expectations this summer. I was going to be covering the Olympics. I was going to be covering these two conventions, traveling to wherever the debates are. None of those things are happening, but the process of electing a President goes on. Like so many Americans and so many businesses, we’re figuring it out as we go along.

This year has been a rough one for our business. You mentioned the Olympics, which is an NBC institution. That’s off the table for the moment. We’ve got no conventions, no campaign road warriors. How do we as an industry make it through this while also continuing to do exceptional journalism?

The candidates simply aren’t traveling. I mean, the President has been traveling some and within the White House bubble. We’ve had some access in Delaware to Joe Biden, but you’re right. We’re not able to cover things the way we used to. Thank God for Zoom and some of the other technologies we’ve been able to employ. But I’m not going to lie: It’s hard to replace that one-on-one contact, that ability to cultivate sources and just listen to people and voters and decision-makers about what’s happening.

Your audience is used to a visual medium. We’re going from balloon drops and pandemonium to what is basically a Zoom happy hour. How do you get your audience ready for that?

The speeches will be the speeches. But at least with the Democrats, you’re not going to hear a crowd roaring its approval or reacting in any way. I guess in this aspect, we’re going to be really focused on the words themselves, because the performance art that is part of conventions, that part is going to be missing. The imagery is so different. You mentioned a hall with balloons dropping. We’re going to see somebody’s toaster in the background.

Might we actually be getting to a point where we’re looking at the ideas instead of pageantry?

I think so. Look at the four years ago. “Lock her up” became a mantra for some of candidate Trump’s supporters of that time. Those moments, we probably won’t see. And so we’re going to be forced to focus on the messages, the timing, the words as opposed to how the crowd reacts or those surprise moments in the crowd or the demonstrations. I would argue that we’re not going to have as many distractions that we might otherwise have.

If this whole thing is scripted from the start, why bother with it?

They bother because they know that they’re going to get the television coverage. You and I are old enough to remember the days when it was wall-to-wall convention coverage on the networks. That’s not happening anymore. But it’s still valuable real estate on network television. So I can’t imagine either candidate even considering for a moment not doing a televised convention. It’s still part of the process.

Where will you be physically sitting during this?

I’ll be in Studio 1A, The Today Show studio, with Savannah Guthrie. Of course, we’ll be physically distanced. Andrea Mitchell and Chuck Todd will be in a studio in Washington, D.C., so four of us will navigate through the evenings.

On the personal side, being able to go to the studio, and sit next to Savannah is a huge upgrade. I’ve been sitting in a spare bedroom for the last several months doing Nightly News by myself every night. It’s been a lonely existence. I’m not complaining. Obviously, there are a lot of people going through tough times. But the ability to come back to 30 Rock and sit in the studio is something that I’m personally excited about.

Have you embraced what the rest of us have during this: a suit, tie and athleisure below the desk?

I’ll be honest. I’m usually wearing jeans, but I gladly put on that jacket and shirt and tie. Now, having said that, I have gone out to do interviews for Nightly News pieces and Dateline. So I’m not inside all the time. But in terms of anchoring, it’s primarily been from a home.

We’re in the middle of three major stories converging at once, and the story on race has been one where you’ve been pretty frank. Do you have a platform that perhaps Norah O’Donnell and David Muir don’t?

People look at me. They expect me to have an opinion or to be affected by these things. That doesn’t necessarily show a bias but it’s a recognition of who I am as a person. People come to this broadcast presumably because they trust me and they respect me. If I didn’t say anything, I think it would be disappointing. Now, I choose my words carefully. But I don’t think it’s a bias to want this country to live up to its ideals, that it’s a bias for this country to be fair, that it’s a bias for people to want their police to function in service of people.

This might be the biggest story of our career. The whole mantra is journalism is a first draft of history. You have a say in what goes in the history book. What makes the cut?

I wrote the intro to the broadcast last night. We’d just come off another weekend of huge crowds of people, openly defying local and the state regulations. This didn’t air, but it was something to the effect that when the history is written of why this country failed in dealing with this pandemic, volumes will be spent on our inability to do the simple things like wearing a mask and socially distancing. That’s a paraphrase, but it’s pretty close. I think it’s appropriate sometimes to call it like it is.

This is an important time for journalism. This is an important story. And when it landed at our doorstep, I thought, ‘Alright, you know, we’ve taken three and a half years of a beating, of people trying to discredit us, but this is a story that everyone has to pay attention to, that people will recognize the importance of a free press.’ That happened, but then the politics creeped back into it. I guess I was a little naïve. I didn’t expect that.

I thought that this could be seen for what it was: a health threat that we all shared. Instead, suddenly it became seen through the lens of blue and red again. That was crushingly disappointing. It worries me about our future that even something like this has been marred by politics.

Can we purge the politics from it, or is it too late?

I think it’s too late. Most people get what it takes to fight this disease. They understand masks and social distancing. This has become almost the new global warming. The planet is getting warmer. That’s not a political statement, but it is for some people. COVID is spreading because too many people are crowding together. It’s not a political statement, but some people will see it as such.

How dare you embrace science and fact?

The thing is as journalists, we obviously have to report the body of science on this, which is huge in the direction of social distancing and get that mask wearing. We don’t want to be caught up in a political debate. I don’t want people to think I’m being political when I say we should all be wearing masks. Unfortunately, that’s what the environment has kind of led us down the road to.

Make sense of what matters in Washington. Sign up for the daily D.C. Brief newsletter.

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[newssplashy]

How I won Miss Nigeria Pageant – Rosemary Okeke

Rosemary Nkem Okeke is former Miss Nigeria between 1984/85. She is the first beauty queen Nigeria ever had. After her reign, she ventured into fashion and tourism, which she had passion for. That led her into active politics, as she was appointed Special Adviser /Imo State Liaison Officer, Abuja. Thereafter, she was sent to Lagos as Imo State Liaison Officer where is presently serving. In this interview, she spoke on her life,  beauty pageant experience, fashion and how she joined politics. 

How was your growing up like?

My dad was one of the senior officers working in the palm plantation research as head of the agronomy division of Nigerian Institute for Oil Palm Research. NIFOR is one conservative place out of town. But they had everything that they needed, and that was the kind of place that I grew up and I guess that is part of what forms my person then and now. I would say I grew up in a very loving family, though parents were quite strict. As children, we were not allowed to do just anything we wanted. We were not allowed to go to parties and stuffs like that. My father, being a core agriculturist, ensured that once he got back from the farm, we would go with him to the farm. He had a large farm and we helped out with the ones we could do.

That means you did little of farm work even as a child born in urban area?

Yes, I did farming, especially during harvesting. And after harvest, we would help in the piling of the corns. In fact, my siblings and I were always there to do our own bit. That basically, was what formed my childhood.

Are your parents still living in Benin City?

Unfortunately, I lost my father as I was rounding up as Miss Nigeria in 1985 and my mother died in 2015.

How did you join the Miss Nigeria beauty pageant?

I went in for the Miss Nigeria pageant when I was rounding up my youth service in 1983. I did not plan to go for any beauty contest because I am a very shy person. There was a gentleman, Mr Ben Olaiya, who was running a modeling agency that encouraged me. He called me one day and said look, I think you should do this. Actually, it was not for Miss Nigeria; but for Miss Africa, a different pageant.  Then, there was an advertisement for Miss Africa and Ben said, ‘ Rosemary why do not you go for it?’ Meanwhile, I was not thinking in that light. But, jokingly, I said okay, why not? I was not doing anything then; but waiting to finish my youth service and continue my education, so I had the time. That was how we started practicing for Miss Africa. But along the line, something happened. We were not hearing anything about it. I do not know what happened to the organizers. In the papers, they were not saying anything anymore. Then we started seeing the advert for Miss Nigeria. Ben then said ‘since they are not ready, why don’t we go for Miss Nigeria?’ and I agreed. I thought it was a joke and I was just having fun. That was how I saw it. He would teach me the catwalk and so on. That was how we registered for Miss Nigeria. Along the line, we got a feedback that I had been nominated for the zonal contest slated to take place in Warri, while I had already returned to Benin. It was at that point I became worried? But,  Ben said ‘you are already one of the contestants for this zone; you just have to go.’ So, I said okay, let us do this and see what it would lead to. Then, we went for the zonal contest in Warri and I won. I was shocked. I said is that all? Honestly, I did not understand it. I was just having fun.

What happened after?

When I won the zonal contest, it dawned on me that this was getting serious. I was not going to go for anything national and fail. It was there in the papers and calls from friends and family members. People were getting in touch with my family. It was like ‘oh, you won! This is fantastic! You must go on and win Miss Nigeria.’ Thereafter, I asked Ben, ‘What did you put me into?’ I said to myself this is not about me anymore, I need to win. I need to make an impression. I need to be successful. To be honest, I did not like getting myself in anything that I would not do well. I decided to go all out. I asked, ‘What does it take?’ We were told your outfits and so on. That was the year they introduced the national outfits, promoting Nigerian made fabrics. We were told that we must come for our evening wears in African fabrics. So, it meant going to buy…well, the most popular then was adire. Then the issue of the talent show came up. I said wow, If it is singing, count me out. Dance? I could manage that; but everybody knows how to dance. That was my assumption. So what was it that I needed to do to stand out? I guessed that at that time, it wasn’t very popular for people who were not in the music industry to come out and play musical instruments. That was how we said okay, we had time, let us go into it. I started with the guitar, but along the line, I started having problem with my fingers. It didn’t work out. So, the time was getting short. We immediately decided to go for the piano, and as soon as I started playing that, I was enjoying it. That was how I learnt to play that. But we needed a unique tune. We couldn’t think of anything that would cut across than our national anthem. That was what I eventually presented at that time. As God would have it, everything played out well.

How did your family react to your involvement in the contest?

Honestly, my parents were very happy to have a child that went for something like that and was successful. I had their support. Before I went for the zonal contest, I did not particularly tell my father, but I told my mother. My elder brother who sponsored me at that time, also supported me. After I won the zonal contest, the whole family was behind me to make sure that I succeeded. So, they were quite happy. My siblings too were happy.

What inspired you to go into the Miss Nigeria pageant?

I went into the beauty pageant just like any other girl who wanted to showcase beauty and brain, which was what they were looking for. And, of course we did that. Though, everybody is beautiful, if you think less of yourself, that is how people will look at you. So, beauty and brain was part of that. I went to showcase my God’s given beauty, as well as be a role model that is successful to the younger generation. And, we want to be part of the agenda, the vision and the mission the organizers had in mind . That is what inspired me to be there. I also got involved to be able to get a platform to reach out to showcase what I felt that I had.

How did your reign affect your life then?

Well, of course, it made my life better because to win a national honour is a thing of joy. It only means that you have a platform  to showcase yourself and all that you are hoping to be. I always loved to get into the fashion industry and I thought that would be a very good platform to showcase that. As a young girl being celebrated all over, it was a fantastic experience. I was wining and dining with top functionaries in and out of government. We were traveling. So, for a young girl, it was a good experience. I started with going for Miss Nigeria to have fun and ended up winning it. I found that winning it was also fun. And I had a lot of fun promoting the products of the company that sponsored the pageant. The pageant actually opened doors for me. Also, meeting people helped me to understand that it was just a beginning and, it was an opportunity to establish myself to move forward in life.

What were the challenges you faced as a beauty queen?

I would not call anything I faced then as a challenge because I was quite a young girl of 21 years old. That I had a lot of admirers should not be a challenge to me because it is peculiar to beauty queens. As a queen, a lot of people may want to come around to be your friends. That definitely was not a challenge. As a young girl that was single , I did not have much problems. Being someone who was born and bred in a Christian family, I embraced God early in life.

After your reign as Miss Nigeria, what followed?

After  my reign as Miss Nigeria, I went into the  private sector running my fashion business in particular. Obviously, I had been planning on how to bring out the beauty of people through the fashion industry. So, as soon as  I dropped the beauty crown in 1985, I went into the fashion industry, which I had always had passion in.

Could you compare beauty pageantry then with what obtains these days?

I would not say that what was applicable those days and these days are the same. Presently, there is more awareness, a lot of companies and government are getting interested in what is going on in the industry. Now, they have better packages. And, the more the people are playing the game now, the more the exposure, the resources and all kinds of things that come into it. There are much more glitz, glamour and the contestants have a lot of international exposures as well. So, I think the industry is getting better now.

What does fashion mean to you?

Oh, for me, fashion means everything. It means looking good, being clean, it enhances what God naturally gives to you. And through fashion, you can actually project yourself in a very beautiful and positive light. So, fashion means a lot to me. I love beautiful things. Moreover, I am very creative. Creativity is party of my life and that is part of what spurred me to go into Miss Nigeria. I like being able to initiate new things, watch it grow, and germinate, think of something, put it together and see it become a reality and all of that. In fact, I love fashionable things.

What is your best attire and colour?

As a designer and someone who has passion for fashion, I do not have a particular color to be honest. I see the beauty in every color. Some people ascribe black to bad things, like mourning. But I see a lot of beauty in black textiles. It is a color that enhances. I just love colours. I am  a person of colours and can work with any colour that comes my way and tries to use to bring out the best in what ever I am working with.

From your experience, can you tell us what it takes to maintain beauty? 

To maintain beauty is just a state of mind. One has to make up her mind that you want to look beautiful. Beauty is not all about the value of what you put on. Naturally, everyone is beautiful. It depends on the eyes that are looking. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. What I consider beautiful or not beautiful maybe considered otherwise by another person. So, beauty can be interpreted in different ways.

How did you get involved in politics?

Being interested on the nation’s economy, I thought of going into projects that have to do with tourism. So, I decided working on some tourism projects. That is how I found myself in Imo State where I was seeking  to partner with the state government in the project that I had at that time in 2013. And, while we were on that, the commissioner, having seen my experience in that field, then called me to come and to be part of the ‘Ada and Opara Imo’ project, which was a programme to promote culture and tourism in the state and of course, empower the youths, bring the knowledge of cultural ways of life and impact it on the younger ones. So, I went there and was with them for over a month working on the project. Within that period, we had reasons to meet with Governor Rochas Okorocha a couple of times and that was when the job of SA/Liaison Officer was offered to me to work for Imo State and I gladly took it because Imo State was doing something fantastic with a new governor who was working in all the sectors. He was turning Imo State into what he wanted it to be.

The post How I won Miss Nigeria Pageant – Rosemary Okeke appeared first on The Sun News.

source https://www.newssplashy.com/2018/05/how-i-won-miss-nigeria-pageant-rosemary.html

[emperorsfoot]

In this chapter, Entrapta and Hordak board the Monstron in preparation for their journey back to Etheria. (With a few stopped added to the itinerary so Hordak can maintain control of his Bother’s Empire.)

And then, Skeletor finally makes an appearance. 

Hope you enjoy! 

...

The Imperial docking bays were a whirlwind of activity. It seemed like too much was going on, and, at the same time, nothing was happening at all.

Imperial guards, both clone trooper and enlisted blocked off more than half of the ship docks. Anything within half a kilometer of the Princess Entrapta’s shuttle was shut down. Merchants and pilots could not get to their own ships. Ships awaiting clearance could not land. To those on the outside, it seemed like the world was put on pause. On hold, and frozen while their leaders dithered around doing nothing.

Inside the perimeter of guards, it was organized chaos as servants loaded, not only Princess Entrapta’s shuttle, but an Imperial freighter as well. Baggage belonging to the Princess, the Ladies of her party, Imperial Prince Hec-Tor, and his son went into the shuttle. As well as tanks of fresh water, food stuffs, and sanitary supplies. Into the freighter went the Empires first down payment of supplies and materials for Entrapta’s research.

Administrative assistants stood on either side of the loading gangways checking off crates as they were hauled on. Making sure this went on this ship, no that goes on that ship. Where is the Prince’s arm cannon? Has anyone seen the Princess’ back-up tool kit?

While all that was going on at the space docks, back at the Imperial palace, Prince Hec-Tor was meeting with his lieutenants.

The plan was for the Prince and his son to ride with the Princess in her shuttle up to Monstron, Prince Hec-Tor’s flagship, the twin of the Velvet Glove. Entrapta’s shuttle would then dock with Monstron and they would take the Prince’s ship the rest of the way to Etheria.

Except, Hec-Tor was adding a few stops to the agenda.

“We will stop in the Krytis system to address the uprising in the mines.” He said, walking circles around Mantenna and Grizzlor as they took notes on their own personal datapads. Visuals of the flight plan, its detours, troop accompaniments, and so on were displayed on a screen behind him. “If necessary, we will leave a contingent of our own clone troopers there to maintain order. Then we will go to Denebria and take back the base on the Nordor moon.”

Grizzlor’s stylus danced wildly over his datapad, taking notes and making lists. Working out the logistics of not one, but two military strikes during their journey to Etheria.

Mantenna raised a hand. “Your Highness, are you sure this is how you want to spend you honeymoon?”

Hec-Tor frowned at him.

“I just-“ The Rebrunk Nuru faltered under that critical gaze. “You only just got married. Don’t you, I donno… spend time getting to know your new spouse instead of going off to battle.”

“Keeping this Empire together and stable is far more important that my learning what flavor of carbonated beverage Entrapta favors.” The Prince reminded his lieutenants.

Grizzlor held his stylus to his lips, feigning deliberating over the military logistics. His large paw hiding the smile of a silent laugh behind his hand. Prince Hec-Tor might not know his wife’s favorite flavor, but he did at least know that she only drank fizzy drinks, and that was information no one told him. He just noticed it on his own.

…

Things did not finally calm down until the royal couple and all their attendants were aboard Monstron.

Entrapta’s shuttle docking in the main hangar bay, the exterior blast doors sealing shut behind them. The hatch to Entrapta’s shuttle was opened with a hiss of equalizing pressure and the gangplank lowered.

Rows upon rows of clone troopers greeted them. All arranged in disciplined formations, standing at parade rest. They snapped to attention when Prince Hec-Tor and Princess Entrapta exited the shuttle. A satisfying display of military pageantry.

Behind him, Hec-Tor’s pointed ear picked up a snickered remark from Catra, “Cute action figures. They’ve got the full set.”

Admiral Callix was commander of the Monstron when the Prince was not aboard, and he stepped forward to greet Hec-Tor and his new wife, and cede control of the ship to him.

Callix was not a clone. Clones lacked the independent thinking necessary to fill any leadership position higher than a sergeant. Any officer of rank in the Imperial military was an enlisted alien that had proved themselves and risen through the ranks. Callix was a Stoneman from planet Quarry. Very few beings in the military were taller than Hec-Tor and Horde Prime, but Stonemen grew big and Callix towered over Hec-Tor. A mountain next to a tree.

“Your Highness, congratulations on your recent nuptials.” He said. “And to you, Princess, I welcome you to-“

He was cut off when Entrapta rose up on her hair, a tape measure inexplicably appearing from out of nowhere. “Ooh! You’re a Stoneman, right?” She asked excitedly. “I’ve read about you. You don’t usually leave Quarry. I never thought I’d get to meet one of you up close before.”

Moving on her hair, she drifted around the Admiral. Using her tape measure to gauge the circumference of his arm, the width of his shoulders, the length of his chin.

Callix was a military man. He was disciplined. He held his composure. That did not mean he wasn’t confused or uneasy. “Your Highness?” He looked to Hec-Tor for help. Or, at the very least, an explanation.

“Princess Entrapta is keenly curious.” He tried to sooth the Admiral. “About everything.” Then, to Entrapta, “Perhaps we should let the Admiral go for now. I’m sure he has work to do. There will be time to invade his privacy once we are in hyperspace.”

It was the ‘invade his privacy’ remark that made Entrapta stop. It was something she struggled with. Not exactly knowing what was and was not a boundary unless explicitly stated in words. As Entrapta told him very early on, she did not understand body language or subtle social cues. She needed to be told when her attentions were an ‘invasion’.

Entrapta clapped her hair together excitedly. “I’d love to see the engines as you charge up the hyperdrive. How long is the turn around time between powering up the drive and actually making the jump to hyperspace? With all the technology of the Empire, I would imagine very fast, but my research has also told me that it takes longer for larger vessels and this is one of the largest ships in the universe!”

Callix looked concerned again, turning his attention back to the Prince for guidance.

“Entrapta is an Imperial Princess and my wife.” He informed the Admiral. “She is to have free reign of the ship. All decks, all chambers –except private personnel quarters, of course. If her inquiries or explorations raise any concerns, you are to bring them to me directly.”

“Yes, sir.” Callix nodded.

Entrapta twirled on her hair excitedly. She was gonna learn so much about the Empire’s capital ships and technology! Monstron was one of the most advanced ships in the universe, second only to the Velvet Glove. And Hec-Tor had just given her permission to do whatever she wanted! (So long as she didn’t barge into anyone’s bedroom.) He probably didn’t want her taking apart vital systems. But there was still so much a person could learn without taking things apart first.

She wrapped her hair around Hec-Tor in an enthusiastic hug. Just her hair. Not her arms or her body. “This is gonna be so great!”

Behind them a loud squawk issued from the shuttle and Imp flew out. Sailed circles around the hanger –he’d never been inside a war ship before, he’d never left the Imperial Palace- then came to land on his father’s shoulder.

“My son is not to have free reign of the ship.” Hec-Tor informed the Admiral. “He is to be accompanied by an adult at all times, and if you see him unaccompanied, he is to be brought to me immediately.”

Imp crawled down his father’s arm enough that he could be in the older man’s line of sight when he Signed, ‘But, why?’

“A spaceship is not a play place.” He informed the boy. “You cannot carry on here as you carried on at the Palace.”

He did not want his son trying to climb into one of the ship’s ventilation ducts and getting stuck.

Imp gave a forlorn little trill.

Entrapta wrapped a tendril of hair around him. “I’m an adult. I can accompany you if you wanna explore the ship.”

He gave a more optimistic noise, then looked sideways at his father. He did say Imp had to be accompanied by an adult at all times. He didn’t say who that adult could or could not be, or where he could or could not go. Imp really, really liked Dad’s new wife. She was crafty. Exactly his kind of crafty. Entrapta was easily becoming Imp’s new favorite adult.

Hec-Tor cast a disapproving frown at both of them.

“Oh, unclench.” Entrapta smiled at him. “I was already gonna explore the ship anyway, and Imp and I seem to get along okay. It wouldn’t be an inconvenience for me, and I can keep an eye on him –even if I’m looking at something else. I’m good at multi-tasking.”

“No vents.” Hec-Tor declared firmly.

Entrapta smiled at him. “Is that a ‘yes’?”

Hec-Tor made an ambiguous throat noise. He set the terms and the boundaries and Entrpata found a way to work within them. Still giving Imp a variation of ‘free reign’ of the ship without violating any of his stipulations. Imp would always be with an adult, and Entrapta would keep the child out of the ship’s ventilation system. She would adhere to the literal letter of his rules without breaking them and still give Imp what he wanted. She was smart. Smart and crafty.

“Yes.” He groaned. “But remember that Imp must take medications three times a day and they must be taken with food. He is to report to the galley or one of my personal staff to be served. If he misses even one done, you both will lose privileges.”

Imp whined.

Entrapta nodded. “Understood.”

Then they both scampered off together to explore the ship.

Hec-Tor groaned again.

Callix only remained standing still. “I’ve been told children often have a difficult time accepting a step-parent, but Prince Imp seems quite taken with the Princess Entrapta.”

“Imp would be taken with anyone in a position to let him get away with half the things he tries to pull.” Hec-Tor told the other man. Then cleared his throat. These were not the things one confided in a military subordinate. “Take me to the bridge. As soon as the Princess’ shuttle is unloaded and her party is settled, we will make the jump to lightspeed. The Krytis system will be first.”

…

Krytis was a prison colony first and a mining operation second.

That meant it was very difficult to sneak into, and even more difficult to smuggle weapons into. But Evil-Lyn was a master sorceress and clever to boot and she found a way.

After that, it really did not take much to motivate the prisoners of Krytis to rise up and overthrow their wardens. Not every inmate and prisoner of Krytis was a rapist or a murderer. Most were political prisoners, deserters, or defectors. ‘Decent’ people who presented one challenge or another to the Empire or the Imperial family and ‘disappeared’ for it. It really did not take much, after furnishing them with weapons and promising some magical backup, to convince them to revolt.

That was over a week ago by now, and the Empire was yet to retaliate.

“Good work, Lyn.” Her colleague praised over a video screen. His face covered by a hood so that it was hard to make out his features. The only she visitible was a bone-white chin, and the lower pallet of exposed teeth. No lips or flesh to hide them.

“We experienced only a little resistance at first, then when no backup from the empire came, they all just laid down their arms and surrendered.” Evil-Lyn was telling him.

Her hooded partner nodded. “Prince Hec-Tor is the one who really runs the Empire. With him distracted by his wedding, no orders to retaliate would have been sent. But now that that’s over he will retaliate, and with force. You should leave Krytis right away. I am almost done here in Denebria. We’ll rendezvous at Snake Mountain on Eternia.”

“Understood.” Nodded Evil-Lyn. Then hesitated. Then asked anyway. “After we get back to Snake Mountain do you wanna talk? About the Prince, I mean, and the fact that he’s… remarried.”

The one on the other end was silent a beat longer than Lyn felt was necessary.

Then, “We will need to discuss how this marriage will affect the Imperial military and our own plans. Dryl is an industrial arms manufacture and Princess Entrapta is the mind behind it. Our missions might become more complicated in the future because of this.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Lyn shot back. “I mean, how do you feel?”

“Nothing.” The hooded figure assured her. “I feel nothing. It is absurd to think that Horde Prime would let him remain a widower this long. It was a waste of resources. Hec-Tor would have had to remarry eventually. Horde Prime was just holding out until he could get the best price possible for his brother’s hand. And look, he got the most powerful weapons manufacture in the universe. My opinion does not matter.”

Evil-Lyn smirked. He let something slip. “But you do have an opinion.”

If that bare, bone-white chin and teeth still have flesh and muscle on it, he would have frowned. Instead, the jaw just clenched. “Get off Krytis before Hec-Tor rains fire down on you from space. I’ll see you at Snake Mountain, and I don’t want to be asked about my ‘feelings’ again.”

He ended the transmission.

…

On the other end of the transmission, half a galaxy away, in the Denebria system, Skeletor leaned back on what passed for a throne on the Nordor base. He reached a hand under the collar of his hood and pulled out a chain. A plain, unassuming metal chain, with a plain, unadorned silver ring hanging from it.

Skeletor held the ring in his hand. A plane band. Utilitarian. Silver, because the one who gave it to him felt the gray metal complemented his naturally blue skin better than gold would have. And he was right. The silver had looked very good on his hand, for many years.

But that was a lifetime ago. Skeletor was a different man back then.

He thought about throwing the ring away more than once. It was a hold out from another life. One he left behind and shoulder hold any sway over him anymore. But, each time he tried, something always held him back. Some small voice reminding him, you never know. It might come in handy some time. You never know. Remember: the ring has a twin somewhere out in the universe. On the hand of the second most powerful man in the Empire.

Well, it wouldn’t be on his hand anymore. Prince Hec-Tor would have a new ring now. A new ring to match his new spouse.

Skeletor should throw it away.

He should.

He didn’t need it.

It wasn’t relevant anymore.

He unclipped the chain from around his neck. Holding the ring out in front of him. He could just drop it on the floor and one of the mutants of Nordor would find it and could claim it as their own. It was silver. Who would pass up the chance to claim a precious metal as their own? There might even be a fun fight over it. Or, he could get up and toss it in the garbage compactor. To be squished and compressed in with all the rest of the base’s waste before it was jettisoned into space.

No. Not that. Not the garbage.

Skeletor should throw the ring away. But no method for disposing of the item seemed appropriate to him.

He would just keep it until a solution presented itself.

That was all. That was why he was re-clasping the chain back around his neck and tucking the ring back under his hood. He did not have an appropriate method of disposal. That was it. There was no other reason.

Skeletor stood from the throne.

He needed to get moving too. After Hec-Tor finished with Krytis, Denebria and Nordor would be his next stop. Skeletor had to be gone before then.

He was not ready to meet with Hec-Tor skull to face.