#lake district decor

[lymphomalass]

This watercolour landscape of a mountain view with a gate down towards a lake, from Lonscale Fell towards Derwentwater, is available printed on all kinds of things, including bath mats and shower curtains, at: https://www.redbubble.com/shop/ap/93336705

Thanks! Sam aka LymphomaLass xx

[withonly-sweetheart]

Reap What You Sow

part one

You've been reaped, and your partner is not the man you want to be spending a bloodbath with. But what if he's nothing like what you expected?

a/n: for the anon that's waited SO patiently for it... im still working on figuring out ur identity but im a bit slow... so.... i hope u like it i had to reread the book for this and WEUIORWPDOSWEIOR i have trauma from thg trust me

tw: major character deaths (if you can guess who ily <3) mentions of blood, gore, illnesses, blah blah all that stuff yk

wc: 7.8k

part two here!!

legacy, what is a legacy?

planting seeds in a garden,

one you’ll never get to see.

Autumn always brought the whispering winds, a tapestry of gold and crimson spinning through the forest, leaves dancing down from their lofty trees, becoming carpets of color rustling with ease.

Everyone sleeps in late today, wanting to spend as much time huddled with their family before the threat looming over you finally comes back to bite you.

The air grows crisp, a bite of cool delight, as you trudge through the fresh foliage, feet shuffling through the leaves fluttering onto your hunting boots. The last thing you need is to scare away potential game with your loud footsteps.

In the woods is the one place where your facade can fall, where you can shout all your frustrations at the lake below you, calming down as you stare down at it, blurred by your dangling legs. The ledge has always been precariously unstable, but anything to kill time before the Reaping.

Leaning back on your palms, you glance up at the sun searing your face, burning through your dark tunics that help camouflage you during hunts. You can’t consider yourself a good hunter, but at least what you bring in keeps your family from starving.

You strip the nearby bushes of their leaves, their raspberries, the leaves that you had once cultivated with your mother when she was still around. Although it wasn’t allowed, you both made a habit of sneaking into the forest after all the Peacekeepers had finished their patrols to check on your garden. 

You never told her, but you could never resist plucking a few unripe berries from their steadily growing stems, now grown wild and untamed. The taste of the young, still growing fruit from your childhood still lingers in your mind, and over six years later, make it near impossible for you to enjoy the sweetness of the ripe raspberries now.

A melodious chirp breaks through your thoughts, and you twist over your shoulder to see a familiar mockingjay approaching. Its vibrant blue and gray feathers shimmer in the dappled sunlight as it hops closer, a curious glint in its round, beady eyes. With a gentle nudge, you offer it a ripe berry, watching as it eagerly pecks at the fruit, savoring the succulent juices with delicate precision.

“You’re chipper today, aren’t you?” you ask it, keeping your voice light. Just as you expect, the muttation tweets back in the same tone, as if repeating your words back to you.

Only, coming from such a free, unshackled spirit, it means nothing.

<><><><>

The nicer part of your district is in the area shadowed by the forest, where none of the residents dare to step foot into what they deem unsafe. If only they knew the danger of hunger.

You pass the bakery, catching the eye of the baker’s son, uninterested, casting shadows on his face as he glances down at his mother’s feet. Her shouts are audible through the thin glass showcasing the elegantly decorated cakes.

You don’t know the boy, but you feel pity for him. Not once in the years following your mother’s death has your father raised his voice at you. He has resigned to heavy sighs of disappointment, which sting more than angry words, you’ll admit.

You stand before the same house in the Victor’s Village, the nicest houses of the entire district, crammed into one courtyard. Most of the houses are empty due to there only being two Victors in the history of the Games; Haymitch Abernathy, a drunken man you don’t socialize with, and Leon’s older brother, whose name you aren’t bothered or inclined to learn.

You raise your hand to knock but pause, praying he doesn't answer, that he’s not home, and that his mother, a much kinder, forgiving woman, comes to the door. After an agonizing moment, the door creaks open and, just your luck, his imposing form fills the frame above.

The first thing you notice is the red, blaring welt resting calmly on his face. You faintly wonder what happened before realizing that you don’t care. Neither does he, apparently.

“Back to grovel, little bird?” he sneers. 

“Actually, maybe I’ll just head to Haymitch,” you reply, making a show of the flimsy basket holding multiple, freshly snared rabbits. “He might have a use for fresh meat.”

You don’t miss the way Leon immediately clears his throat, leaning against the doorframe. “I suppose we could make a deal.”

Eventually you’re satisfied with the amount of money in your hands, and Leon looks equally ravished as he nods to you politely before closing the door in your face. You catch his eyes darting to your lips just as it creaks shut fully.

Whatever’s wrong with him shouldn’t bother you, right?

So why does it?

<><><><>

Chris raises an eyebrow at the offering. You nudge it towards him, and a smile slowly spreads across his face, overtaking his expression.

“It’s taken quite a while, huh?” he teases.

“You know how much it means to me,” you cheese. “And I want you to have it, just in case…”

“You’re not getting reaped,” he says, as if he’s already predicted who will be safe, like he knows. “Your name isn’t even in there that many times.”

You nod, face warm. "Just in case."

His grin fades. "Don't say that. Your name is drawn just a few times."

"Still a chance," you mutter grimly. "24 slips is 24 too many."

Chris takes your hands in his. "Listen to me. I survived, didn't I? You're stronger than any tribute here. You'll come back and we'll hunt together, I promise it."

His steady gaze gives you strength. You force a smile. "Okay. And may the odds..."

Your hunting partner, close friend, embraces you. "The odds don't matter. You do. Stay strong - I'll see you after."

Of course, the odds seem to be planting themselves directly against you. But you don’t mention that as you walk to the square, shoulder to shoulder, trusting Chris enough to watch your siblings as your father makes low conversation with the other miners.

<><><><>

The odds definitely hate you.

When they call your name, no one moves. You can feel the girl next to you stiffen, as if sensing your breath cut short, hand brushing against yours as you weave your way through the perfectly aligned rows of sixteen year old kids, kids that you went to school with.

If it were any other reaping, you would’ve looked down at them with scorn, glaring at them with a scowl, because no one wants to die, but no one volunteered for you. But the Quarter Quell brings with it new surprises, one being that the tributes reaped may not be replaced.

You suppose you should be glad it isn’t one of your siblings, because where you stand a chance, they would die immediately. Admitting this to yourself is how you temper your own fate. On the other hand, the other twist the Quell brings is that if you die in the Games, guess who also suffers?

Your family is publicly executed. You wish a slow and painful death to whoever thought of that, to President Snow, for picking it. Watching the competitions every year was something you could never stomach, choosing instead to cower in the other room, hands planted against your ears to block out the sickening screams of the dying tributes on screen.

"May the odds be ever in your favor," Effie says with a grin far too jovial for the situation, and you know that its her job to encourage you, but they ring hollow given what lies ahead. 

As you walk toward the stage, your breathing comes quick and shallow. A boy with dark hair catches your gaze, his expression as grim as yours. "It will be over soon," he murmurs, though you're not sure if he means the reaping or your life.

Reaching the steps, you turn to face the crowd, fists clenched. The escort swirls the strips of paper in the empty fish bowl, as if this is simply a game to her. She pinches one between her fingers and drags it out slowly before unfurling it and reading aloud the name.

“Leon Kennedy,” she declares. 

Of course getting reaped isn’t the last of your misfortunes. Although you don’t directly know him, you know what he’s capable of. He climbs on stage beside you, jaw working as if chewing over angry words. 

"No use raging at them now," you mutter under your breath.

Leon barks a short, bitter laugh. "I guess you're right. Small comfort, that." 

You don’t speak after that, settling into tense silence as your escort waits for the applause that never comes. The depressing gazes of all your loved ones, the people you know, and the people who don’t know you exist, proves to be too much, so you shift your eyes to the ground, pointed at your toes.

There is one more pair of eyes that land on you, eyes that you don’t wish to meet. But when Effie requests for the “lucky kids” to shake hands, you force yourself to drag your gaze from the ground, up his slender legs, the tendon that stretches when he looks down at you, challenging you silently, to his fingertips outstretched, waiting for your hand.

And when you finally shake on it, you remember just who he is to you.

Leon.

<><><><><>

You freeze in your movements, cradling the assortment of berries closer to your chest, the handkerchief tickling your chin. Pale, icy eyes trail down your body, sizing you up, searing everywhere they grace.

You know him, but he doesn’t know you. You’ve seen him, one of the nicer looking kids at your school, always well groomed, arriving to class on time and getting only the best grades.

But no one is perfect, and his flaws are in his arrogance, which doesn’t get any better when all the girls fawn over him, tripping over one another to catch even a flit of his eyes. What would they think now, of him watching you, a poor, peasant girl. You have to hold back a smile at the faint thought passing your mind.  

“Well,” he remarks, unable to hold back the smirk that tugs at his lips, “looks like I’ve finally caught the little bird pecking at my garden, hm?” You flush madly. So he has noticed the previous times you’ve snuck through the fence, collecting his family’s plants. 

"I…I meant no harm," you say meekly, lowering your gaze. "I was only gathering bits of food to help feed my poor family." Playing the pity card is a new low, even for you, but the consequences of mistakes ring through the square often, burned in your eyes, the whine of a leather whip, the sound it makes when it meets tender flesh.

"Hmm, is that so?" he considers, stroking his chin, grinning. "Maybe I’ll let it go, just this once. But you’ll have to pay up."

“I have no money,” you say quietly. “I… cannot pay you, at least not right now. Please, just two weeks-”

He cuts you off with a wave of his hand, eyes fixing on your trembling lips. "A kiss, sweet bird, and I'll let your theft go. What do you say?”

Perhaps you’ll suffice to get whipped. Anything over that.

“No,” you say firmly, stepping away, further into the sanctuary of the forest. “I won’t do that.”

“So you won’t mind if I tell the Peacekeepers?” he muses.

“I only took a little!” you plead.

“And I’m not asking for much in return, am I?”

You hesitate, torn between duty and danger. But survival demands sacrifice. Holding back a troubled, irritated groan, you allow him to step closer, lift your chin and capture your mouth with his own, firm but fleeting.

"Now fly home to your nest, little birdie,” he taunts as he breaks away from him, wiping your lips frantically, trying to get rid of the sweet taste of fresh bread and butter that mingled from his tongue to yours.

Does he kiss everyone like this? So hard, fast, as if he’s trying to consume you whole? You feel pity for all the girls he’s left behind with broken hearts, like lost puppies following him everywhere. 

The last thing you expect is to be longing for it again, reaching for the feeling of being held like that, of being wanted, desirable. And you find that nowhere else but with him.

Of course, that feeling only dims slightly when the Peacekeepers knock at your door the next day, pretending to lecture you about theft, but there are no consequences, surprisingly. You suspect it must be because half of your best customers are the officials, the ones meant to enforce the rules, since everyone in the area is desperate for meat.

You did what he asked.

He ratted you out, either way.

So why can’t you stop thinking about him?

<><><><>

Your father’s weary face is what greets you first in the velvet setting of the Justice Building, before flurrying footsteps escape the guard’s clutches and long, thin arms wrap around you, tears immediately staining the flimsy fabric of your tunic.

“I’m so sorry, dear,” he whispers to you, and as the twins reluctantly pull away so he can gather you in his arms, embracing you to what, horrifyingly, feels like the last time you’ll inhale his musty, familiar coal scent that lingers everywhere in the house.

“Chris will bring you food,” you instruct as soon as he meets your eyes, stepping away. “Don’t turn it down. When I get back-”

“When?” he muses, a sad light twinkling in his aged eyes. “You’re this confident?”

“You heard them!” you hiss, exasperated. “I have to come back. They’ll kill you if I don’t.”

“Don’t worry about us,” he insists. “I’ve already planned everything out.”

“What does that even mean?” If it were anyone else, you would’ve missed the subtle flit of his eyes to the Peacekeepers standing to attention behind you, listening in to your conversation. You realize there is something he cannot say with them here.

So you soften your face, cradle the twins into one last hug and use that as an excuse to pull him back in. Your father’s voice is so soft you can barely make out what he’s saying over the twins’ sobbing.

“District 13, we’re going to find them.”

“They’re dead,” you murmur. 

“If you come back, you know where to find us,” he says, adorning a sweet, solemn smile on his face as he withdraws, adjusting the collar of your tunic where it slants to one side. “Do you understand?”

The way he’s speaking makes it clear that he could be talking about anything now, so you attempt to match his expression, keeping your tone light. “Yes, Father. I’ll try my best.”

He pats your shoulder, nodding. “I know you will, my girl.”

When they call that time’s up, you ignore the twins’ protests and kiss them both on their cheeks, waving goodbye to their tear streaked, chubby faces, trying to imprint the image in your head forever.

The next person that comes in is someone you don’t expect. It’s Claire, the younger Redfield sibling; your hunting partner rarely discusses his little sister, so you don’t know her aside from seeing her during classes.

She offers no meager response, no subtle greeting, only grips your hands tightly, entwining your fingers with her own, pulling you closer. “Well? What’s your strategy?”

“I’m sorry?”

“For the Games?”

“I mean, I have to train hard-”

“No.”

“No?” You frown at her command, raising an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“There’s only one thing that you have to do,” she explains. “It’s how Leon’s brother won the Games way back when.”

“And that is…?” you prompt.

Her eyes are steely, unforgiving. “Keep Leon alive. The rest will come later.”

You’re frozen into a shock for about a second before you harshly release her hands, rough with years of hard labor, stepping away from her. “Excuse me?”

“You have to fool him into believing that you want an alliance!” she grumbles. “And I don’t think I can take any more of Chris’s groveling if you die.”

“Chris doesn’t grovel.” A corner of her lip quirks up.

“You don’t live with him,” she retorts, albeit gently. “Listen, don’t get yourself killed out there. You’re a smart girl. I know you can win.”

And she’s grinning and gone, a shitload of emotions dumped onto you, and a new outlook on the Games, and your potential partner. You’ve seen that method multiple times from the Victors, however convincing, and you nod to yourself.

You've got a winning shot if you have him, you know that.

You let a lazy smile overtake your face.

Well, at least until you kill him.

<><><><>

Of all the people in the Capitol, your stylist, by far, has been your favorite.

Your hands tremble as Cinna leads you to your prep team. Effie assured you this is his first year as a stylist, and he has "big ideas" to make an impression.

"Everything will be alright," he says gently, meeting your fearful eyes in the mirror. His deft hands make quick work of transforming you into someone else, someone you don’t recognize.

As your raw nerves are plucked and primed, Cinna talks soothingly of his plans. "The fire theme is overdone. I want to show you not as a beast to fear, but as a symbol of hope that cannot be extinguished."

Looking in the mirror, you gasp - you’re swathed elegantly in a flowing carbon-fiber gown that resembles burning coal embers. Wings of delicate gold wire sprout from your shoulder blades like a phoenix rising.

"Cinna, it's...incredible," you breathe.

He smiles warmly. "Panem will remember you, but not as a killer. You’re going to be our dream."

Your old fear returns as you reach the chariot. But seeing Cinna’s admiring grin from across the stable, you stand tall, finding courage in his vision.

And then Leon approaches, flanked by his stylist and prep team. They beam at you, drinking in your matching outfits, which you don’t remember agreeing to. But even you can’t disagree that you stand out from the starkly contrasting duos of tributes. 

Your heart pounds as the chariot ride nears. Catching you tense up, your panicked expression, Cinna tilts your head up with his finger. 

"Chin up, girl on fire.” He exhales. “Own who you are."

You climb up the ivory steps, paintings of flames licking the side of the chariot, spreading onto the horses’ flanks, matching the design on your perfectly trimmed, crescent shaped nails.

“Girl on fire, hm?” Leon says jokingly, although his voice is quiet. Neither of you have interacted since the Reaping, and it feels strange to be talking to a man that once held your life in his beautiful, beautiful hands.

“I think I’m gonna throw up,” you mutter as the chariot lurches forward, unused to the sudden jolt of movement that doesn’t require you to use your legs.

“Seriously?” You lift your head just enough to catch Leon giving you a concerned look, just as the new day’s rays hit his face, bathing his skin in an ethereal glow. You don’t expect him to tug you upright as the crowd gets a glimpse of you, entwining your fingers tight with his.

The way he clutches your hand makes you smile, drunk on a feeling you shouldn’t have, so you use your free hand to wave. The roar shakes you to your core - but it's not hatred, it's adoration. You’ve stunned them all. You beam at the cheering colors.

You test out blowing a kiss to one part of the crowd, where you see a little girl jump and scream for your attention, and everyone reaches out as if they can grab it, holding it close to their chests, as if there’s something caught in the space between their fingers and palm.

It gives you a sense of unmatched power, knowing that everyone is looking at you, that the Careers are definitely glaring at you, because they are so used to getting all the attention that now that you are captivating everything with the golden, flaming arches unfurling from your back, they aren’t pleased.

For once, you’re glad that you have Leon to grip, eyes flickering from the firelight of your wings, dancing down his simple, elegant suit that seems to blend with the darkness and reflect the flames.

You realize that his hand has gone white, so you move to release your grip, but he pulls you back, a pleading look mingling with the fireflies blinking in his waning eyes.

“Please,” he whispers. “I might fall off.”

You laugh softly, but the cameras don’t miss anything. You both have been getting a significant amount of screen time compared to the other tributes, so when you finish your rounds, waving up at President Snow, the distaste curling your tongue disappears when Leon hops down and offers you his hand.

You accept it gratefully, cameras lingering on you both before switching to another duo. While Cinna gently removes the flaming wings, smiling proudly, Leon twists to grin at you, so genuine you could fool yourself into thinking that everything that comes out of his mouth is true.

“You’re pretty cute when you’re on fire,” he says simply. “You should wear gold more often.”

“You don’t look too bad yourself,” you say before you can stop yourself. And then you remind yourself of what Claire said - he’ll be planning to kill you. You have to kill him before he can get to you.

So because whatever you sow, you must reap, you lean closer, knowing all the tributes are glowering at you, the attention undoubtedly set directly on you, distributed unevenly. You cup his cheek gently, deliberately, enjoying the flash of confusion rushing through his eyes.

And you peck a soft kiss to his jawline.

<><><><>

Just like the opening ceremonies, your training uniforms correlate with one another’s perfectly - looking out of place with everyone else wearing totally different things.

"Remember, these next days will determine your survival," Haymitch says as we enter the Training Center.

You steel yourself, knowing the horrors that await below. But seeing Leon’s steady, calm gaze as you descend among the other tributes, sizing each other up like prey, you realize that there’s nothing to doubt.

Rather than cower, you both stand tall and match strides, sticking with each other through every station. Of course, there are things that Leon is better at than you lack in, and vice versa. But instead of tripping you up, he helps you through it, just as you return the favor by explaining how to properly tie a knot, identify edible plants and start a fire.

No one will doubt your alliance. If anything, you wish for people to join your team, however temporary. But there is only a shadow trailing you everywhere, a boy that reminds you of your little brother, with his square, soft jawline and wide, innocent eyes.

He can’t be older than nine, so you take pity on him and keep your voice louder so he can overhear. Against all odds, you don’t want him to die.

Just like you don’t want Leon to die. You catch yourself watching him more and more, oftentimes keeping an eye on him while he stretches, admiring the tight coils of his body, so perfectly sculpted, like a statue from marble.

He must feel you looking, because he cranes his neck to spot you peering at him, then chuckles as you rush to finish your double knot from rope.

Leon doesn’t miss any chances to make snarky comments, whether it be during spear throwing, or the twenty minutes spared for lunch. 

But you never underestimate how dangerous he can be. Glimmer gives you the barest definition of a sneer, and within moments, with just a flick of his wrist, a knife sails past the tribute's throat. 

Her expression, plastered with shock, shows her thoughts.

Message received.

Slowly but surely, day by day, you earn everyone’s respect, however hesitant or however grudgingly, but you never miss the way they whisper as you stroll past, conversing with one another about which activity you’re going to excel at today.

“So, tell me.” Haymitch leans back in the dinner chair, hands resting on his stomach as the hazy look in his eyes fades away, the effects of the wine he had thirty minutes ago wearing off. “What can you do?”

“She’s the hunter.” Leon shrugs. “I can’t do much.”

“You carry around all that coal,” you point out. You’ve watched him from the forest, where he wheels the barrows filled with heavy, dusty blocks of coal back and forth, a fine layer of coal dust settling over his skin.

“Of course. My greatest weapon,” he deadpans. “Coal.”

“I meant your strength,” you grumble. “Be optimistic, can you?”

“You’re telling me.” Leon chuckles.

“Enough bickering,” Haymitch groans. “So, hunter, what’s your special gift?”

“I can… uh… well…”

“You’re not making this easy for me, are you?” Haymitch shakes his head, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Can’t you use a bow?”

You shake your head.

“Knives? Daggers? Spears?”

“Leon can use a knife,” you add. 

“Real helpful,” Haymitch drones. “Okay, here’s what’s about to happen. Leon, you’re going to teach her how to use a knife. And she’ll teach you to hunt. Deal?”

You’re pretty sure that’s what you’ve been doing, but for the last day of training, you agree to at least try your mentor’s advice.

Which is how you find yourself in this situation.

You sneak a glance back at Leon, who seems occupied, so you turn your attention back to the knife, gingerly picking it up and trying to mime a stabbing motion on an invisible target. Your face flushes crimson when you hear some restrained laughter behind you.

"Shut up!" you cross your arms and pout, turning away from him. "You’re supposed to be teaching me, not laughing at me."

You hear footsteps behind you, and before you can look over your shoulder, he's crossed the room and is standing against you, his arms encasing yours and fingers gracefully planting themselves against the hilt of the knife.

You glance up at him, but he clicks his tongue.

"Eyes down here, birdie," he says, and his low voice in your ear sends flames shooting from where his fingers meet yours and up your spine, straight to your head. Your chest twists as you suddenly have a name for the fire that ignites in the pit of your stomach, unmistakable and blunt against everything else fighting for a spot in your head. "Hold it like this."

"Got it," you mumble, your voice coming out even quieter than expected. Your pulse thrums under his, blond hair brushing the side of your cheek, azure eyes darting from you to the knife.

Leon abruptly pulls away, and you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. He takes an edged breath, and your heart slows. You palm the knife in your hand, turning to face him and twisting it through your fingers slowly.

"Careful," he murmurs. "You might cut yourself."

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you attempt dryly. 

Neither of you laugh.

<><><><><>

It irks you, to say the least, that none of the Gamemakers are paying attention to you. They’d rather make small talk about how divine the feast spread out in front of them is, or what they’ll be doing over the weekend, and it pisses you off.

So you reckon that to get their attention, you’ll need to show them you’re worth watching.

Their obliviousness makes you smile inwardly as you will your heartbeat to slow as you stalk towards the jovial crowd, drawing closer with each steady breath. Under cover of noise and distracted chatter, you were gaining.

The group is joking about how no one has impressed them yet. You’re about to change that. You crawl the final length on hands and knees, careful touch mapping the terrain so each advancement felt natural. Upwind, you find cover behind a silk curtain draped over a table and readied yourself. When laughter rises loudest, you strike.

Your arms wrap tight around a target, not quite caring who it is, twisted in an inescapable hold, your other hand covering their mouth to muffle their cries. The rest of the Gamemakers gape at you as you release the woman in your grasp.

She stumbles away, collapsing to her knees, gasping for air. The other examiners stare in both amazement and fear, searching your eyes soundlessly. 

“Thank you for your consideration? May I be excused?” Without waiting for an answer, you bow slightly.

And you take a step back, letting the shadows accentuate your face, saluting with a grin before melting back into the shadows, feeling worse about yourself than you were before.

You don’t expect the smile on Haymitch’s face, nor the slight amusement on Effie’s when they exchange a look as you explain your story.

“Well,” Leon says with a huff. “Now mine sounds boring.”

“You let your anger get the best of you,” Haymitch deduces, nodding. “Good. We can use some spirit.”

“But you said I needed to compose myself.”

“You’re forgetting something.”

“What?”

Haymitch leans back, a faraway look coming over him as if recalling another time, another Games. "We’re both still human. It’s in our nature to best those looking down on us.”

There seems to be an underlying meaning to what he says, but you don’t bother trying to figure out what it is. Instead, you tilt your head at Leon, gesturing for him to continue.

“How’d you do?” you ask politely.

“Not bad,” he admits. “Nothing showy like you. I just did what I did to Glimmer.”

“Immediate 12,” you say, shaking your head in fake remorse. “You exposed yourself to her, too.”

“But she’s pretty dumb,” Leon argues. “I think she’ll be out quick.”

He’s not wrong, you can say that much. There’s definitely competition, you know that, but there are certain tributes you know you don't need to stress over.

Leon admitting to his inferior performance startles you. He's changing, adapting to the game of puppetry they're slowly starting to implement onto you, preparing you for the games.

And you keep your eyes forward.

<><><><><>

In the room, stylists twist Leon's hair into elaborate patterns that fall over his eyes, casting shadows over his pale blue irises. He gives you a crooked smile with the side of his face as a makeup artist dabs his cheekbones with powder.

Leon's wearing a sweater that matches yours, except unlike you, he looks like he's been attending private school over the summer, spending his days playing polo and betting on horse races, a luxury only District 1 has.

You don't understand why Leon needs makeup. He already looks fine, but you suppose "fine" won't suffice for the Capitol’s games. You realize you’re glaring at him and quickly look away.

"Alright, let's go over this," Haymitch drawls, standing near the edge of the couch you’re sitting on. "You need to make it seem like you've been close friends with him, kept in touch for a long time."

"Got it," you say, slightly bitter. "Why couldn't you do this?"

"Because I’m not your mother."

"Aren’t you mentoring us?”

"That depends on how today goes," Haymitch says, but a small smile has crept onto his face. He shakes his head and glances down at you, eyes flitting to the complex camera system. "Do what you need to. Remember what's at stake here."

You nod and mimic the action before he walks away. Someone shoos all of Leon's artists away, sending them scrambling like a school of fish. And they’ve called your names, the district interviews being set with both tributes. In what world they assumed this would help the kids about to die to open up, you couldn’t imagine.

You see none of this confusion reflected in the preppy interviewer, Caesar Flickerman who is sitting near you, smiling eerily.

"So, you two, you look cozy over there," he says, waggling his eyebrows in a way that makes you want to throw up. "Let’s hear a little about you two, huh?" He turns, wide eyes boring into you.

Your intro is somewhat unsteady, the way he’s worded the question throwing you off. "Well, uh… we’re…”

"We've been friends for a long time," Leon finishes for you, leaning back in his chair and spreading his legs. It sends warning bells ringing in your head, the informal posture, but you only hear the crowd swooning, so maybe it has something to do with his charming personality. He smiles warmly at the camera and the interviewer's own only grows.

"You’ve been friends since your childhood, yes?” he asks, directing a pen towards the both of you.

"Uh..." Leon's eyes cut to you.

"Yes," you say for him. "We've pretty much known each other for our entire lives."

"Mhm, yup," Leon affirms.

"Now, here's the biggest question on everyone's mind," he says, leaning forward in her seat. "Your story, from what I can tell, has its rocky start, but from what we can see on the cameras, something is blossoming between you. I mean, you both got an 11! Something doesn’t seem quite right.” As if on cue, scripted, the audience laughs. Caesar waggles his eyebrows cartoonishly. “Care to explain?" He lets out a boyish giggle.

"I'm... sorry?" Leon tilts his head, and by the confused look in his eyes you see he doesn't understand the full length of what the man said.

"I understand what you're implying," you begin, “but-”

"Wait, what, you do?" Leon turns to you, raising an eyebrow. "What does he mean?"

"Go ahead. Tell him what I mean," he says, long, curved eyelashes fluttering. He waves the camera over and you feel the gazes of what feels like the entirety of Panem on you.

It's Leon. He'll laugh at the implication and wave it off. He’s just some guy. You don’t care what he thinks, do you?

"He, along with the rest of whoever 'everyone' is, thinks we're together." The room holds its breath, Leon's expression unchanging. Then he smiles.

"Are we?"

"No, stupid."

"Women," he says, scoffing and turning to look at the other side. The camera zooms in on his face, and you can see a smile creep onto the side of his face.

"Leon has very readable emotions," you say, immediately getting his attention. He snaps back to you, eyes meeting yours in a challenging glare. You sit forward and he copies your movements, his glare cast downward as yours is cast upward. Your faces are so close that your noses could be touching.

"My lovely partner, as you can see, has visible reactions to everything I do. I guess I'm just too handsome for her to leave alone," he says smugly, a smirk curving his lips.

"Fuck off, you self-absorbed prick."

Leon leans forward. "Wow, are we giving them something to talk about?"

You meet his gaze without flinching. "No.”

He smiles strangely. "Your readable reaction says otherwise."

Your temper flashes. "Don't flatter yourself. I couldn't care less.”

“So, you two, hm?” Caesar Flickerman interrupts, glancing at you both, raising an eyebrow inquisitively, most likely trying to change the subject. “I didn’t expect that, now did I?”

“Neither did I,” Leon mumbles, trying to make it seem like a joke with a quirk of his mouth. “But here we are.”

Since you’re not responding, the interviewer keeps the questions to Leon, who responds with as much wit as he can muster.

“You should be proud to call such a…” Caesar struggles to grasp the right word for your personality. “Fierce young lady, your partner.”

“She isn’t my partner,” Leon replies casually.

“Then who does she belong to?” Caesar leans in, propping his head on his elbow. The fact you’re being objectified by this man, while you sit right in front of him, makes you want to lean over and punch him, crack that chiseled jaw, but Leon just scoffs.

“No one. She’s her own girl.”

You stare up at Leon, who looks back down at you from the side of his eye, slanting to meet your height. Something about that comment feels both complementary and insulting, as if he can’t decide on his opinion of you.

Maybe he’s trying to make up for what he said earlier. Or maybe he doesn’t care. You’ll admit that it bothers you slightly, the fact that he’s so unbothered by everything and that anything he says doesn’t pass you.

Then, finally, your interview is over, the buzzer ringing in your ears.

“That seems about all the time we have, folks.”

You don't know what to expect, but it's not the roar of protests that greet you as you stand and exit the stage, seething but as formal as you can manage.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Haymitch doesn't look any happier than you feel, but you dismiss it with a shrug.

“They could perceive it as…” Cinna shakes his head. “Trouble in paradise?”

“What part of this situation is even close to paradise?” You blanch. 

“The food?” Flavius suggests, voice as close to a helpful chirp during a quiet hunt, doing nothing to quash the anger that sears the back of your neck.

“Wait, seriously, listen to me-”

“The last thing I’m doing is listening to you, Leon,” you hiss. You turn back to your mentor, hands brushing.

"You both are excused," Haymitch mutters at your expression.

<><><><>

But something doesn’t sit right with you, so you storm over to Leon’s room, knocking rapidly.

A loose white shirt hangs low beneath his hips, covering his thighs and presumably shorts. He opens the door with blurry eyes, rubbing them, blinking down at you, tilting his head in confusion. “Need something, sweetheart?”

You scowl at the pet name and push your way past him. He gets the idea and closes the door behind you, locking it before turning to face you. His fingers tangle his already tousled mess of golden hair as he exhales slowly.

“What… happened back there?” you ask tentatively. 

“Haymitch… he wants us to play the romance card.”

A beat of silence passes. “Even if not one, but both of us die?”

“I guess it brings in more sponsors?” Leon shrugs helplessly, yawning, mouth stretching into an ‘o’. “Is that all you have to say?”

“What you said back there, did you mean it?” Leon arches an eyebrow. “About me… being… my own person?”

“I mean, yeah?” He cups the back of his neck and stretches, flexing his bicep. “It’s not like we’re complete strangers.”

“Of course not,” you mumble. “How could I ever forget?”

Leon chuckles. “Don’t tell me you still haven’t gotten over that.”

“Might be simple to you,” you say, “but I could’ve died.”

“Because I kissed you?”

“Because you ratted me out!”

Leon shakes his head. “That’s where you messed up. I didn’t say anything.”

You pause. Everything that you’ve assumed about him over the past six years, judging his character because of the strong belief he put your life in danger, seems to vanish. “You didn’t?”

“That was my brother. He saw us.”

“He did?” you exclaim.

“You didn’t think you were the only one to suffer the consequences, did you?” He attempts to keep his tone airy, but there’s something heavy behind it. Immediately, your mind goes to the morning of the Reaping, to the red on his face, to the close bond between the baker’s wife and Leon’s mother, and you make the connection.

“Oh, shit, Leon,” you murmur. “I’m so sorry.”

“Still want to be coached separately?”

Your lips twist into a grimace. “That’s not what this is about.”

The only response you receive is a small shrug. “Anyways, there’s nothing you could’ve done about it.” His eyes sparkle with unshed tears, but he keeps his voice steady. “I hope you know that even if you hadn’t… you know, kissed me, I wouldn’t have said anything.”

He ducks his head, not wanting to see your hesitant nod.

“I’m not a bad guy,” he says quietly, as if trying to convince himself. “It’s just… all anyone would talk to me about was my brother, the second Victor of District 12. There was no one for me.

“And you came into my life, just… there, and you were separate from the life that I had, all adoration for my brother. You gave me attention.”

“But what are we?” you press, more insistent. “I can’t play a game with you like that. I need to hear it straight.”

"You know what we are," Leon says, meeting your gaze. His eyes, however much they've darkened over the years, are still his, full of confusion. There's something different now, though. There's something guarding them, some kind of emotional barrier to keep from showing too much. Something he’s keeping.

"I used to think I did," you say. "But I don't think I do anymore."

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it means.”

"I don't know." Leon mumbles. "How am I supposed to know? You don't fucking tell me anything, and it’s been almost a decade." His feet shuffle on the floor.

"A decade?" You laugh dryly. "Well, we are getting pretty damn close to that milestone, aren't we?"

Leon’s eyes flash dangerously. “You know it isn't that simple.”

“But it is,” you retort. "You don’t care.”

Leon leans in closer, voice dropping to a fierce whisper. “If you think I don't care, then you’re more naive than I thought. You have no idea what was really at stake.”

You match his tone, eyes glittering. “Enlighten me then. Go on, tell me how much you care."

"Why can't you just-

You lift your chin defiantly. “Just what, Leon?”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Get out.”

“You know what?” You brush past him, feeling his eyes linger on your back as you open the door. You don’t spare him another glance. “I think I will.”

<><><><>

The gong sounds and you launch from your metal circle, sprinting toward the Cornucopia with the others. Adrenaline surges through my veins as you spot a backpack and dagger nearby.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see one of the boys tackle another to the ground. A sickening crunch and the cannon fires - the first death in mere seconds.

Grabbing the supplies you were eyeing, you spin to flee but freeze in horror. Two Careers have Leon pinned, knives flashing as he fights like a cornered animal. Without thought, you whip your new dagger at the nearest attacker. It sinks hilt-deep in their neck with a wet thunk.

There is only a moment of shock before Leon retaliates, slashing at the second boy. Before long, they’re both crumpled on the ground as Leon picks through their freshly deceased bodies.

Your eyes meet amid the screams and clashing steel. For an instant, understanding passes between you blood-soaked survivors. Then you nod, turn, and run as fast as you can from the massacre, finding safety from the pounding of boots.

You rush into the thickening forest as more cannons boom, signaling the end of the initial slaughter. None pursue you further into the shadows of the trees. You slump against a trunk, chest heaving.

And yet your thoughts wander to how Leon is faring, to the crestfallen look on his face that surely must adorn his expression, because you could’ve allied with one another.

But you know it’s best this way.

There can only be one winner, after all.

<><><><>

You’ve had your eye on her since you woke up. She’s too loud to miss, like a clumsy deer separated from its family. She crashes into everything, making a racket, and she risks giving away your location, too.

So you track her.

Your footsteps are light, albeit not completely quiet. Still, your victim, the girl from District 5, has not noticed, and you adapt to the shadows, moving as one with them, as if you’re truly just back on a hunt in District 12.

How proud would Chris be of you? He would finally accept your hunting tread, finally praise you, stop teasing you for scaring away potential game. You long for his comforting presence here, but he is not here, and the one person who is…

Well, the person who just happens to be one of your next targets.

But for now, you watch the girl that stalks towards another clearing. She waits, cautiously glancing around every two seconds, wasting precious time. You’re just about to take another step towards her when you notice the subtle change, unmissable to your trained eyes; the shift of colors in one specific area.

The leaves are brighter, less natural, as if placed there intentionally. You do not say a word as the girl fails to see the thin strings glinting sunlight in her way, sharp and silent, waiting for her. One at her feet trips her, and before she can catch herself, the strings slice into her skin. She lies there, whimpering, held up by the threads, before the one pressing at her stomach finally cuts through.

She tumbles down, dripping crimson. A moan passes her lips, pained, like an injured animal, but somehow, she manages to take a breath and twist her body around, craning her neck to assess the damage.

For a second, it seems as though all is okay. And then the lower half of her body slips down, and crumples a few inches away from her. Her entire digestive system, coated in glistening blood, splays out in front of her, slumping into the dead leaves.

From this angle, you can see her open her mouth to scream, but only a gurgle comes out as her mouth fills with blood. She catches sight of her bow, the one she wore to the interview, the one you had noticed her clutching dearly to her chest, lying on near her fingertips, and she strains to grab it.

Something snaps in her neck and she twitches for a moment before going still. Everything goes silent, as if nature itself is witnessing this moment.

The beautiful girl whose clumsiness was her downfall, whose name I never knew lies on the ground, a horrible, gruesome sight left of the woman who was once a daughter, a sister, a friend. She does not move again.

But the shadows around her do. And from those same shadows I hide in emerge the Careers, brutish, beefy boys that I had not paid much attention to at training, because you were too busy looking at that little brat.

You wonder which one of them has the brains to set up such a complicated, subtle trap, so cleverly placed that you might’ve missed it if she hadn’t already died. Just as you resolve to watch them cackle at the poor, dead girl, you notice another figure slip from the shadows.

And once they step into the sunlight, dappling their face in aligned patterns, you almost drop your knife onto the ground.

The boy standing there is someone you don't expect.

Leon.

[thedroneranger]

I Can Make It

Jake "Hangman" Seresin

Précis: Jake gets a lengthy deployment—will he make it home for the holiday?

Note: For @notroosterbradshaw’s #hello december playlist challenge. My song is One More Sleep by Leona Lewis—fic incorporates many of the song lyrics.

Warnings: Angst n' fluff

Word count: 1.7k

The last year had been hard.

While Jake was floating on a carrier in the icy waters somewhere between Greenland and Russia, you were in California starting your life as a married woman alone. 

You remembered last year vividly—you and Jake had just gotten out all your holiday decorations. As you sifted through boxes and checked lights, you were doing your best to sell Jake on going to Minnesota for the holidays. 

Born and bred in Texas, Jake never had the pleasure of a white winter. Snow was a foreign concept he never really encountered until he attended the U.S. Naval Academy in Maryland. Since college, Jake hadn’t been deployed many places where it was cold unless he was on an aircraft carrier, so the best he got was ice flows and permafrost.

Although you had been together for years, Jake had yet to make it to Minnesota during the winter. You wanted to fly into Duluth and then rent a car to drive to your parents’ place just outside of Two Harbors. After Christmas, you would continue up the Lake Superior coast to Grand Marias to your family’s lake house to ring in the New Year just the two of you.

Discussion of your pitch was cut short when Jake’s phone vibrated. He signaled it was a work call, so you continued assessing decor while he wandered into the kitchen to get away from the soft music you had playing.

“What’s wrong?” You stood as Jake returned to the room, looking disappointed. He wrapped his arms around your shoulders as you stepped into his embrace, encircling his waist with your arms. Your cheek laid against his hard chest, and his cheek rested on top of your head. 

“I’ve been tapped for a special mission. However, the deployment is eight to 10 months, and I leave on January first.”

This what you signed up for—you knew deployments would happen at inconvenient times. But it did not make hearing that your summer wedding and starting your family would have to be put on hold any easier.

Instead of stringing lights, you and Jake spent the afternoon rearranging the next year of your life. Jake could tell you were deflated from the news, so he ordered takeout and popped open a bottle of wine. 

“Let’s get married next week,” Jake said as he topped off your glass.

“Are…you serious?” You could not tell if he was messing with you as you settled into the couch.

Jake nodded. “Serious as a heart attack, honey.” He sat the bottle on the coffee table and joined you, laying an arm along the couch behind you. “Let’s go to Minnesota and get hitched. I want to come home to my wife in a year.” Your heart swelled three sizes at his statement. A smile pulled your lips as you leaned forward and pressed yours to his. 

A week later, on Christmas Eve, you and Jake stood at the end of a dock jetting into Lake Superior at your family cabin. The sun was shining, making the snow glitter and the ice glisten. Your family holiday had been extended to include Jake’s family, so both your parents, all your sisters and their families—partners and children—were huddled at the top of the dock to witness your wedding.

With the help of your sisters, Jake had surprised you by purchasing your dream dress, which thankfully wasn’t traditional, so it was tailored and ready in a matter of days. Jake wore a dark heather charcoal suit—you loved that it made his eyes pop. Jake’s oldest sister owned a salon back in Austin, so she lent her skills to you and Jake for the big day.

Your lifelong best friend, who happened to be a photographer, was recruited by your sisters to document your nuptials. And your father, a retired district judge in Duluth, officiated your ceremony. Your mothers could not help themselves and teamed up to cook one of the best meals you’ve ever had—a combination of traditional southern and midwestern dishes that featured many of yours and Jake’s favorites. 

The next morning, your families left you and Jake alone at the cabin. It was the closest thing to a honeymoon you were going to get, and you were thankful to have a couple days at the lake. 

You were dreaming of the few days you woke up shrouded in the warmth from the fireplace and tangled with Jake between the sheets as the pair of you drove to the base. Jake kept his eyes on the road and his fingers laced with yours on the center console. Meanwhile, you could not take your eyes off him. “Why are you staring, weirdo?” he teased. 

A smile crept across your face as you squeezed his hand and looked away for a minute. “Soaking you in—this is going to be the longest we’ve been apart.” It was his turn to steal a glance at you. He then raised your entwined fists and kissed them.

You were proud of yourself—you managed to keep it together until you climbed back into the vehicle. It took you 15 minutes to compose yourself and the tears to subside enough that you could drive home.

Nearly a year later, you weren’t sure Jake would be home for the holiday. Once his deployment hit eight months, it became nine, then 10. Ten turned into 11 and now he was in Month 12 headed into Month 13. 

You didn’t even bother to get the holiday decorations out. Not wanting to chance spending the holiday alone, you packed your bags and caught a flight to Minnesota. Since he had finally admitted that he enjoyed your home state in the winter, you agreed he would come there if he were to make it home.

The last time you spoke, Jake chattered about how excited he was to celebrate your anniversary. He was hoping you two could sneak away to the cabin. You agreed but didn’t want to get your hopes up. Although the last time you spoke you knew it was five more nights until he was next to you, you kept telling yourself one more sleep until you saw him. Daily doses of disappointment seemed more manageable than a week’s worth of time.

Lost in your memories of you and Jake, holding a warm mug of coffee and irish cream, you were staring out the living room window into the darkness of night. Fluffy flakes fluttered through the crisp air and disappeared into the undisturbed gentle slopes of a fresh snow blanket. The decorative lights on the house cast a golden glow, making the snow sparkle.

Your mind spiraled further into your memory bank to your youth, recalling the sound of your boots stamping prints into the fresh accumulation and the sound of snow falling all around you. Being alone in the silence of snowfall was your childhood escape. “Ma, I’m going for a walk!” You abandoned your drink on the nearest surface, slipped on your boots, coat, hat and mittens before bounding out the door.

Your nose was already chilling, surely turning red, and your lungs burned from inhaling the icy air. Muscle memory had your legs carrying you to the trailhead that disappeared into the treeline on the backside of your childhood home. As your eyes adjusted to the darkness, a smile pulled your lips as you listened to the silence and the hard crunch beneath your feet. It was tough to say how much time passed while you stood on the trail, listening to the snow, letting the flakes hit your face, feeling your resolve harden.

In the distance, you heard crunching. Keeping your eyes closed, you listened as it neared. Years of listening to the snow, you knew those were human feet, and they were headed your way. Curious who would approach you, you kept your eyes closed and just listened. The crunching was within yards of you when it stopped.

“We’ve got a lot of catching up to do,” you heard from behind you. Your entire body tensed. Eyes cautiously opening, you turned to look over your shoulder. Jake was casually standing there, hands in his pockets, smiling at you. 

Still in disbelief, you turned your entire body to face him. “Hey, stranger,” you greeted.

His smile grew three sizes bigger, his dimples really digging into his cheeks. “Has it been that long?” he teased as he stepped toward you.

Pursing your lips, you glanced at the ground and then at him. “Just 357 days.”

“But who’s counting?” He continued to walk closer. His hands were still in his pockets, while yours were balled in your mittens at your sides.

You shrugged as he closed the distance between you. “I had my doubts you’d get back home,” you added. Your eyes were locked on his, your head tilting back to keep eye contact as he stepped into your personal space. Your lip disappeared between your teeth as you watched him lean closer and closer—his eyes landing on your mouth.

Jake’s warm hand slipped out of his pocket and gently cradled your jaw, his index finger resting behind your ear and his thumb resting on your cheek. Your lips were almost touching. “I told you I’d be with you real soon, honey,” he said before pressing his lips to yours. His warmth melted the winter night chill. Jake pulled away and let his thumb graze your bottom lip while his hand remained on the side of your face.

“I’m still in shock that you’re really here,” you confessed. His signature smile reappeared—nearly as radiant as the snow. He pulled you as close as your thick down coats would allow and pressed a lingering kiss to your lips. 

“I can think of a few ways to prove I’m really here.” He held you so your bodies were completely pressed to one another. “But first, let’s go celebrate the holiday with your folks.” He gave you one more kiss—this one hungrier than the last. 

“You can prove yourself when we get to the cabin tomorrow night.” Lust was evident in your voice. You slipped your mitted hand around his and led the way back to the house.

[danisbrainrot]

lucy gray x reader

autumn had frosted over, turning into the bitter and freezing winter that district twelve was forced to endure. the cabin by the lake was barely insulated, making nights almost impossible to survive without several thick blankets.

you were already in bed, staring at the ceiling as you waited for your girlfriend to return to bed. your mind floated back to the food you'd both stored throughout the house, wondering if that would be enough to last you through the winter. you certainly hoped so—its not like you had much else to do if you didn't. if it didn't last, you'd starve. or eat each other. . . you laughed at the thought. sure, her were consumed by her love—but not literally.

lucy gray was watching the dying embers of the fireplace, poking at the hearth with an iron rod. she sighed, watching as the flickering flames reflected on her face. it was so cold that night, all she wanted to do was cuddle you and warm up. as the last of the flames danced to death, she began to feel a chill running up her spine. goosebumps decorating her arms and legs, she realised that it was time to get warm.

lucy gray had been shivering when she'd gotten into bed, her cold feet pressed against your toasty warm legs. you teasingly pushed her away, "your feet are too cold for cuddles."

"how else am I supposed to warm up?" she whined, snuggling into you. her cool body pressed against your warm one provided both of you some comfort.

you enveloped her hands in yours in an attempt to warm them up. she placed a freezing kiss to your cheek, causing you to gasp. "your lips practically blue," you complained.

"I guess you're just gonna have to kiss it red," lucy gray teased, puckering her lips and closing her eyes. you laughed, pulling her underneath you and planting sloppy kisses all over her face.

finally, your lips found hers and she kissed you softly, enjoying the warmth radiating from your body. your weight felt so good against her, "am I too heavy?" you asked, suddenly feeling conscious about how you were practically squishing her.

"nothing I can't handle, besides, I'm not complaining. you're making me feel nice and toasty," she joked, capturing your lips in another kiss.

the two of you remained tangled in each other's limbs for the rest of the night; snuggled in close the cold was kept out of your cozy safe haven. lucy gray's head was pressed against your chest, as she listened to your steady heartbeat to send her to sleep. you smiled warmly as she snored into your chest.

[zofi-persson-quotes]

Clisa, the Capitol

Clisa is the name of Tir na nOg's capitol, and is the political and academic centre of the kingdom.

Clisa is also the largest and oldest city, the beating heart of the entire kingdom. To the north, south and west it is connected to the rest of the kingdom, while to the east it faces the ocean with its port, one of the largest in the kingdom. One of the most famous attractions of the port is the colossal lighthouse, the Light of Hope, from which you can observe a small archipelago a few kilometers from the coast.

In the center of the capital you can find a huge lake, the Ethereal Loch, and in the center of it you can find the two royal palaces.

The first is the largest and most recent, the current seat of rulers. The palace is called Celnaer Hold, and was built about 2000 years ago.

The second is much older, now reduced to a ruin, and belonged to the Forgotten King before being mostly destroyed by the Tyrant, the traitor who possibly killed the Forgotten King and ruled over the kingdom for 100 years before dying. The palace’s name was Starm Castle, and it was built about 4900 years ago, remaining in use until the end of the Forgotten King’s reign.

The two castles are located on two small islands in the middle of the lake, both connected by white brick roads. Halfway through the islands and the shore there's a smaller artificial island, which is used as a plaza for important events.

On the north shore of the lake is the most prestigious academy of magic in the kingdom, Nekiara. The Academia was founded about 3,000 years ago, and is one of the few things that remained intact after the fall of the Forgotten Kingdom. Although the school is prestigious, it is accessible to all by will of the rulers. In front of it there's the Elemental Plaza, a square famous for the festival the students put together every spring.

To the east of the academy is located the Twin River Plaza, a large park very popular with students as a meeting place after classes or as a relaxing place to study. The park is named for the presence of two rivers that intersect in the center of the park, dividing it into four sectors, each with a different style. The first sector is in Asian style, the second is in Celtic style, the third is in modern style, while the fourth is in medieval style.

Next to the park is the commercial district of the kingdom, which is also popular among students due to the many shops, taverns, and bars in the area. Bars and taverns are popular meeting and study spots, while shops provide both school supplies and miscellaneous items to decorate dorm rooms or for personal use.

[uwlmvac]

Over 9,300 pottery sherds were collected during 2008 excavations at one of the sites in the Sand Lake Archaeological District, near Onalaska, Wisconsin. Of those, nearly 160 rims and decorated body sherds were categorized into likely ceramic wares and types based on their grit or shell temper, form, and decoration. But categories created by archaeologists today to make sense of what people made in the past cannot neatly cover everything. A small group of anomalous sherds, all from different excavation units, had distinctive characteristics but defied classification into types. One grit-tempered rim (upper left) flares to a flattened lip and has a cord marked exterior surface. Another cord roughened grit-tempered sherd (upper right) thins to a rounded lip. It may fit the local Middle Woodland type Shorewood Cord Roughened. A third rim has a cord impression over a folded lip (lower right). It is grit-tempered but might also contain shell temper, a possible mix of Terminal Late Woodland and Mississippian clay preparations. One grit-tempered body sherd has parallel tool trails (lower left). It could be from a Terminal Late Woodland type vessel or from a rare grit-tempered Oneota pot.

[themousefromfantasyland]

Okay, since my friend @thealmightyemprex frequently posts about their original work with the goddesses, I guess I can post about my work.

This is what I have been working these past few days instead of writing my story. I have been worldbuilding a setting for it.

Please, judge this place and give me back your feedback

Avabourg

Overview

Avabourg, officially the Princesstocratic Kingdom of Avabourg, is a sovereign city state and microstate located in the Northwest region of Nemolia. It is a semi-enclave bordered by the kingdom of Matakin to the north, east and west.

Located on the shore of Lake Rapunzel, it has a territory of 234 square miles (606 square kilometers) and a population of 2,746,388 people according to the last census, making it the most densely populated sovereign state. The official languages are Freutsch, Shier, Olu, and are spoken and understood by many residents.

The kingdom is governed under a form of electoral monarchy, with the Queen being elected by the parliament and serving a life position as head of state. The King is head of the military and is elected alongside the Queen as her vice. The Prime Princess is the head of government and is elected by the vote of the Princes and Princesses of the parliament in two turns. Elected officials of Legislative, and Judiciary, as well as trained members of the Military forces are given the title of Prince and Princess, making Avabourg the only kingdom in all Nemolia where aristocratic titles are used in government positions.

Avabourg is an international hub for culture, commerce, industry, education, technology, telecommunications, and transportation. Avabourg made noted contributions to urban planning, architecture, technology, finances, and the faeric arts, such as the Frau Holle Academy, the development of the Beautiful City Movement, the financial district of Field of Miracles, and the steel-framed skyscraper.

Avabourg is world renown for its extremely open policy of refugee rescuing and sheltering. Avabourg citizenship is also known for being extremely easy to obtain, with the only requirements being a beating heart, one foot, and a hand with more than two fingers. There are currently debates about ending the hand with two fingers requirement.

The nation’s official symbol is the orange tree.

Geography

Avamoor is at the Southwest shores of Lake Rapunzel.

The city is divided into six boroughs: Nouveau Sight, Millionaire’s Shantytown, Forevergreen, Gardenia, Riverside, and Rocky Road.

Nouveau Sight

At the center there is Nouveau Sight, the most densely populated borough and the core of the Avabourg metropolitan area. Nouveau Sight serves as Avabourg's economic and administrative center. In this borough skyscrapers and century old buildings stand side by side. Buildings with significant cultural or historical value are encapsulated in giant domes of steel and glass.

There are ornate suspended gardens and fields of flowers in every level of the buildings.

The borough is known for its huge population of Hoblings (halflings) and for being a center for Hobling culture for the last one hundred years.

Nabini Ort has also the largest number of Nabini people outside of Nabus. (African inspired land)

At the heart of the Nouveau Sight, there is the Silver Palace, which houses the Parliament, the Supreme Court, the National Library, and the National Museum. It’s also the home of the King and Queen of Avabourg and their families.

On the palace courtyard there’s the House of Glass, which abrigates a botanic garden. The largest species on the House of Glass is the giant Orange Tree, a gift from the Sanid Empire (Iran inspired land). The giant Orange Tree is the kingdom’s symbol.

Riverside

At the northeast is Riverside. It’s famous for heavily ornate gondolas that flow over the channels decorated with stone walls overgrown with evergreens.

Since the 1950s, Riverside has been known for its lively cultural life where there is a concentration of many restaurants and bars where Avabourgers artists and intellectuals would meet.

It’s where Frau Holle Academy is located. The building is five stories high and it emerges from the waters with ancient Preteric Architecture. Frau Holle Academy only started accepting male students ten years ago and there’s still disputes about making the institution fully co-ed. It’s reference in the study and research of the faeric arts and witchcraft.

It has the largest concentration of Sanid people outside of Sanidia. (Iranians)

It’s the birthplace of Javelin, a music genre that heavily uses javelins, trumpet-horns, accordions, and lyres. Its songs are both poetic and playful, varying from romantic to comedic.

Rocky Road

At the northwest is Rock Road. It’s the farthest away from Nouveau Sight and from the River Prestus. Rocky Road is known for its thin dark towers made of black stone and soil of pitch black sand. It’s also known for the Viola flowers, creeping purple flowers with an intense scent that grow at the bases of the stone towers, one of the few vegetation life that can grow there. It’s an area of intense industrial activity.

The towers serve the function of stopping any possible air or water pollution from escaping and contaminating the population or rest of the city.

The large factories of the region are moved entirely by faeritricity, a power source extracted straight from the ground with minimum emissions of carbon. Avabourg is near the crossing of two ley lines.

It’s an area of landfills, as well as recycling centers and Inferno Ovens dedicated to transforming residues into a secondary power source of faeritricity.

Millionaires’ Shantytown

At the southeast is Millionaires’ Shantytown. It’s located over the hills that border the shores of Lake Rapunzel. It corresponds to the highest property values and taxes in Avabourg. It has an ethnically and culturally diverse population of 13.2 thousand people.

It's home to many celebrities and it is noted for numerous hotels and resorts, and it’s known as the place of the rich and famous.

The Glass Beaches are a popular attraction: private beaches encapsulated by glass houses that keep a Tropical weather all year long.

The Silver Light is a neighborhood in the central region of the burrough, and it’s the film and television industry center in Avabourg. It’s also home of the Camera Heads, creatures with cameras for heads that are responsible for all the filming and recording processes.

Forevergreen

To the southwest is Forevergreen. It’s a suburban area with low traffic and a high forested area, with most properties being built under trees or over then.

Winnies, racial group originated from the Hundred Acre Wood, seem to have become the majority since 1926.

It’s home for seven of twelve largest universities of Avabourg. They are also the biggest exporters of honey.

Gardenia

To the south there is Gardenia. Gardenia consists of seven villages distant from the downtown area. Its economy is entirely agriculture and agropecuary based.

The eight villages are Boring, Humbug, Hamelin, Back-in-my-day, Trumpistania, Talkey, Malafaia, and Ruritania.

The population is mostly northist humans, and is heavily conservative.

Okay guys. What do you think?

@ariel-seagull-wings @tamisdava2 @mask131 @princesssarisa @the-blue-fairie @theancientvaleofsoulmaking @natache @thealmightyemprex

[the69thgames]

Fanmade District 21

District 21 P.1 - Landfills

alright, so in my timeline district 21 was formerly a district split in half between landfills and recycling centers

in the landfill part, imagine Wall-E. their job is to box up garbage and compact it so that there is more space. they practically live in these garbage piles and sort through all the materials

some materials are sent to the recycling center, some of them can be composted, some are used in their furniture or houses, some are burned, and some just stay there forever

their lifestyle is very dirty and really unsanitary, since their waters are mostly contaminated they get most of their water from the clean rivers, lakes, and streams in the Capitol

they do have a built up resistance to most germs and sicknesses, being born and raised around it, and they are often strong from carrying heaps of garbage moving place to place. their food situation is the same as their water situation, they get most of their food from the Capitol

though, they do eat some animals such as mutated gigantic insects, rats, and sometimes raccoons

they also have a culture where you can't waste anything, everything you use will be reused or remade. and they find it terrible to have several sentimental items, finding it useless, their only sentimental items are usually only 1-5 and they always wear it or keep it on themselves, showing they aren't wasting the items even though it's just decoration

this same mindset also leads to some families being cannibals, but it's more of a sacrificial way? they honor their dead by reusing what was once theirs so there will always be a part of them for everyone, despite passing away. since in their death, they are still beneficial and helping support the family/community

imagine that one animal that people used every part of? like their bones, skin, meat, horns, organs, they used everything to its fullest because they truly honored the animal and were thankful for them, finding it more disrespectful to waste their precious material

that's similar to how they find people, which lead them to cannibalism, it's a more wholesome take on it being their culture and all, what they were raised to believe was moral and was therefore right. similar to how Capitols were raised to believe the games where kids kill each other was fun and entertaining but cannibalism was disgusting

anyways, this district was eventually disbanded (mostly because of their culture because I can't find a good reason for why the Capitol would get rid of this district) and was spread Districts 3, 5, and 13. after 13 was "destroyed", however, some of this work was given to District 6 and to some of the lower class in the Capitol

District 21 P.2 - Recycling Centers

ok, second part. so although the recycling centers still share district 21 with the landfills, they are disgusted by them, and share a vastly different culture

there's like three main things they recycle, plastics, papers, and metals

the people from the papers are definitely the happiest and they have the least polluted section (albeit, still very polluted compared to other districts)

the people from the metals are definitely stronger, having to carry such heavy stuff. they're kind of clean freaks and are all germaphobes, not wanting to infect the precious metals

the people from the plastics have the most terrible pollution, are just as badly starved as the people in the landfill (or as they call the junkyard) but they act like they are better than them. they are also germaphobes and they disinfect everything for the Capitol

actually are three parts have to disinfect stuff or else they'll be punished so it's pretty bad, but I would say the plastics have it the worst off due to being the most produced

it sounded more interesting in my head but because of their clean freak culture they enter a state of shock and disgust every single time something dirty happens. like they'll hit themselves and cry over their shit and piss. like they publicly embarrass people for burping or farting

and funnily enough, this is more of a public cover. at their homes gross (normal) stuff is allowed, just minimal of it compared to a normal household. like seriously, they are human and they do stuff like excrete waste and have sex but it's really taboo to talk or even imply these kinds of things in public

also everyone wears weird suits, they come in several colors, but almost always lighter colors to prove that they aren't dirty or anything. if someone wears a dark color it's considered disrespectful to the culture or they think you're just gross and dirty. in fact, their mourning color is white, or as close as you can get to it

if they're not working, everyone wears very conservative clothing that covers all their bodies, and they'll wear gloves and often times masks

also everyone is bald. or almost bald, basically they think hair is really dirty and gross too

anyways this district eventually disbanded as well and spread across the same as it's other half was

and sorry that the recycling centers are more underdeveloped compared to the landfills, there's like this anime where there's a junkyard place so that kinda inspired me (Meteor City form HunterXHunter)

and if you are curious as of to why this is district 21 and not 14, I do have other fanmade districts you can check out

[solar-halos]

december prompts #9 fuzzy socks<3

omg thank you for this prompt it was soso fun <3. since i got a lil carried away the odesta fluff will commence under the cut!! :D

established relationship, artsy annie cresta

It hardly ever snows in District 4, which is majorly fucked up.

Annie loves the snow. She doesn’t remember much about her Victory Tour, ‘cause the Capitol kept her so doped up all the time, but she does remember that she got to play in it a few times.

It was so deep that Annie had to wear special clothes, delighting in the way the pillowy ground swallowed her heavy boots in the strangest rendition of shaved ice she’s ever seen. Mags stood guard to make sure that Annie didn’t eat shit. She even knitted her a scarf to place around the snowman the Capitol escort taught her how to make.

District 4 doesn’t have any snowmen, but it sure does have a lot of shaved ice. Pineapple syrup drips from Annie’s chin and sizzles onto the pavement.

Johanna was so lucky. She’s been swaddled in sweaters and chugging hot chocolate since October. District 4 always seems to miss the memo, but Annie has to admit it’s pretty wicked that she and her boyfriend can still go on romantic night swims during what’s usually the dead of winter for most districts.

She shifts a bit in her flowy dress so she can sit closer to Finnick. They couldn’t venture far from his house before the entire district started getting all fucking nosey, so she’s completely content to press her freezing cold lips to his cheek from the safety of his porch.

He melts in relief, a testament to how blazing hot it is. He asks her to do it again.

She obliges. She peppers his face with kisses until he’s as sticky as the syrup baked onto her wrists. Which would probably sound a little gross if he wasn’t her soulmate and she wasn’t his.

They have little ways of protesting nasty heatwaves, though. They barricade themselves inside, air conditioning on full blast (they’re victors—they can afford to get a little frivolous), and Finnick makes all these tasty soups. Annie knits blankets and sweaters and cardigans with Mags until they’re buried under scrap pieces of yarn. They’re cozy, even if the sun streaming through their curtains would say otherwise.

She sends most of the pieces to Johanna. Johanna expresses her gratitude in the form of a letter, a bundle of fuzzy socks attached.

They’re almost as soft as snow. Finnick slips the pair with colorful mushrooms decorating the fabric onto her feet, claiming the ones with maple leaves for himself.

They scramble to their feet to show Mags their new look, sock-clad feet slipping against the tiled floor, and then promptly eat shit.

Turns out fuzzy socks were just as slippery as snow, too. Good to know. The gears in her brain start to turn when she’s reading Johanna’s newest letter, complete with a picture of ice skates and a frozen lake.

“We should go ice skating!”

Finnick doesn’t even question it, because of course he doesn’t. They’re one and the same, unlike the snowflakes they hang from the ceiling using construction paper and glitter glue, because Annie heard somewhere that all snowflakes are unique. They blast the AC so the paper doesn’t wilt, and once Finnick’s nose gets pink from the cold and Annie can feel a chill bite at her cheeks, they rifle through their winter clothes.

Annie slips on a scarf, Finnick pulls a sweater over his head, and then they spritz an extra tall swirl of whipped cream over their mugs of hot chocolate. Annie even garnishes it with some crushed up peppermint candy she bought the other day.

And then comes the best part: clearing out the stuff in the kitchen until it’s bare and completely skate-able.

They race from one end of the kitchen to the other, pushing off the wall and holding their arms out for balance as their socks glide against the tile. (Annie wins). They have a spinning contest. (Finnick wins.) They dance the afternoon away. (It was a team effort.)

Finnick doesn’t even need to grab onto her waist to twirl her around. All he really has to do is hold her hand and run around in circles like a tetherball, fingers clasped around hers in the warmest version of a hug Annie’s ever received. She giggles as a cool front whips against her scarf. They must be under a vent.

He dips her, holding her against him extra securely. She grins, so dizzy that she sees three of him.

That’s okay. She kisses him three extra times to make up for it, the gesture warming her all the way down to her sock-footed toes.

(^ live footage of johanna and annie and the gang ice skating together)

[pwlanier]

JAMES I OAK AND ASH TURNER’S/THROWN ARMCHAIR

ENGLAND - North Country, Possibly Lake District, circa 1620

Known as a ‘Turner’s chair’ because all the parts, including the seat, are turned on a pole-lathe by a wood-turner – except for the unusual nulled-carved and punched-decorated horizontal rails and uprights incorporated into the back. A most unusual feature of this chair is that the back uprights terminate with pendants and as such are disengaged from a single rear leg, the latter forming a three-post base with the bold, turned front supports. With four spindles between the front seat rail and the front stretcher, and a row of ball finials along the top edge of the stepped and curved cresting rail.

Stools and chairs are the most important aspects of turners’ furniture. The role of the turner is usually considered a secondary function – as a decorator of joined furniture, taking on aesthetic rather than structural responsibilities. Yet the turner was also responsible for an independent range of items, which included furniture, spinning wheels, mortars, cups, bowls and scales. The principle of turnery consists of shaping a piece of wood with chisels whilst it revolves around an axis between the jaws of a lathe. This process was precisely described in the seventeenth Century: ‘…Any substance, be it Wood, Ivory, Brass, etc., pitcht steddy upon two points (as on an Axis), and moved about on that Axis, also describes a Circle concentric to the Axis; And an Edge-Tool set steddy to that part of the Aforesaid Substance that is nearest the Axis, will in a Circumvolution of that Substance, cut off all the parts of Substance that lies further off the Axis and make the outside of that Substance also Concentrick to the Axis… This is a brief Collection, and indeed the whole Summ of Turning…’. (see Victor Chinnery, ‘Oak Furniture: The British Tradition’, Antique Collectors’ Club, 1979, pp. 81-86 for information about turning; and pp.87-104 for information about turned chairs). The terms ‘turner’ and ‘thrower’ mean the same thing, thus the classic turned chairs are described as both ‘turneyed’ and ‘throwen’ in English inventory.

Coulborn and Sons

[lymphomalass]

Lake District Mountain View Throw Blanket

This watercolour landscape, which I painted from part way up Glenridding Dodd, is available printed on all kinds of lovely homewares at:

Thanks!

Sam aka LymphomaLass xx

[tisiphonewolfe]

Made With Crown And Claw: WIP Intro

Original fiction - The Tectomany Saga Book One

Pitch: A Princess ends up locked in a tower, but the dragon is a girl she used to fancy.

Genre: High Fantasy

Word Count: 130k

Staus: Fourth draft complete

Releine Sholt is a soldier who can't find a purpose for her life beyond putting it on the line. She is hand-picked to be the new guard captain for the capricious Princess Almyra Tectus, with one key stipulation - she must never speak to her, on threat of dire punishment.

The Tectus family was blessed by the goddess Ialme with divine magic that can alter the forms of creatures and objects - something Almyra consistently fails at. Her father is determined to find his daughter a worthy spouse to continue that lineage.

Releine and Almyra find themselves embroiled in the scemes of goddesses, immortal witches, assassins, and treacherous nobles while dealing with their burgeoning attraction to one another.

Features:

🐲 DRAGONS!

🐲 Sapphic romance and non-cis characters

🐲 There was only one bed: Hard Mode

🐲 A heist

🐲 World-bending divine magic

🐲 The trans elf anti-pope

🐲 Intrigue, schemes, and mysteries

Content Warnings (CW): Body horror, gore, lifechanging injury, violence.

Character Intros

Releine || Almyra || Jessa || Tenacity || More to come . . .

Setting

The Tectomancy Saga takes place in a bowl-shaped world, with nothing below the rim but swirling mists, and a vast, deep forest spanning the middle.

Hundreds of years ago, the peoples of the world were each blessed by their goddess (or witch, or genius as some like to argue) with a divine magic that has shaped their culture. Now the world is decaying, and a struggle for control over the magics has begun.

Taglist (DM to be added or removed): @indy-gray @sam-glade

First chapter below the cut

For centuries, scientists and philosophers in the Academic Ring of Leirsham vastly agreed that the world was round. The bright lights that decorate our skies at night must be the glimmering lights of far-off cities - the sun lazily circles the interior of this sphere, loyally followed by its lunar companion.

This was the accepted notion until one brave explorer found the edge of the world; high in the mountains to the east, beyond dead and decaying lands into which humans rarely dared to venture, she saw the truth - the world is a vast bowl.

Blue mists boiled and churned far below, creeping around the sheer cliff edge as the brave explorer dangled her legs off the edge, frozen in wonder and fear, sure that any moment she’d tumble down into their greedy embrace and be forever forgotten, left to the mysteries below.

Not far from where the explorer had sat, nestled away in the mountains, a stream bubbles up from under the ground. It bumbles its way through the valleys where snow Alfar purportedly made their home, and through the rocky tundra that hosted sturdy mountain Droichs. From there, it rages and rumbles through the plains - a fork of it taking a detour to trundle through deep forests in the middle of the bowl, past the territory of the elusive forest Alfar and into the dense, tangled, and gloomy places where Beastfolk roam. The first branch becomes the River Ilt; it thunders once more, through hills and farmland, before depositing itself into Lake Simul, where humans chose to build their capital city.

Across the bridge, to the hill-island in the centre of the lake. Up the cliff, through the great stone rings of the city; the guard outposts; the residential district; the merchants’ and artificers’ marketplace; the Guilds’ and the Academic Rings; the military barracks; the homes of the rich and the noble; and lastly, the palace.

In one courtyard, in a corner of the palace walls, in a line of steely soldiers and mercenaries, Releine Sholt was staring at a slightly smug statue and trying very hard not to move.

❖

The previous night, she had slammed her fists into the commander’s desk and growled; “This is a ridiculous idea, Sir. I didn’t join up to hold umbrellas and open doors for the King’s brat.”

Hidrim Grant had levelled a tired gaze over his reading spectacles and put his quill back in the ink-pot with his meaty, scarred hand. “Careful, Sholt. You’re talking about the Princess of our realm, heir apparent. And all that. Shouldn’t talk about her disrespectfully, I suppose. Besides, she’s older than you.”

“No, sir”, Releine had complained through clenched teeth. “But everyone knows she’s a brat.”

“Hmm. Well, don’t look at it like that. This is an honour, soldier - most people would kill for this opportunity.” Grant had blown the ink dry on the hastily-scribbled missive in front of him and dropped it into a grimy ‘out’ tray. “It’s easy work for an officer’s pay.”

Releine had clenched her fists as her mouth flapped open and closed a couple of times. “Officer’s pay . . . ?”

“Yup.”

“You’re taking pity on me.”

Grant had rubbed the wrinkles of exhaustion from his brow. “I won’t lie. I know your family situation, yeah. That’s not all there is to it though.” He had gotten up and moved closer to her, perching on the edge of his desk companionably. “You are the best this company has. You’ve excelled in your training, you’re a smart lass, you’ve seen combat - well, some combat. Enough. Most importantly though, you exercise discretion and you know how to keep your mouth shut.”

Releine had said nothing. Grant had studied her expression - cold, deep eyes peered out over an arched nose. A scar graced her freckled cheeks from the corner of an eye down to her heavy jawline. Her thin lips were pursed, and her forehead creased between her dark eyebrows. Grant had known the kid since she was knee-height and knew that this look meant: “I’m trying to appear defiant in a poor attempt to hide the fact that I’m considering it.” In many ways, she hadn’t changed much.

“Look,” Grant had pressed, “It’s only a selection anyway. There will be at least a dozen other soldiers there from the other companies. Probably some from the mercenary guild too. It’s not like you’re signing on the dotted line just by going to the thing.”

The forehead-creases had deepened.

“It’s worth a shot, no? Just see how it is.”

Muscled arms had folded over her chest.

“Don’t make me order you.”

Grant had breathed an internal sigh of relief as the girl’s tall, awkward frame collapsed backwards onto a creaking wooden chair. Maybe this would work out after all. “Fine”, she had sighed with resignation, “I’ll do it.” Hastily she had added “Sir”, after a moment’s pause.

Lamplight had flickered over the pocked oak panels of Grant’s office. “Good. Well. That’s settled then. So let’s go over the rules.” Releine had raised an eyebrow as Grant continued. “The King is very particular about the conduct of the Royal Guards, so listen closely . . . ”

❖

With the commander’s advice circling in her head, Releine had arrived at the palace this crisp late-spring morning. Vouched for by commanders and guild leaders, the soldiers were ushered through the lush grounds by hushed staff, leaves crunching under heavy leather boots and clanking sabatons.

Releine craned her neck at the palace; this was the first time she’d seen it up close. It rose from the crest of the hill like a great patch of mushrooms, seeming not built, but grown. A statue in front of her was similarly hewn out of the ground, not atop the flagstones, or embedded in them, but part of them. The stonework betrayed not the impact of a chisel, but the touch of a fingertip. New styles of magnificence had been added over the centuries according to the occupants’ tastes, creating a grandiose hodge-podge of clashing columns, balconies, arches, and windows, all fighting to dictate the overall style - which ultimately was that this was the residence of a group of people with far too much time and money on their hands. Releine enjoyed thinking that all that investment hadn’t stopped the place from being ugly.

A tense silence had fallen over the lines of soldiers - she assumed that they had all had similar lectures from their superiors to what Commander Grant had given her last night. With this knowledge, there wasn’t even an uneasy shuffling. Nobody muttered. Nobody twitched. Barely anybody even dared to chance a breath.

The rule of utmost import that Releine held steady in her head right now was this: “Do not speak in the presence of the Princess, not even if you’re spoken to. Don’t react to her in any way other than to follow her commands. For all other purposes, you are a plank of wood. You got that, Sholt? She’s going to try it on with you, you know. She wants that reaction. Don’t give it to her. You don’t want to end up like the last one.”

Grant had not specified what had happened to the last one.

Whatever the reason for this arcane rule, it would apply to Releine throughout her service here, should she be lucky enough to receive job of personal guard to Her Highness Princess Almyra Tectus, heir to the throne, darling of the city, beloved of the people, and spoiled royal extraordinaire. It made sense to Releine, quite suddenly, why she was only ever seen waving from a distance, stood behind her daddy on some balcony, or trapped behind a carriage door; for whatever reason, the King would not allow his daughter to be sullied by hearing common voices. The money, she thought, had bloody better be worth it.

Almyra Tectus flounced into the courtyard on the stately heels of her father, His Majesty King Ifys Tectus, the thirty-second king of Humankind. Releine barely acknowledged King Ifys Tectus and his many titles being smoothly announced by an unassuming herald. Her response to the man himself was purely automatic - ankles together, back straight, salute held at a perfect angle, entirely at attention - the muscular mercenary-looking woman next to her didn’t do quite so well, taking a moment to react and awkwardly toss a salute into the air. Releine’s eyes flickered briefly over the King - to be fair, he didn’t seem like the kind of man who intended to hold anyone’s attention for long. For all purposes, he looked more like a guild money-keeper than royalty. He wore a stuffy grey suit, a shirt with ruffled sleeves, and a blue cravat - for that splash of colour to show he could be fun, she supposed. His thick ceremonial cloak was draped messily over his shoulders and very much looked like it didn’t want to be there either, but we have to make this work, Your Majesty. No crown was atop his graying hair - an understated silver circlet hid above his furrowed brow. An awkward half-smile peeked through his goatee as he scanned the courtyard of people before him. If he’d offered them a cheeky wink, Releine wouldn’t have been surprised.

But Releine’s fleeting glance at the King was eclipsed by her. Almyra Tectus was a woman of about her age, though the way she skipped through the courtyard was reminiscent of a child at play. She had a wave of ginger hair and bright, round green eyes that sparkled below a jewelled tiara and above full pink cheeks. A purple shawl was tied in a pretty bow over the puffiest, most ruffly periwinkle dress she had ever seen, with the hint of some very impractical shoes going on somewhere in the explosion of petticoats below. And she was short - Releine decided that whoever had sculpted, painted, or otherwise portrayed her royal visage had been carefully instructed to add a few inches to her height and just that bit more classical goddess-archetypal beauty, thank you. Her scan of the courtyard differed from her father’s - she blew hair out of her face and fiddled with her necklace as her eyes flickered from person to person. Her father’s half-smile said “absent-minded”. Almyra’s said “This is the most interesting thing that has happened to me all week and I’m ready to get into some mischief.” Releine stared at her, probably for far too long, as those green eyes flicked over to her. Snapping back to reality, she quickly turned her gaze directly ahead and pretended she had always been looking at absolutely nothing, not even the stones in the wall ahead of her, a technique known and practised by most soldiers for exactly such ceremonial occasions as these. Hopefully, she thought, it hadn’t been too late. This occasion was already stressful enough without any mischief. The King cleared his throat generously and spoke in a plummy voice. “Ahem. Hem. Good of you all to be here on such short notice, my compliments to your commanding officers. Unfortunately, my daughter’s previous personal guard was quite suddenly lost - a fine young warrior such as yourselves - and the position is quite essential to fill. We shan’t take too much of your time.” He turned to his daughter. “Any one you like, Myra, my dear.”

The Princess began to pace between the rows, hands clasped behind her back, a carefully-chosen mock scowl with one raised eyebrow on her face. The heavy silence was broken only by the sound of the King fumbling through his robes for a rolled cigarette and the hiss of a match being struck. The hair on the back of Releine’s neck prickled as Almyra passed behind her, the clack of her heels stopping briefly as she said to the men behind her, “Hmm. No, not you. Or you. You . . . Maybe. Oh, this one won’t do at all.”

Almyra made her way back to Releine’s row and she mentally recoiled, expecting any second to hear the Princess arbitrarily dismiss her too. It wasn’t that she even particularly wanted this job. Her plan had always been to support her mother and younger siblings either through her military wage, or from the payout that her death in service would afford them. Grant had been right that her family situation was dire and that the higher pay afforded to the relatively peaceful life of a royal guard would be an enormous boon to them. It just didn’t feel particularly right to Releine - she felt that she belonged on the battlefield, where her life would at least be of use to someone. Still, to her frustration, she wasn’t quite ready to feel the sting of rejection from her royal highness. Fortunately, the Princess passed right on by and stopped at the mercenary to her left who had struggled with her salute earlier.

Staring up at the statuesque woman with her hands on her hips and feet set apart, Almyra cocked her head, inspecting her face-paint, the polished battle-nicked spear, and the somewhat battered leather armour. A beat of time went by, before the Princess smartly rose a foot and brought her heel down on a sandal-clad foot, hard. The mercenary yelped what was quite clearly the first vowel of a curse, before stemming it down to a pained growl. She flashed a thunderous glance of rage down at the Princess with gritted teeth. Almyra herself was squealing with laughter, which terminated in a short snort. Wiping a tear from her eye, and still speaking through giggles, she said to the mercenary, “Oh no, I’m afraid that’s too much. Papa wouldn’t approve of that.” The King’s cigarette shifted from one side of his mouth to the other as he shook his head gently. Releine wished that she’d told Grant more firmly that she didn’t want to be here.

The merc’s shoulders sagged. Almyra continued down the rows for her second lap, this time occasionally stopping in front of someone and pulling some similar prank. The Princess had no concept of personal space and absolutely no boundaries. Releine could feel the mood of her fellow soldiers sour as the Princess was displeased with either the overreaction, or lack of reaction from each one. Faces were pulled, cheeks were pinched, armour plates were unclasped. One waifish young man from another company was beckoned to put his ear down towards her. Whatever she whispered had the boy gasping for air between stitches of laughter. The King rolled his eyes.

It was on the Princess’s fourth lap of eliminations that she finally stopped in front of Releine. Almyra reached a finger up, under her chin. “Well, look at you.” Almyra murmured softly, guiding her face to turn this way and that. “Where did such a handsome face get a scar like that?” Soft fingers traced down the reddish-white line that ran from the corner of her eye to her jaw. Releine maintained her nervous silence, though her heart jumped into her throat. Her eyes turned down towards the other girl’s and she reluctantly realised that she badly wanted the Princess to pick her.

In front of her, Almyra’s attitude, playful and somewhat mean, had melted away. She had asked with genuine curiosity; the warmth of Almyra’s hand on her cheek, a glint behind her eyes, the way her lips had pursed out of their menacing little grin - Releine understood what she’d been trying to achieve. Nobody beyond her father and select individuals had ever spoken to her, and nobody ever could without feeling the force of the King’s wrath. She pictured the King’s steely eyes and shaking head as Almyra had sparked too much of a reaction out of each one. She needed to speak without speaking, let her know there was someone else in here who she could connect to. Seized by an urge to reach out to the girl, Releine waited. The moment seemed to last forever as Almyra’s hand left her cheek and the King took a long, lingering drag on his cigarette. As the Princess looked set to turn away, he slowly let a column of smoke spiral into the crisp morning air, and Releine rapidly blinked twice.

The flutter of her eyelashes turned the Princess’s head back towards her, eyebrows raised. She staggered back, off-balance on her heels, and set herself in front of Releine once again.

“Papa! I’ve chosen. I want this one.”

The King casually put out his cigarette and tossed the smouldering butt to the floor. He sauntered through the ranks towards his daughter, and put his hand upon her shoulder, looking Releine up and down. “Hmm. Decent enough choice. Good muscle on her. Name, soldier?” Releine’s mouth parted slightly before slamming closed again as she remembered the rule. Not even when spoken to. Not even by the King. The stark moment was followed by the King muttering, “Very good, very good. Well done.” He turned to his daughter. “Alright. Would you like to do the honours, my darling?”

Almyra shook her head, her cheeks flushing even pinker with embarrassment. “Oh, no. I’m still not quite - no, not yet.”

“No matter.” The King reassured her “We’re working on it, aren’t we my girl? You’ll get there. Step forward, soldier.”

Releine stepped forward and witnessed Tectomancy for the first time - the divine, royal magic that could reshape the world, held secret by the royal family for a millennium.

The King’s hand drifted to her company insignia where it was pinned to the left strap of her leather breastplate. Taking it between his thumb and forefinger, he gently stroked the metal, tracing its engravings and shape. An ethereal blue-and-white glow spread across its surface, accompanied by a low melodic hum, like wind whistling through a tunnel. The metal began to bend and deform, folding over itself, churning, until it settled into a new shape. Fresh engravings scored themselves into the surface as she found herself wearing the badge of a captain of the royal guard.

The King straightened up. “Take the day. Go and see your family or friends, and bid farewell to your company. It may be a while before you next see them. Arrangements will be made for you - present the badge at the palace gates at seven sharp tomorrow morning. Until then, Captain.”

The King ambled back towards the courtyard’s exit. Almyra regarded Releine’s face one moment more before she too turned away and caught up to her father, the cheeky grin having returned to her face. Soldiers and mercenaries filed out, casting dark glances her way and grumbling to one another in low tones. As the final one wandered past, Releine’s frozen, flabbergasted form finally jolted into motion and she marched stiffly out of the courtyard and away from her new home.

[quenepacrossing]

Top 5 favorite spots from each of your dream addresses (works out to once each!) Could be the most fun to decorate, came out the best/the closest to your original vision/or just unique to that DA and encompasses the theme of that island! ✨

Oh i love this!

1. Laundry - this island is frankly barely walkable mess of cute 1.0 builds. The commitment to the laundry bit was strong. I think this little spot best exemplifies the vibes:

2. Arrecife - oh the shopping district for sure! I know that’s like half the island, but it was my first foray into city buildings and i think they still hold up, even when it’s all 1.0 items.

3. Tiptoe - definitely the lake, so scenic wt the boats in the distance!

4. Sunnydale - it’s gotta be the entrance, every time i log in and see it it makes me happy, 10/10 vibes.

5. Dimple - so many to choose from, i’m really proud of this one! I’m gonna say Able’s… even tho it doesn’t photograph well. I find Able’s really hard to decorate and this is definitely my best. You’ll just have to visit to see!

[harrison-abbott]

Copenhagen Travels - Part III

A bout to the cemetery the other side of the island is the morning plan.

Sunny day. Buoyant sanguine Spring sunshine that pangs off the canal

Water and sparkles that and sparkles the bikes stacked up in their hundreds

By the streets as you dally. You need a fridge magnet for going back home.

Heading off into the hub of the city centre looking for a souvenir store you

Pass the corporate shops with the famous international names. On broad

Windows are splashed the adverts for cosmetics and perfume with these

Supermodels pouting their pulpy lips. And unfortunately there are the

Fast food branches with their sickly logos, mixed in with the fashion stores,

The shoe shops with their lady leather boots erectile through the screens.

On each restaurant MENU that you pass it’s all either meat or fish.

The coins are a bit confusing in Denmark and when you find a magnet you

Like you give the girl at the counter too much change.

After the store you head into this new park with a little lake inside it

All amazed by the light of the sky in simmering in pure reflections.

Swans and ducks mosey about, about as careless as water birds can be.

You come out of the park and onto the bridge that crosses the main canal

Leading off the island and on the brinks of the bridge are the bloody flags

Of Denmark again. Shortly after the crossing you come upon a basketball

Court. Surrounded by buildings smothered in graffiti. The courts of the

Playing field make you wish you had a ball to bounce there, to throw up

At those orange lurking rings … and you can’t discern much of the graffiti

Letters on the walls, nor understand the artwork spattered between the

Raw inscriptions, but they work in the rash urban zeal of the scene.

The scenery quickly changes into a charming district of florists, bakeries,

Bike hire shops, ice cream parlours. Shame you can’t really appreciate

Any of the cuisine, for personal ethical reasons (ha).

In close time you reach the cemetery.

Hans Christen Andersen is buried there. It is odd how a field full of

Skeletons underneath the soil can attract so many free people a day.

Free of charge you can go and see the tombs of dead folks and maybe

Tingle at the nuance of their bones under the flowers and grass that

Align their patches. Above Hans’ tombstone they’ve put Daffodils

And tulips, looking like any Easter Card decoration. Born in 1805,

Died in 1875. Snow queens, angels, goblins, elves, storks, teapots

And ugly ducklings don’t seem to have anything to do with this pretty

Graveyard. But it gives you a bit of momentum, a bit of inspiration,

To try and have achieved something before you perish yourself.

Maybe try and do something before you die to perhaps have your own

Bones nestle in a similar place somewhere on this sublime continent?

…

You figure you might try a museum next. And there’s a castle along

The way so you can see that too.

Heading along in that direction you come across a bunch of kids

Out playing on the street. Are they high school kids? They play

With basketballs and footballs and they shriek and shout with that inner

Value of youth. It’s a week day after all and so they must be on their

Lunch break from the school. Do you wish you were as young

As them? Not really because you remember the agony of adolescence.

And yet, these days when you look across at the car reflections in Europe

You see your white hair and your tired face and you’re always on your

Own and thus you don’t really feel young anymore: and all the folks

In the hotels you stay in are either way younger than you or far older,

And thus you don’t seem to belong to a particular age bracket.

But, meh, oh well, whatever. You’re still alive and that’s what counts.

On the upper scores of the buildings are random chunks of letters

That resemble steampunk videogames from the 1990s, or graphic novels

From the 1980s: and it’s remarkable how those concepts will have influenced

Such phenomena in modernity, right there, illegally splayed on the roofs

Of the city centre houses. …

You get to the castle. There are spike gates in front of a long meadow

Leading up to the building. In the foreground of the fortress are a band

Of soldiers in boots and fancy hats, playing music. A big brass band.

Pumping out crowd-pleasers with their fat drums, trumpets and blushed faces.

They seem to be performing to nobody in particular save the gabble

Of tourists picking photos from 200 yards outside the gates.

But they still do the music pretty well. Have to hand it to them.

The other side of the street there are a couple of Danish men getting drunk

On one of the benches. They drink from green cans and have sweaty faces

And the bigger man sings something to you as you pass. Not intimidating,

Though: only merry rather than offensive. … …

Okay so here’s the museum. History museum. With a mix of cultural and artistic

Regalia from within Denmark and across Europe and northern Africa.

There are respectable ladies at Reception.

They give you a key to stack your bag, and then you head upstairs, going to

The top floor. As you ascend, the light diminishes and all grows dark, and

As you head unto the showrooms, it’s like being a kid again going on a school

Trip, when you’re in a new environment, and it’s humid and there are these

Glass boxes blooming in the darkness. … Maps, diagrams, histories of warfare,

Ancient coins, ancient knives and pistols. They’re all real and so you wonder

Whether they ever killed anybody.

There’s a whole region dedicated to Islamic history. The empires that ranged across

A mammoth wedge of two continents, that spanned between Spain and Persia.

And so you read the snippets of writing under each display. They all seem to

Acknowledge violence as the cursor for history????????????????????????????????

When you go downstairs you see the other floors. They are filled with Danish

Pottery, in milky whites and blue, these china pots and plates that you would

Fear dropping on the floor if you ever held them. … Whilst you’re walking

About, a woman with a museum uniform on comes and asks you to tie your

Coat around your waste. “Okay, that’s fine,” you say. … You explore the rest

Of the floors. Then you figure to head back to the hotel.

Whence outside of the museum the clouds have overtaken the sky and there

Seems premonition in the grey dyes of them.

Head back to the hotel for just now and perhaps a night walk later on?

[wfxue]

20240329_F0001: Sharp rocks on the mountain by Wei-Feng Xue Via Flickr: - From a trip to the Lake District over #10YearsAgo. The side of this mountain got very sharp looking rocks decorating the path up the mountain. They look very dramatic against the heavy clouds in the sky.

[mollywog]

helppp Im so intruiged by The Orange Castle esp since I adore the Blue Castle. But I'm also curious about Mistletoe as well 👀

Hey!!!! Thank you for asking @jubileen!!!

So the the idea for the Orange Castle came from some similarities between The Blue Castle and The Hunger Games - specifically between Valancy/Peeta and Barney/Katniss. (#The Orange Castle)

So far, My The Orange Castle doc is mostly ideas for them having a year’s worth of carefree adventures at Katniss’s secluded cabin by the lake: planting a garden, canning, tapping trees, ice skating, listening to Rose Deen sing on the radio…

Mistletoe

Idk, I came up with the idea around Christmas and it was just all about me really wanting to give Katniss the opportunity to initiate a kiss out of the blue

I got it in my head that District 12 would reclaim the Harvest Festival post rebellion (divorcing it from its association to the Game.) In CF Katniss mentions that the Victory tour is set almost halfway between the games and that there is snow on the ground - which in my head was Dec/Jan… but the Harvest Festival in District 12 was the last stop of the Victory tour and their doors were decorated with corn, which points to it likely being closer to Oct/Nov, so now it has nothing to do with mistletoe 🤷🏼‍♀️

Anyways…

I was thinking about how Katniss might feel about love and marriage in a timeline where Prim was never reaped, never died, where Katniss didn’t have to be the Mockingjay, and was living in a safer post revolution world…

Thank you for asking!!!