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b0xerdancer-writes · 5 months

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The Maiden that Stuck Around

Tamlin x Reader

Summary: After Feyre had left Tamlin, Calanmai approaches and he finds himself unable to keep up with meetings as a fog seems to slowly occupy his mind, thanks to the magic of Calanmai. He hires a secretary/assistant to help him, little does he know that he would grow incredibly close with her eventually taking her as his maiden for Calanmai.

Prompt: Calanmai/Happily Ever After

Warnings: Bullying, implied smut, Calanmai,

Word Count: 5558

Notes: Super late since this was supposed to be for Tamlin Week 2024 but it's here now. Not proofread we die like men.

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Calanmai was always a weird time for Tamlin, he lived in a weird brain fog that always made him feel off. The beast Tamlin became while under the influence of Calanmai’s magic was not him, he hated that part of him. It took up to a week after Calanmai for the fog to clear and him to come back to himself.

The two weeks before Calanmai were the worst, everything in the court seemed to stop and attention turned to the upcoming festival. Meetings about patrols, the surrounding villages, repairs, war efforts, all of it was stopped so they could talk about how many bonfires they would have this year, what kind of food they should have, what drinks, where they would move it to since the eastern fields were not usable this year. It had started to anger Tamlin to no end, he had more important things to tend to; he couldn’t just drop everything to discuss a stupid party.

Had Feyre been here he could have pushed the party planning onto her and focused on the repairs needed in spring, but yet she had messed up the entire proceedings of this court. So there he sat bored out of his mind discussing Calanmai proceedings.

The fog started drifting in two days before Calanmai, he'd forget where he put something around the manor, he'd forget to do a patrol or attend a meeting and every time it would be pointed out he would blow up. Tamlin was exhausted by the meetings, was fighting off a headache, and the looming threat of the upcoming fog in a weeks time; after one particularly rough meeting he decided to hire an event planner and assistant for himself.

He had sifted through applications all night once, none of the applications looking anywhere decent for what he was needing. That was until a familiar name came up, Kallias’ cousin who had thrown many a party in winter for their solstice that he had attended once upon a time; he remembered her she was rather upbeat, rather positive, always willing to help, yet quiet and a loner. Tamlin had been called to her the first party he attended in winter and stood with her against a wall the entire ball.

He grumbled a bit to himself before taking out his stationary to offer her the position in his court. He wrote to her letting her know hebwould like for her to fill the position in his court, that is she could right back when he could expect her in his court so he could have a room prepared for her and meetings arranged around her arrival. He figured he would get a response in the morning since it was rather late but he was pleasantly surprised when his response came moments later with the words ‘tomorrow morning, I’m already in Spring.’

Arrive early she did, Tamlin had just scrambled down the steps that led to his room when a light knock came from the grand door. Tamlin groggily opened it to find her standing there with a bag, he let her inside and took her bag from her, handing it to a servant to bring to her room. As his assistant she would be in charge of making sure nothing was forgotten throughout the day as Calanmai neared and the fog made itself known, starting with his morning routine; he had forgotten his tabard and dagger several times while getting dressed, not to mention the number of times he had completely forgot breakfast was a thing.

He could tell she was just as tired as him, but both had a long day ahead and would suck it up. They started with breakfast, then a tour, then came the rundown of her duties; once she had agreed and signed a contract with the spring male they split off to work. She had followed him the majority of the day as long as no Calanmai meetings were required, to get a feel for his daily routine. Only splitting off to attend the Calanmai planning meeting where she jotted notes down for Tamlin.

This continued for a week before she had to bring Tamlin into the conversation, his brain fog had begun to set in ever so slightly; she had noticed he didn't order his toast like he normally did at breakfast; had it just been regular toast with butter and jam she could be ignored it but he got cinnamon and sugar on it, and it was something he got every day without fail so him not ordering it was unusual.

She had knocked softly on his study door that evening after all meetings were done, all notes had been taken and anything needing input had been recorded.

“Enter.” Tamlin spoke with a grumble.

“Tamlin. What's wrong?” She had asked softly.

“Its closing in on Calanmai, that fog I told you is starting to come in, I seem to have misplaced my insignia stamp and have looked everywhere in my desk and this room trying to find it.” He growled under his breath.

She smiled softly and held out her hand with said insignia stamp in it. “It got knocked from the table earlier during your meeting.”

He thanked her softly sealing the letter he was working on closed.

She cleared her throat. “Calanmai as you know is a week away now my lord and I’ve arranged everything that just needs your final approval, mostly yes or no questions or one word answers kind of thing. If you have time.”

“Yeah I can do that right now, what do we got?” Tamlin nodded, gesturing to the seat across from his desk.

“First off since the eastern field is unsuitable for Calanami this year they want to know whether to set up in the west field or the south field, I suggested western because of the sun.” She spoke softly, her voice like a symphony to him.

“I agree with western for the sun's reason. What else?” he nodded.

“I know you care about the flowers. I'd not go with roses this year since they would blend with the wildflower patches in the western field weirdly and it wouldn't look right. I'd suggest actually using the flowers from the patches that grow there.” She read off from her notes.

“You seem to have a keen eye, I'll trust your judgment on it sweetheart.” Tamlin nodded.

She smiled and a blush covered her face. “Thank you my lord. Final thing I need to ask is which ceremonial wine did you want? I had a chance to sample them myself and I would definitely go with either the Crystal Vine Vineyards white or the-“

Tamlin cut her off, “Did Berryhill have an entry this year? I prefer their reds.”

“They were actually who I was going to recommend for my choice of reds, I'll let them know they've been selected again this year.” She chirped softly.

Tamlin stood from his desk and stretched before he rounded the desk, he patted her shoulder and nodded. “Thank you darling, you are doing amazing.”

She smiled up at him with a faint blush on her face, Tamlin’s hand fell from her shoulder to the small of her back; leading her from the study to the dining room, the two in constant back and forth chatter about the upcoming celebration. Tamlin ran his hand up her back and over her shoulder, grasping her chin softly between his thumb and index finger.

He tilted his head with a small smile on his face as he spoke to her. “You’ll be attending won’t you darling?”

She shrugged and rubbed at the side of her neck. “I may stop in but I mag not stick around, I don’t mean to offend Tam really, just last time I went males always try and manhandle females and while most of them don’t complain I have no interest in the sleazy males who do that especially if it's one I have no interest in.”

Tamlin smiled gently. “I can understand that darling, but if you do decide to join you can always just call for me and I’ll come running. No female of mine will be made uncomfortable at a celebration like Calanmai.”

Tamlin must have not caught the slip in his words but oh she definitely did. No female of his. By the mother did that make her soul burn, she’d had a crush on the male since she first spotted him in Winter; it was Kallias’s coronation if she remembered correctly. He had looked practically golden leaned against the wall talking to the red headed male he had called friend once upon a time. Since he had looked her way with a wink and excused himself from the other male, her chest had been aflame and a flutter with images of the golden hair male and the relationship she had wanted to have with him; and no the books written by an author with the name of Drake that had been recommended to her did not have an influence on the imagery in which she imagined him as. Those images were well into her head before the Drake books were recommended to her. Maybe she would go to Calanmai if only for him and maybe just the tad bit of influence the voice in the back of her head said when it whispered the ideas of being his maiden for Calanmai.

“Maybe I will go, but only for you and with your protection.” She mused and giggled.

“I hope you will darling~” Tamlin had crooned at her, pulling out her seat from the dining room table.

She sat quickly and he pushed her in, taking a seat beside her himself. Servants came in and introduced the meal,a type of steak and some sides she paid no attention to, watching only Tamlin as his jaw ticked ever so slightly; for what reason? She didn't know and didn’t necessarily care. Tamlin hadn’t forgotten anything before dinner, she carried most of his personal effects, save his dagger and tabard, as Calanmai grew closer so it wasn’t that he forgot something.

“What’s wrong?” She had asked worriedly.

“They made one of the sides with that berry quinoa mix you aren't a fan of.” He mumbled, a growl deep in his throat there but barely audible.

“Oh! You remembered I don’t like it?” She had asked as her heart skipped a beat.

“Of course I did Darling, I pay attention to stuff like that. I asked them to remove it from the menu for the duration of your stay, it seems they forgot about that order.” Tamlin had waved a servant over and had them remove the plate from the table, the dinner continued on relatively peacefully.

Calanmai approached quickly, Tamlins brain fog increased and so did his temper. With plans in place for the upcoming celebration she had begun to join Tamlin in his daily meetings. She had noticed Tamlin forgot about a stamp he needed for the round table earlier in the day, she pocketed it from his study as they dismissed for lunch; when they returned from the lunch and were ready to sign off on the paperwork she noticed Tamlin looking around for the stamp with furrowed brows, she presented the stamp in her as the other males in the room began to snicker under her breath.

“Not to worry my lord, you knocked it from the table earlier. I picked it up before we left.” She smiled softly but glared at the males as Tamlin took it from her and stamped the paper.

“Ahh thank you darling, good to know I didn't forget it.” He chirped to her.

She wouldn’t let Tamlin become embarrassed and enraged due to the magic fog, she kept a keen eye on his every move as per her job. She would cover for the fog several times throughout the day, switching folders that had gotten mixed up when no one paid attention, pinning blame on herself when applicable, and turning the subject on whoever seemed to comment, even going as far as to question their loyalty to Tamlin if the offense fit. Tamlin was thankful for her effort and he even played along when it amused him or offered some sort of benefit, it made his chest ache at the levels she would go to defend him; more so than anyone else had on such an intimate and emotional level. As the evening played on he found himself letting her control and run the meetings, his nobles weren’t exactly fond of his choice in that but most didn’t dare to question him, until the last meeting of the night.

The nobles were here to discuss agricultural gain, trade, and benefits from the surrounding villages, Tamlin had switched seats with her entirely, giving her the throne at the head of the table while he took the smaller seat to her immediate right. The nobles stumbled into the conference room already bickering between each other, they all froze as they found Tamlin’s eyes on them; confusion flashed on their faces to see him off to the side, a mix of disgust and anger on their faces as they eyed her.

“My lord, may I ask why the female is in your position for this meeting?” One of them had questioned, venom on his lips.

“Are you questioning my choices? She is my secretary and I will do as I please as part of her training. If you wish to question my methods then please let us continue this conversation.” Tamlin had hissed.

“No sir, I don’t mean to question you sir. I simply ask because as far as we were aware our meeting was to be with you, our High Lord.” The skittish male had replied back.

“And I am still here, but you will treat her as you treat me from here on, there will be no questioning of her decisions as I trust what she has to say.” Tamlin had replied disinterested.

Another male chimed in then. “But my lord, she is from Winter, their crops, trade, benefits, and requirements differ from our community here in Spring.”

Tamlin growled a warning, rising from his seat. “Like I said, I trust her judgment. She has arranged Calanmai easily, while keeping those exact factors in mind. Again. You will not question her.”

The nobles sunk back into their seats, all swallowing back a breath in fear as his canines glinted against the chandelier light. “Continue Darling.” Tamlin turned to her with a nod.

She thanked him softly and cleared her throat, nodding for the males to begin their presentation.

Then came the dawn before Calanmai, she had awoken before the sun was in the sky and slipped into riding clothes for her trip to the Western meadows. She slipped from her room and made her way across the hall to Tamlin’s room to awaken him and prepare him for the day as the brain fog had become extremely heavy and would slowly increase as the day progressed until the ritual tonight.

She would ride back up for lunch, change, and then travel back to the fields with Tamlin in toe; but first she had to make sure he was ready for the day and wouldn’t forget anything this morning. She pushed the door open to find Tamlin sliding on his tunic, he seemed groggy and sluggish but offered her a small smile.

“Morning My Lord.” She mused.

“Morning, darling. I’m afraid I woke up a bit late.” He replied back the exhaustion still heavy in his voice.

“You're not a drop late my lord, remember today is about you and on your schedule.” She smiled and took a few steps forward as the blonde male fumbled with his buttons, offering to help him with the small metal pieces.

“Thank you my dear.” He offered back.

“Of course Tam.” She smiled up at him.

“What's the schedule for the day hun?” He asked as he tossed his tabard around his body.

“Well Breakfast for the two of us, then you’ll be in your study until I get you for lunch; I’ll be out setting up the meadows and when I return we will have lunch then we will change for the evening and ride out for the night.” She started in a happy tune for him.

“You cleared my schedule this morning?” He noticed and pushed his bedroom door open for her to slip under his arm.

“I took care of them already, I know how you feel about meeting with people the day of the festival, you expressed how it can make your skin crawl.” She chirped.

Tamlin was stunned into silence and placed his hand firmly on her shoulder pulling her into a hug. “Thank you Darling…”

“Of course Tam, I’d do anything for you.” She smiled and stepped from the room.

His heart ached the slightest bit at her words as the two made their way towards the dining room in silence. “Just so you know darling, talking to you doesn’t make my skin crawl. If anything it's the opposite, you are like a breath of fresh air.”

“Thank you Tamlin… Can I ask something though?” She asked.

“Of course Darling.” He tilted his head, opening the doors to the dining room for her.

“Why does it make your skin crawl?” she questioned.

Tamlin smiled and pulled out the chair for her. “It’s just a side effect of the brain fog, it more so applies to the day after Calanmai because my body just feels disgusting even after I bathe. I can still feel everything from the night before until the magic quells itself and calms down.”

“You said you feel everything from the night before? Does that mean it's because of the maidens you choose for the ritual?” She looked up at him sadly as he pushed her chair in.

“Most likely yes, I normally have no connection to the females which definitely plays a part, leaving me with the ick. If it's a female I dislike normally, the feeling is even more disgusting to me.” He explained, “But it's more than that, I often patrol the woods before and after the ritual, it feels like any and all dirt gets under my skin and just stays there for a few days.”

“Oh,” she started, “I’m sorry. I hope this time won’t be like that.”

“Well thank you for your wishes darling. I hope so as well.” HE scooted into his own seat.

The rest of breakfast continued in silence as the two ate, only it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence; the two had come to an understanding between each other on an intimate level. After they ate, Tamlin disappeared to his study and she sought out the stables. She rode out to the meadows, where vendors and servants were already beginning to arrange the tables, bonfires, shop stands, and any other buildings slash furniture that needed to be set up for the night; and began to check everything over until the sun was high in the sky, unlike past Calanmais this year they did not have a space for the last part of the ritual. She had discussed it with Tamlin and they had arranged for his room to be locked after they changed and had arranged a guest room within Rosehall to accommodate for the ritual.

Everything had been relatively in place when she rode back to the manor estate, pushing her way through the doors of the estate and slipped between bustling servants as she made her way towards Tamlin’s study. Inside the room Tamlin had decided to nap and had his head resting on his desk, she rounded the sturdy oak desk and shook on his shoulder softly.

He roused with a small purr and yawned. “Lunch already darling?”

She snickered to herself softly. “Lunch already because you decided to nap, Lucky man.”

He snickered himself and stood from the padded chair, stretching and yawning as he pulled her towards the dining room. “Well I would have invited you to join but you were busy.”

She had noticed he was more touchy than he normally was, a side effect of the fog she surmised and nothing was said about it as they both took their seats. Food was presented to both of them and she noted that Tamlin ate more than he usually did, probably a side effect as well but it made sense to her if he needed it for the extra energy he would be exerting tonight.

They had joked around the entire lunch, Tamlin had even chucked one of the roasted potatoes at her when she complained he had taken them all and she took it in stride catching the wedge in her mouth. When they had finally cleared their plates, Tamlin had playfully growled at her and scooped her up over his shoulder; she pounded on his back calling him an oaf repeatedly between rib hurting laughs. He dropped her off at her door and stalked across the hall to slip into his own room to change.

She flipped through several dresses before settling on one she had bought in her first week here, a pale green dress with a sweetheart neckline and thin straps decorated with tulle leaves and butterflies; the bodice was ribbed in the same pale green silk and tulle with a multi-layered skirt and a high slit. If it was to be her first celebration here then she wanted to look the part of a Spring Court Fae. Before slipping on her shoes or doing her hair she padded across the hall to knock on Tam’s door. She pushed the door open to find him shirtless sitting on the foot of his bed and tugging on his boots.

He looked up at her curiously with a head tilt.”Yes mam?”

“Just checking on you, i'm going to go finish getting ready, feel free to come in while I finish.” she chirped quickly, a blush spreading across her face before she dipped back into her own room.

She arranged her hair, slipped on some green flats, and began applying some eyeliner before Tamlin had slipped into the room; he made himself comfy on the foot of her bed as he watched her intently. When she finally put down the kohl he jumped to his feet and pulled her from the vanity, she giggled as he pulled her down the stairs and out to the stables. They both climbed onto Tamlin’s white mare, Tamlin’s bare chest pressed against her back as he wrapped his arms around her to control the reins.

The time spent around the festival grounds before dusk was rather uneventful; she stayed tucked into Tamlin’s side to avoid the whistling of sleazy males. Tamlin made no comment, simply shooting them a glare as they walked by. A silent claim but Tamlin blamed it on the brain fog as he grew more and more possessive of the female at his side. Eventually they settled at the table, sipping some of the several types of wine offered to them when Tamlin invited her out on one patrol before the ritual would be taking place; she accepted his offer and they disappeared into the treeline not far from the festival.

Once the festival was out of view Tamlin shifted into his large wolf like beast form and laid down for her to get onto his back. She climbed on and he stood, she fisted his fur tightly in her hand afraid she would fall off with the gait of his stride.

“Don’t worry I’ve got you.” The male below her growled out, yet his snout never moved; it was in her head she realized.

“Sorry I've never done this before, it's much different than a horse.” She mumbled.

His laugh echoed in her brain. “It’s okay darling, just letting you know you have no need to be afraid to fall off me.”

“Thank you.” She squeaked.

He nodded and continued his slow pace between the trees.

“Hey Tam?” She mused.

“Yes Darling?” He answered.

“If it's so close to the ritual why do you do a last minute patrol?” She asked quizzically.

“It's my last chance to breathe and actually be me, before the fog fully kicks in. A last chance to be alone before there's hands on me all night.” He answered.

“Oh. Then why did you invite me?” her voice took on a sad tone as she asked him.

“I don’t mind your hands on me, your presence is always welcomed.” Tamlin purred out.

“Ah. Thank you Tam.” She smiled sadly, fighting with the ache in her chest.

“Of Course Darling, though you have no need to thank me, I should be the one thanking you.” Tamlin answered.

When they returned to the spot they had started their patrol, she jumped from his back and he shifted back.

“I think when you disappear for the ritual I am going to take the horse back to the house and turn in for the night.” She looked down at the grassy floor.

“If you want Darling I only wish I could escort you back.” He sighed, secretly hoping she would stay through the selection process so he could beg the mother for her to be the maiden this year.

The walk back to the festival grounds was silent, the two returning to their seats until a horn was blown and Tamlin was called to the front where a priestess stood shrouded in veils, two bowls on a pedestal beside her. The priestess began a speech and the party goers crowded close, with her at the front as she supported Tamlin with a smile, hoping that tonight wouldn’t be as hard on him. Tamlin took one bowl into his hands and the priestess took the other and began painting his exposed skin with a dark emerald green paint; when she finished Tamlin brought the other bowl to his lips, The Berryhills red wine they had selected, and drank slowly yet deeply. The sun rested behind Tamlin as it slowly lowered, painting him with a halo as it sank beneath the horizon. The drums picked up and pounded harder, pounded faster; Tamlin lowered the bowl back to the stand and took a deep breath as the true fog of Calanmai flooded his brain. His pupils dilated into slits as they dragged over the crowd.

They centered on her, the drums around them, pounded just as loudly as her heart was; Tamlin stalked forward towards her in the crowd. He stopped in front of her, took her face between his thumb and index finger, and kissed her deeply with a growl. Her face blossomed red, and he picked her up softly in his arms, one hand around her neck and the other under her knees. He was silent as he began to carry her to the horse, he helped her on before climbing on behind her himself.

When they had finally made it to the manor, he carried from the stables up through the halls, ignoring the guest room that had been prepared and set her down in front of his own room. Taking the key from around her neck she had put on earlier and unlocking his bedroom door. He didn’t bother with being gentle as he tossed her onto the deep emerald green silk sheets of his bed. He stalked forward, kicking off his boots before pouncing on top of her. She welcomed him in with a kiss and felt the fog begin to fill her own mind. Tamlins hand found the fastening of her dress , pulling it from her body and she in exchange helped him with the tight leather pants that left little to the imagination. Teeth and lips clashed against each other as both were pulled under the brain fog of Calanmai.

They had awoken groggily early in the morning to a knocking on the door, a servant on the other side called out to them. She was tucked into Tamlin’s side with his arm around her and the palm of his hand rested firmly on her upper thigh. Memories of the night prior flitted across her mind, images of Tamlin buried between her thighs and the look he gave her while he put his tongue to work, images of Tamlin below her coaxing her and praising her, and finally him buried deep within her and the roar he had let out as he finished inside of her and how when he had collapse dto her side and pulled her into him he had glowed a bright gold and felt a tug in her chest.

She was pulled from her thoughts as Tamlin growled, “What now?” To the servant on the other side of the door, not even bothering to open his eyes as he covered his face with his other arm.

“Sorry my lord, I wanted to wake you in enough time for you to bathe, get ready, and eat lunch before your meetings for the day. Apologies for waking you and possibly waking your lady.” The servant had squeaked before scampering could be heard as he hurried off.

Tamlin groaned, “I just wanna stay here all day-” He was cut off as he felt a tug in his chest.

He sat up quickly confused and startled at the tug, and looked down at the female beside him with a purr as she giggled and tugged the bond again.

He rolled on top of her and littered her face with kiss after kiss, a mix of their laughter echoed around the room. Eventually he pulled her from the bed and towards the attached bathing room, they stood in front of the floor length mirror and TAmlin buried his lips against her exposed neck; eyes finding hers in the mirror he watched as she shuddered against him, he could feel his arousal growing quickly and could scent hers in the air before it quickly soured.

“Darling? What's wrong love?” He looked up worriedly.

“Tam… Do you feel that disgusting feeling you talked about?” Her voice had a sad tilt to it.

“After being with you? Never” He confided.

“I love you.” She responded.

“I love you too Darling.” Tamlin kissed her cheek and moved to draw water for the bath.

“Oh by the mother…” She whispered.

“What?” Tamlin asked over his shoulder.

“Your back…” She whimpered. “I’m sorry.”

“Huh?” Tamlin moved to look at his back in the mirror. He purred happily at the view. “Oh, Darling you have no need to be sorry.”

She ran her fingers over some of the raised red scratches on his back. “Are you sure?”

“Mmmmhmmm, I like these new battle scars.” He snorted and she playfully punched his arm.

The two bathed peacefully and at some point she had convinced Tamlin to leave his shirt for the day and show off her claiming marks on his back. He had agreed with a deep kiss that almost led to something that would have made them late to lunch, she batted him away and wrapped the robe around her tightly as she rushed across the hall to change into her own clothes for the day.

Lunch was uneventful and she moved from her normal chair opposite him to one directly to his right, staff chatted between each other with red across their faces as they gossiped. She sat up straight in her chair with a happy and smug smile on her face as everyone eyed Tamlin’s back.

The meetings after lunch however were the thing that made both of their days. They had stood, Tamlin with his back towards the doors of the conference room, while waiting for the nobles to file in. They had done so exactly as the clock in the great hall chimed on the hour, they had all stilled upon entering the room.

Only one noble had cleared his throat, gathering the new couple’s attention. “Ummm. my lord, it seems you have forgotten something today.”

“Oh? And What would that be?” Tamlin asked the noble amusedly.

“Your shirt my lord, it seems you have forgotten your shirt.” The noble uncomfortably shifted on his feet.

“No actually that's intentional.” Tamlin’s female chimed from his side, and Tamlin smiled down at her.

“My back is too irritated for a shirt, I will have to wait for the scars to fade a bit more before I am able to wear one. Apologies if it makes you uncomfortable or envious.” Tamlin had snorted, the shirt fact was a partial lie his back was obviously irritated yes but he could have totally worn a shirt. Plus he was well aware that the noble questioning him was in an unhappy marriage and his wife was cheating on him with another of the nobles in the room.

Being high lord made him privy to some information, he took his seat smugly as he pulled his mate, his female, into his lap and he offered all the nobles to sit with a smirk across his face. She nestled into his hold even more knowing she wouldn’t be leaving Spring Court or Tamlin’s arms for a very long time especially when rumors and gossip started spreading about their mating bond, titling her as ‘The Maiden Who Stuck Around’.

#acotar x reader #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #tamlin week #tamlin week 2024 #tamlin x reader

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rosebloodcat · 1 year

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How Things Start to Fall Apart

While Wally is still hiding in Home’s walls, silently convinced that his turning Invisible won’t matter to anyone, there are things happening outside that Home gets to see unfold. And they’re very unsure if they should be relaying it to Wally or not.

What Wally doesn’t know is that his disappearance, and the Audience’s inability to find him, does have an effect on everyone. It’s just not an immediate, obvious one.

His not coming out over the span of that week was a shift in everyone’s lives, one that sent ripples of unease through the neighbors.

The Schedule was built around Wally’s day after he left Home and while everyone was able to “fill in” the spots where he should have been without raising alarm, some of them still noticed that something (or rather someone) was missing.

I’m not sure who would be the first to really notice that something wasn’t right. But someone does and it triggers a domino effect for the rest of town.

The neighbors notice, Wally’s friends notice, it just takes a bit for them to go into motion.

As for the Audience…

Once they start harassing everyone else over their Script, things start to fall apart in short order. Unlike Wally, they weren’t self-aware prior to this event. They didn’t know about the script or that they weren’t really acting like themselves.

But suddenly, having this impossible Thing looming over them is very hard to ignore, with all its unspoken demands and fiercely trying to press its will on them. Add in Wally’s disappearance and the sudden awareness that there’s something there that hadn’t always been there, and it quickly becomes something they are not ready OR WILLING to deal with when their friend is missing/possibly in danger.

And, frankly, unlike the quiet, gentle painter of the Neighborhood, they aren’t as passive and easily usable.

(part of that was due to the Audience’s control over them all being something gradual. It didn’t snap into place all at once.)

They don’t know how to handle what’s happening (considering the idyllic nature of the world/place they live in) and they quickly spiral off script and break character like crazy once this new, unexpected pressure is applied to them. Because there isn’t a precedent for how they should be reacting to all of this.

Suddenly the unseen watcher is quickly losing control of them all and it really doesn’t like it.

Eventually, it throws a fit and, like a child throwing the mother-of-all-tantrums, it (accidentally) destroys its connection to the Neighborhood and releases everyone from its control.

(Needless to say, there’s a subtle town-wide identity crisis. Everyone has a decent idea of who they are, but they’ve spent years acting like caricatures of themselves and need to reground themselves a wee bit.)

But a lot of them set it aside as it dawns on them that maybe this was why Wally always seemed off. Maybe he knew about this but had been unable to say.

Maybe this was why he was missing.

Eventually, they manage to find him (with at least one of them piecing together that the invisible person they found was their missing resident) and the healing, for all of them, can finally start.

And that’s all I have so far. But I am gonna workshop more for this.

#invisible wally au #wally darling #welcome home au #welcome home puppet show #wh au #rosies writing #welcome home

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deathblossomed · 3 months

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❀࿐ Verse ( Yakuza. )

( Botan is human in this verse with possible fantasy/supernatural elements involvement from her having mild psychic abilities, as also stated in her basic human verse. )

Botan is from a small family, growing up along the river with just her parents. They used to own a river boat business when Botan was younger. She grew up learning to pilot the boats and helping the business during school breaks. But when she graduated middle school, she was accepted to a better high school in the city, a better education than her small rural town could offer. With her parent's blessing, she accepted and moved to live on campus.

But while she was away, an earthquake struck her home town and the river her family had come to rely on was blocked up with sediment and fallen trees, the course of the water changed by the shifting land. Without the river, the business couldn't survive, they couldn't simply wait for the damage to clear.

In an act of desperation, they turned to a less than reputable source for the money they needed to stay afloat and hopefully return the river to a usable state. Everyone's always been aware of local gangs and yakuza families. But this gang was small, hardly as intimidating as the bigger families, and their promises were just too good to ignore. But with her father's declining health and her mother's struggle to undertake everything on her own, the generous loan turned into looming deadlines for repayment. And when Botan returned home for school break, she hardly recognized it.

Now, one of Botan's talents, is making friends just about everywhere she goes. Including with the only son of one of the more prominent yakuza families. She met Koenma while away at school, he was only a few years older than her and they got along fine. She was aware of who his father was, Great Enma, but it didn't bother her much. And when met with her parent's situation, she wasn't sure who else to turn to.

Turns out the Enma family had been at odds with this smaller gang for a while now and was looking for a good excuse to quash them in retaliation for them poaching territory. So Botan made a deal, if she can get the information they need, Koenma will bail out her parents.

Botan returned home, transferred to a local school to finish the last years. And to the gang plaguing her parents, she played the dutiful daughter who would work off her parent's debts. Doe eyed and ditzy, no one ever thinks a cute girl is listening in on all your secrets.

Two years was all she needed and Koenma sent them packing as promised. And during that time, Botan proved to be a valuable potential asset. She's good at talking to people, of getting information without any suspicion on herself and she needed a job now. So they made one more deal, Botan's loyalty in Koenma's plans to usurp his father in exchange for Koenma's help buying her parent's a nice place to retire to.

Now, she works for Koenma, one of his reapers. The Enma family has always been partial to myth and folklore and shinigami was a nickname granted to some of the girls working under him. Most of Koenma's business is in gambling and bath houses, places said to lead you straight to heaven with their luxury and charm. Botan works legitimately in one of his onsen resorts. And underneath she's among those named Shinigami. It's not an official title, but rather a two fold rumor. No one outside of the family knows who counts among the reapers and they strive to keep it that way. One, because if a shinigami talks to you, she'll find out all of your secrets, she might even be able to tell you when you're destined to die. And two, if she finds out what you're hiding, you're as good as dead.

Botan's good at talking, making friends where ever she goes. She's bubbly, cute, and vibrant. And she remembers everything you might tell her, even when it seems like she's not listening. She's part of Koenma's information network and has worked her way through the ranks in the few years she's worked for him.

Back home, her father passed away but her mother lives safely out in the countryside. Botan doesn't see her much but always sends back money to keep her comfortable.

#❀࿐ verse ( yakuza. )#❀࿐ a memory can make a flower bloom ( headcanons. )

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howtobypasswebsitethatdetectsvpn · 5 months

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does nord vpn work with tor

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does nord vpn work with tor

NordVPN compatibility with Tor

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When you use NordVPN with Tor, your internet traffic is first encrypted by NordVPN before it enters the Tor network. This double encryption process helps to protect your online activities from prying eyes and enhances your anonymity. By routing your internet traffic through both services, you can enjoy increased security and privacy while browsing the web.

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VPN and Tor integration

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Tor browser with NordVPN

Title: Enhancing Online Privacy: Exploring the Synergy of Tor Browser with NordVPN

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NordVPN for Tor users

Title: Enhancing Online Privacy: NordVPN for Tor Users

In the realm of online privacy and security, the combined use of NordVPN and Tor can create a robust shield against surveillance, data tracking, and cyber threats. NordVPN, a renowned virtual private network service, offers an additional layer of anonymity and encryption to Tor users, elevating their browsing experience to new heights of security.

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Using NordVPN and Tor together

Combining NordVPN and Tor: Enhancing Online Privacy and Security

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In conclusion, while using NordVPN and Tor together can significantly enhance online privacy and security, users should weigh the benefits against potential drawbacks such as reduced speed and occasional access restrictions. Overall, this combination remains a powerful tool for those seeking maximum anonymity and protection in their online activities.

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loom-solar-inverter · 7 months

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How Solar Inverters Power Your Home and the Planet

Sunlight bathes your roof, promising clean, renewable energy. But how does it get from those panels to your appliances? Enter the inverter, the unsung hero of solar power. Loom Solar inverters not only convert the Direct Current (DC) electricity from your panels into usable Alternating Current (AC), but they also champion a greener future. Let’s explore how Loom Solar inverters empower your home and the planet.

From Sunlight to Socket, with Loom: Sunlight meets your Loom Solar panels, triggering a magical exchange. These panels, crafted withcutting-edge materials, transform light energy into DC electricity. But your appliances crave AC. That’s where the Loom Solar inverter steps in, translating the DC language of your panels into the AC your home understands.

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#loom solar inverter #solar inverter #solar inverter cost #solar panel #fusion #10kw #solar inverters #5kw

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brainyxbat · 9 months

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Chapter 8: An Angry Showdown! Save The Millennial Dragons!

(episode 61)

"Man, you're stubborn!" Luffy remarked to Eric, as the latter loomed over the group.

"Yeah," He grinned, "I very nearly drowned to death." He spread his arms out. "Just look at this beautiful radiance! Isn't it marvelous?! This is all Dragonite, the legendary elixir of immortality!"

"But breaking these fossilized Millennial Dragons won't produce anything usable!" Nami protested.

"Yes, so I hear. But there is more than enough live Dragonite here!" His focus stayed on the flying and grazing dragons behind them, including the newborn. "What do you say? A pointless fight would only be tiring. How about we make a deal to split the treasure?"

"No," Luffy replied bluntly.

"Do you not want eternal life?!"

"Not interested."

"Me neither," Venus chimed in.

"You lie!" Eric yelled desperately. "There's no one who's not afraid of dying! Three of us may have Devil Fruit powers, but a pirate's life is always only inches from death! There's no way you can't be afraid of dying!"

"I dunno," Zoro smirked, "He's the kind of guy who'd die smiling, doing what he does."

"Oh... fine then! You can sit there, and watch as I take my Dragonite and leave!"

"No!" Apis ran over.

"Stop right there, girl!" Eric launched a Sickle attack at her.

She was close to getting cut, but Usopp tackled her to the ground, so she was unharmed. "Apis!"

"U-Usopp!"

"Usopp!" Venus' eye widened.

"D-don't be reckless, Apis!"

"Even if it's reckless, I have to protect them! This is a very important place for the Millennial Dragons! I'm going to protect this place forever, and ever!" She cried. Luffy nodded in approval, and turned back to Eric.

"So you insist on defying me, huh." Everyone stayed silent. "In that case, you can all die! Sickle-Sickle... Whirlwind!"

Usopp held Apis to protect her, but Luffy jumped in, and took the brunt to the chest. After he was on his knees with cuts on his chest, they looked up. "Luffy!"

Zoro prepared to draw a sword, but the captain stood on his feet, a serious look in his eyes. "I'll deal with him."

"But, Luffy!" Nami tried to protest.

"I promised him!" Luffy insisted, and ran in for a battle, rotating his arm.

"I don't think so! Sickle-Sickle..."

"Gum-Gum..."

"Whirlwind!"

"Pistol!"

Luffy ended up with cuts all over, punching the rock, as Eric acrobatically jumped up on top to avoid harm. "Luffy!" Venus exclaimed.

"You can't hit me, rubber man!" Luffy brought his arm back to regular length. "Well? Are my wind slashes sharp enough for you?" He prepared to strike again. "Run or hide wherever you want; there's no escape! Now, how will you dodge this?"

"This guy's pretty tough," Zoro remarked.

"Is Luffy in trouble?!" Usopp expressed concern for the captain.

"Luffy..." Apis watched in worry.

"Sickle-Sickle... Wind Slash!" Luffy didn't move. "Rapid Fire!" Rock was broken, and thick slashes marred the ground.

"I'm not gonna run, or hide!" He boldly sprinted towards the line of fire.

"Fool! Go ahead, and get chopped up!"

Luffy bore through receiving even more cuts, and leaped up with a yell. The others felt the gust of wind, but were unharmed. "Gum-Gum...!" He grabbed Eric's shoulders.

"W-what?!" He panicked.

Luffy drew his head back, stretching his neck, and came right back. "... Bell!" He delivered a brutal headbutt, breaking his shades. "And... Bazooka!" He readied his arms, and rocketed him away into the sky. "I win!"

"Alright, Luffy!" Venus cheered.

Apis beamed brightly. "You did it!"

The Warship Island locals peeked over from a high ledge in shock and awe at the dragons. "What is this?!"

"Creatures like this really exist?!"

"I-it wasn't just a legend?!"

"Do you suppose this place'll sink again after a little while?" Nami guessed.

"Most likely," Venus replied.

"When it does, will the Millennial Dragons leave the island too?" Usopp wondered aloud.

"And I guess that baby Millennial Dragon will fly off somewhere, too?" Apis frowned sadly, but smiled when Bokuden laid a comforting hand on her shoulder.

He then turned to the Straw Hats. "What do you say, everyone? Won't you have some of my special pork buns before you go?"

"Oh!" Nami panicked. "Thank you! But that's okay! We gotta get back to our journey right away! Right?!"

"We do?" Luffy asked obliviously. "I wanna eat some pork- Oww!" He was cut off by Nami punching his head.

"We'll just take the recipe," Sanji offered.

"I see," Bokuden smiled, "That's too bad. It'd only take three days to prepare them too."

"T-three days?" Venus' eyebrows raised in surprise.

"I could tell you about the royal family of Lost Island in the mean-"

"We've already heard about it!" Nami interrupted urgently.

"Alright!" Luffy cheered when they returned to the Merry. "Set sail for the Grand Line!" He sat on the railing, as they looked down at the locals. "Apis, want to come with us?"

"I've made friends with you all, and I would like to go with you, but I'm going to stay on this island," She kindly refused, "I'm gonna learn all sorts of customs from Grandpa Bokuden, and protect the dragons' nest, just like my ancestors did before me! I'm going to wait for the baby dragons to come back here someday!"

"But those baby dragons won't be back for another, uhh..." Usopp worriedly counted with his fingers, "A-another thousand years!"

"Hey, now! Don't be so cynical!" Sanji scolded.

"No, it's okay!" Apis assured. "I won't get to see the dragons all grown up, but I'm sure my kids' kids will get to! So I'm going to keep protecting this dragon nest forever, and ever!"

"That's crazy talk!" Usopp exclaimed.

"You guys kept doing crazy stuff too, y'know!"

Venus giggled at her retort, and turned to him. "She's got a point."

"We did?" Everyone's jaws dropped at Luffy's obliviousness, before they set sail. "See ya, Apis!" He gave her a thumbs-up.

"Apis! Never forget about Usopp-sama, the brave warrior of the sea!"

"Hope we see each other again!" Venus called out.

"Bye-bye!" Nami waved in farewell.

"Bye-bye!" Apis waved both arms. "Take care, everyone!"

"See ya, Apis!"

"Bye! So long!"

"Bye-bye!"

"Is Apis really gonna be okay all by herself?"

"I'm sure Apis will keep the nest safe!" Nami assured Usopp. "She may be little, but she's got twice the energy and motivation of a normal person! She'll be fine!"

"You're right, Nami-san," Sanji agreed.

"She'll be okay!" Luffy beamed.

"Yeah!" Zoro chimed in.

"Because she's our friend!" Luffy added.

"She sure is," Zoro agreed.

On the island, Apis and Bokuden continued to watch them sail further and further away. "Are you sure you didn't want to go with them, Apis?"

"I'd only get in the way if I went with them," She replied, "Besides, now I have something I want to do! I'm pretty reckless too, but until I met Luffy and the others, I don't think I would've felt like I could protect this island. I thought Lost Island was just a story, and that it didn't exist, but Luffy and the others took Grandpa Ryu on a search for it. Without even doubting in the slightest that it might not even exist!" She thought back to Luffy fighting the Marines, and protecting Ryu. "I get the feeling that they taught me that if you never give up on your dreams, and try your hardest, your wishes just may come true! Everyone worked so hard, and risked their lives for their friends, who had a heart-to-heart connection! And I'm one of their friends too! So I'm going to try my hardest too!"

She turned around upon hearing snoring, and her eyes widened. "He's asleep!" She frowned in irritation, before a seagull perched on her shoulder. "Say, will you help me with my dream?" It chirped. "Thanks! Let's try our best!"

"Oh, right! If you're going to protect Lost Island, you'll need to know about your ancestors!" To her chagrin, he was awake, and about to begin one of his stories. "First, there was the first king..."

"I-I've already had enough of that!"

"Hold on, Apis! Get back here!"

"Stop!"

"You need to know about these things!"

"No!"

"Apis!"

#magical straw hat #one piece #one piece oc #tempeste g. venus #warship island #warship island arc

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obd2gatecom · 1 year

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Autel PS100 Customer Review

As a satisfied buyer of Autel PowerScan PS100 circuit tester, I am excited to share its impressive capabilities based on my experience with it.

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obd2gate-com · 1 year

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Autel PS100 Customer Review

As a satisfied buyer of Autel PowerScan PS100 circuit tester, I am excited to share its impressive capabilities based on my experience with it.

Thus far, the PS100 has proven to be incredibly useful and reliable. It eliminates the need for a separate meter in certain tests, and the accuracy of its readings has impressed me.

Click here to buy:

#Autel PS100

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sethwabroad · 2 years

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Blog 2. The Pantheon is an impressive structure, with the outside looming over the plaza in front of it and the interior being even more breathtaking. The dome and interior furnishings from the inside looked incredible and the craftsmanship with the flooring, opened dome, and other aspects were impressive. These aspects make the structure incredible, but on their own does not make the Pantheon seem like it should be viewed as possibly the 8th Wonder of the World. What makes it a Wonder is its shear magnitude within its epoch. To create the massive columns and base structure are impressive, but the size of the dome is what truly makes the Pantheon incredible, likely dwarfing all other domes around Rome and the world at that time, and the ability to create such a large dome with an opened top likely requiring a level of mathematical design that likely was more so than most of all other buildings at the time. Another point to it being a Great Wonder is that it has continuously been used since it’s construction, making it an important and usable structure across the ages.

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bomberqueen17 · 2 years

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more weaving nerdery

so i have like. fallen down a rabbit hole of this goddamned tablet weaving, which is both funny and like, not.

Sometimes a thing catches you, y’know? and you just want to hyperfocus on it and do nothing else. And that’s what’s happened here, which is fine. It’s that it’s complicated enough to be absorbing, but not so much that it’s actually difficult; my tiny, frazzled, distracted, memory-leaking burnt-out little pea brain can actually achieve reasonable results even under the cognitive load of (*gestures broadly*) current events and such. So I’ve now achieved two entire finished completed bands, and have finished them off in like. Reasonably competent ways. I’m going to sew down the beginning end of my first one a little better, because not only does the beginning of the weaving need a bit of reinforcement as one does, but I also fucked up the weft in the first quarter-inch, so if I can just sew that down to stabilize it the whole thing will be much more usable. Also I finished the second one off by braiding the long fringe and I don’t really like how it came out so. Anyway! Experiments.

What am I going to do with these two finished bands? I don’t know. I’m going to make a third one, something with a white weft, because I loaded the shuttle with white and started using it on the white/black/blue second band, and immediately realized that while the bands are warp-faced, the weft is visible in a few tiny spots and having a design with a black border and white weft looks awful. So I need something with a white or off-white border for my next trick, because I’m not unloading that shuttle. (Yeah I wove the whole band with an improvised shuttle made of a bit of a paperboard box folded in half and cut to shape and scotch-taped down, it was not graceful but it was effective.)

I want to try mixing threads. So far I have used only 8/4 carpet warp from Webs, which I own in four colors-- black, gray, blue, and cream-- but I bought some #10 crochet thread yesterday at Jo-Ann’s, and I own a very weird assortment of other threads/strings/yarns that I’d love to incorporate. And the book I’m using, borrowed from @unicornduke (A Simplified Guide To Historical Tablet Weaving), has descriptions of a number of extant examples, mostly recovered from graves, and many many of them are made with mixed fibers. (Very often, linen weft and wool warp, so you see the wool and the linen holds it in place but is largely invisible. I specifically want to try that.) One, notably, from the Hallstadt salt mines, is wool warp with horsehair as the weft, and I desperately want to try that, but am coming up blank on anyone I know IRL who has a horse!

I recently texted my older sister to ask if I could get some sawdust from her husband’s saw mill, and they obliged. Her daughter rides horses at a stable and I’m trying to guage how weird it would be to ask if she could collect me some hairs next time she’s grooming one. I need like.... a handful of long mane or tail hairs, just to make the experiment. They don’t need to get spun together, I can use them single-ply, it’s easy enough to weave in ends-- I’d need like. Probably eight to ten inches is the shortest that’d be useful, and I’d need, well, a dozen that length at least to make the experiment.

Anyway. A project for a later date, but something to keep in mind.

But the thing I came here to note down is the use of fishing swivels to manage twist buildup. Part of this is my horrible allergy to watching instructional videos, which I fucking *hate*, but as I’ve tried to research tablet weaving, I’m finding much of it is described so generally. And so as I was reading, the only information I’ve found is fishing swivels for sale, and the description ‘use fishing swivels to manage twist’, with no information besides that.

cut for some photos:

So, what I did, was I warped my inkle loom in the usual way, where you just tie the warp all the way around the warping pegs in a circle? But I tied an end of the warp to each side of a fishing swivel, and called that good. That seems to be how one would use a fishing swivel to manage twist, right?

If you are a person who is good at knowing how physical objects interact you might be snickering at me right now, however. For as I learned, no, that is not all you need to do.

Fishing swivels, like any mechanical thing with moving parts, are easily-fouled by tangling strings. I learned that if the ends of your string are long enough to tie, then they’re long enough to get stuck in the business bits of the swivels. ALSO, the little metal rings at the ends of the swivels are kind of... slippery? Hard to keep your overhand knot tight. You’re going to have an absolute beast of a time with your tension, as the swivels get unevenly fouled by the ends of the yarns, and also some of the knots slip. It was pure hell, and I had to take the band off very early and give up, because of this, when the whole point of the swivels had been to avoid what had happened with the previous band, where I did not reverse direction early enough and so the woven area of the band advanced past the free space left by the twist unwinding as I wove backward, and made it impossible for me to continue far before I ran out of yarn.

[this is sort of in the middle of the process-- i have the red yarn needle through the one loop of all the swivels to hold them together so they don’t keep sliding around, and you can already see how the ends have wrapped around the whole business so much you can’t even see the swivels. This is where I was starting to suspect a problem. and no-- holding one end of the swivels in place with a yarn needle isn’t going to prevent them from working, the point is that there are two ends and each can independently swivel as much as you want in any direction, so I was trapping one end and leaving the other free, and it was actually useful in the beginning for keeping the tension manageable, so later when I stopped doing that it made things bad, but the yarn ends had, in my defense, already made things very bad by then, so.]

So. Here’s my theory on how to use the fishing swivels, which I have not seen explained anywhere.

Tie your warp to the swivel-- I used one swivel per tablet, so four cords per swivel, and of course you have to thread the card on before you can tie off the warp. I tied it as tight as I could. I would say to additionally tie a second knot at a slight distance from the swivel, so that your ending fringe is stable and your weaving’s not coming up against the securing-knot, which is a pain when you’re trying to undo it later. Tie it as tight as you humanly can. Then take the loose ends beyond your securing knot, trim them to be all the same length, wrap them tightly around the area between the securing knot and your second, weaving-starts-here knot, and then fasten them down securely with masking tape or something like that. You must seal them down so that they cannot get fuzzy and get into the swivels. I have seen no discussion of this and yet cannot see how this technique would work without something like this being implemented.

Repeat for all cards, and do this on both sides of the swivel. There can be no loose ends, or they’ll foul the swivel mechanism.

I’ll get photos next time I try it, but I’m going to do, for my third experiment, a pattern with balanced twist, where you alternate the directions the cards turn so that the twist doesn’t build up in the first place, simply because I haven’t tried that so far.

Probably someone showed all this in a Youtube video, but since I can’t fucking stand videos instead of instructions, it’s the same to me as if nobody had ever talked about this. Do feel free to research it, if it’s a thing you’re interested in, and also feel free to tell me if someone seems to have a better method, but understand that if you link me a video I’m very unlikely to watch it. I have the best of intentions but a whole lot of antipathy toward the video format, which is the worst of both worlds-- both slower than reading, and also my memory is such that I will not remember the crucial bit of the instructions after watching it, so I wind up both no smarter than I was and angry from having wasted a whole bunch of time.

Anyway. I digress. I’ve resisted the alternate-direction patterns because I know I 1) can’t count, and 2) can’t reliably tell clockwise from anticlockwise, so I am absolutely going to be wildly confused the entire time I’m weaving, so I suspect the alternating-direction patterns are Not For Me, but they are a very large subset of tablet weaving patterns so I need to at least try them.

Yeah, somehow I reversed the pattern in my fishing swivel experiment band, 3/4 of the way through the band, even though i would swear to you that I turned the cards away from myself the entire time without variation. Just, somehow in the middle of this, without having flipped the tablets or reversed directions, the pattern started going the other way. Which is not how that works, so clearly I reversed the direction, but I swear to you I turned the cards the same way every time, and I don’t understand how this happened. If I got that confused in a pattern that had no reversals, I’m just telling you now I’m going to be hopeless in a pattern that does have reversals. This is dyscalculia; I simply cannot see the difference in rotation directions, the way I can’t figure out which of my hands is the left one, so this is going to be a problem for me. But maybe it’ll work out anyway. I don’t know.

(For a while at work I often had to go through big orders of slide scans and rotate the sideways ones, and the command said “rotate clockwise” or “rotate counterclockwise” without illustrating the direction, and so I would constantly have to tip my head as I imagined the face of a clock, which I might remind you I can’t read so about 75% of the time I would guess wrong. I cannot overstate how thoroughly my brain does not work for this task.)

anyway wish me luck

here’s what that second band looks like for most of its length, though, by the way, which is pretty acceptable:

#tablet weaving #inkle loom #undescribed images #about the author #weaving #fiber arts

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blindbeta · 3 years

Note

This might be a silly question, but how would two blind people meet up (assuming at least one has little to no usable vision) if they’ve never seen or heard each other before? That is, how would you identify the other person in a crowd of people? Or would you just need sighted assistance for something like that, like a friend to loom for someone in a big red hat, or what not.

Blind People Meeting in Stories and the Usefulness of Landmarks

Someone could possibly use a friend or even a stranger to help locate another person wearing an agreed-upon item, such as the hat you mentioned. However, there may be instances where this is not possible.

Blind people are trained to use landmarks even if they have some usable vision. It is more likely they would use a landmark and meet there. This can be one they are both familiar with if they know the area. If one of them is unfamiliar with the area, they would probably use something like a fountain. It is easy to locate a fountain by sound and it is possible to ask for directions to it, if needed.

They can do something similar with other landmarks, such as storefronts, big trees, benches, etc. It depends on how many there are. For example, a schoolyard might only have one tree, whereas a park may have several different ones.

When writing something like this, consider the circumstances of the area in which they will meet. Are there notable landmarks? Does one stand out enough to be useful? Are there many people likely to be there already? Will this be a problem? Is one of them more familiar with the area than the other?

If one of them has some vision, a big red hat might not be a bad idea, as it could be easy to locate even if their vision isn’t very clear at certain distances or at all.

This post has been cross-posted onto WordPress.

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1358456 · 3 years

Text

Random Rambles!

Sure is quiet around here. I guess I’ve run out of stuff to post or want to post, and my mind has reverted to “enjoying death (of 135)”. So... ramblin’ time? Because this kind of silence from me really delays when I can go back to that state after I’ve reached the arbitrarily determined “10 pages of no frustration posts” objective. 10 pages would be 100 posts, so I just have to reach ??47 posts but round that to the nearest 10 for good measure. ... I’m not even halfway there!

Anyways. It’s a common occurrence, I’ve noticed. Like... I want to do something at one point, it never leaves my mind until I finally get to it, then I start it, and some time later, I’ve basically had my fill, and I no longer have motivation. Like my stories, if you remember. Take Heart, for example. I really wanted to start it, and so I did. And my motivation for the story lasted 3 whole chapters and then it hit a flat 0. Combine that with a lack of view/review, and the story doesn’t get updated until something changes. Like Wings! Why did it exist? Because the thought wouldn’t leave my mind. Why did it not get updated for over a year before my “death”? No motivation from me, no views from you.

Like that Voices post that was supposed to be a thing! That thought plagued me for months. It would not leave me alone. So I started to compile it after the return. And at some point, I was done with it. And now it no longer bothers me!

Hehe. Did you know? I actually did write stuff while I was “dead”. 28000 words, in fact, which is a lot (Heart has 34000). Not coherent by any means, it’s more like random bits and pieces compiled together. In a document titled “Thought Dump” because that’s quite accurate. Got a story idea that won’t f*ck off? Flesh it out here and then walk away. It reminds me of the days when I was making the SA outline back in 2009. Create the critical scenes and then piece them together for the whole story! Heh. I haven’t touched the document in like 5 months.

That Hands post? That was supposed to be followed by a short story. That’s why I gathered the “prior hints” of the topic that was going to be covered. But after I made the post, I didn’t want to do it anymore. Of course, a big part of that is because the tone of that short story does not match my mood nowadays. And the crap that I write usually matches my mood. If I feel like sh*t or something, disasters like SL get made. ... Speaking of which, the coin said no, so I didn’t delete it.

Well then, what mood am I in nowadays, that would determine if I actually do make something? Well, my mood nowadays is... frustrated! The more I work at my parents’ store, the more frustration and deep bitter hatred build up towards the stupid selfish sh*tbags, also known as the average person in the general populace. Oh, I could rant about all that bullsh*t for hours! But the objective is to not have frustration (on average) in the posts, so... silence it is!

So... no frustration. In that vein, the QnA tag is no longer accessible through the tags drop-down menu. I don’t remember why I called it QnA, when the asks aren’t tagged as such, and only review responses were. Hmm. But boy, was there a LOOOOT of frustration and anger in those posts. I guess the looming death did affect me in some ways.

Heh. I wonder if I should make one for the time I was gone. “Review Response, October 23, 2020 - January 30, 2022″. That’s quite the time gap. I don’t even know how many are there. I know there are some, though. ... Speaking of which... a certain someone who has promised to review all of Destiny before I went away... never did as such, nor continued with it while I was “dead”. So is the zombie Mew going to be knocking on the door, demanding “what the f*ck”? Is that what’s going to happen? Hahaha. ... I don’t think that person even knows I’m back.

Anyways. Another thing that factors into story writing is... inspiration! Are the things that I’m seeing or experiencing usable in stories? ... Well... no. Bits and pieces? Sure, but that requires the full chapter worth of stuff already. Like... I can’t include John and Arthur’s antagonize lines from Red Dead Redemption 2, without the chapter’s story already allowing such a thing to happen. I seen mushrooms with bigger brains! And more personality too! But they didn’t smell as bad!

At best, I can use some for banter posts like I have been doing, but even then, some just don’t work out as well as the inspiration. So... I guess until a suitable idea pops up (I’m not actively trying to come up with one), things are going to be pretty quiet...

... Well, this post has certainly gone all over the place. As it should, in the spirit of random rambling!

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cullxtheherd · 3 years

Text

@joannabethharvelle hi i have no control over myself bye [x]

Linking up to the grappling point Jacob Seed winces into the darkness surrounding the sheen of his headlamp below. “Christ,” He remarks, going over the edge, “I am getting too old for this shit.” The upper levels of the mine are occupied by a healthy number of his men and, confident in his skills, he rappels down in search of something other than the humdrum banality of the day-to-day routine.

He isn’t sure what Rachel and her team have been up to around these parts but as he touches down the stench of manufactured Bliss tinges the atmosphere, it’s ghostly green blurring up the edges of his vision. “Dumbest mess I ever heard of,” He grumbles annoyed and mocking the most recent installation of Faith Seed, “Let’s put it everywhere, brother Jacob, wah-wah-wah. We can put it in the water- p l e a s e, Rachel.”

Unlatching from the secure line he looks around, “Put it in the water my ASS!” Trying to get a sense of the size of the cavern he is in he reaches up, manually swiveling the light source attached to his head. “Stupid bitch o’clock, all the time.” Feeling more incensed than usual he drags on, “Who in their right fuckin’ minds woullll-hhhHHH!”

The last thing he is expecting to see down here in the dank gloom is a person staring back at him, slumped as they are. And especially not the Rookie. It takes him only a second to shake off the startle she’s given him, “Looks like you’ve got yourself in some kinda’ pickle, huh?”

Adjusting the light he makes his way, large and looming as he is and casting jagged, horrible shadows against the rock wall she’s using for support. “Hm,” It’s all he has to say on the matter of her injuries as he stoops nearby and he reaches into the pack he carries against his rear. “Sit still or I’ll make you,” Given the Bliss laden air he clarifies, “Understand?”

Not waiting for an answer he tucks a large wad of wild sage between his molars and he chews, “Ain’t got much by way of things for something like this,” Removing the bitten down plant matter he sticks it in the opening of an infected looking wound, “Quit your damn hollerin’.” Moving to undo his belt he gripes loudly as well, “Can’t hear myself think, woman.”

It isn’t ideal but he does recognize the need for improvisation in this situation so he grasps the hunting knife, unsheathing it from the holster on his thigh in a fluid, practiced motion. Moving a few feet away he eyes a pile of nearby sticks that have been left here by God-knows-who from fuck-knows-where to make some kind of semi-functional fire. They aren’t perfect and one is half rotten but, “Leg looks serious. I don’t think there’s no way you’re getting out of here without some fashion of splint, girl.”

Taking a half second of pity on her and her situation he shuts up, hands busy lopping off a short length of his belt. Gathering what usable support he can from the pile of branches he sets them down closer to where she is, occupying himself for longer than he needs. “Here,” He passes the shorn bit of leather to her and a small, quarter full, uncorked vial of Bliss, “You take that and bite down.”

Jacob Seed is an observant individual and the way she eyes him makes his expression sour. He isn’t by any means put off by her apprehension but he does think her smarter for it. “Now let’s make one thing clear here, between you and I, darlin’: I don’t like you just as much as you hate me. I don’t admire you or your mission or whatever crusade you’re on down here.” He eyes her seriously, glaring before speaking again, “But.” The word hangs, heavy, “You’re only useful to me alive, tool.”

“We go topside and split our separate ways you keep your fucking mouth shut about this, you understand me?” He hasn’t been patient or particularly careful with her as of yet, annoyed by her general presence in Hope County and, now, in his way and in need as she is? He very nearly gags, sick with the thought of fraternizing on this level with the enemy.

“Now,” Shifting focus back to the task at hand he grips a wide, meaty hand above her ankle, “You say when and we’re settin’ this leg best I can.” Taking a side eye, fleeting look up at her he goes for useless distraction instead of action, lips moving for the sheer droning rhythm.

“You know, one time, Joseph came tearing up outta’ the fields, headed right for the barn where I was workin',” He speaks as if she was there, or knows anything surrounding that time of their lives; he doubts she has read the Book. “Just a hollerin’ and carryin’ on: Jacob, Jacob!!” When he is sure the Rookie isn’t paying attention he places his hand above the break, “The new Mama’ broke Johnny’s fingers, come quick!”

“Those people were vile- yes! Even worse than me, honey.” Taking in a slow, deep breath he musters all the strength in his body, “And I said,” Without warning or hesitation he pulls and pushes, her colored and varied language selection filling in the blanks. “Nothing at all,” Jacob very nearly hollers over her, remembering needing any kind of available anchor point during times of trauma, “I set her God damn livelihood on fire.”

Moving quickly he doesn't have time to think, field training taking over as he braces his meagre splinting material with the remains of his belt. It isn’t long enough. “Fucking! Give me your belt- now!” Jacob doesn’t wait, "Come on, come on!" He reaches trying to hurry her along with impatient, wiggling fingers and when it is undone he pulls harshly at the end he is given, "Finally."

It doesn’t take long for him to finish what he has started and? He’s certainly done better work with less supplies. But? It is dark and it will have to do.

Though it isn’t what anyone would call temperate down here he sweats from the exertion of giving it his best under the circumstances. Despite listing his distaste for her moments ago he slops against the rock wall beside her, catching his breath. He eyes her curiously, taking care not to be seen.

“Not sure when I ran out of gauze,” He makes mindless conversation to fill the cavern with anything but pained, labored breathing and expletives. “This’ll have to do for now,” Shrugging out of his 86th emblazoned camouflage he motions, “Just need a second.” He says it more for her than himself, certain the only thing keeping her from going into total shock is the copious amount of Bliss in the air and, now, in her system.

The walkie pinched to his pack grumbles to life and he takes his attention away from her for the time being. The group exploring the cave above is concerned about the various and sundry noises. He is quick to order them outside with a directive to set up camp both topside and at the lower rear exit - he will need supplies and cover and it will be much too easy to send those occupying out.

“So,” He says, hunched over her and tying his shirt tightly when she comes to again, “Got a name besides Rookie? Or do you just prefer Deputy?”

#hglhfglfhlfhglhfglhfl #this a whole new:#GIVE ME MY JACKET BACK #anywasyasdhsgfdsfdkgjf this is fine #im not on fire at all why do u ask

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schmokschmok · 4 years

Text

a series of events

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Relationship: Mikaele Salesa, Gertrude Robinson & Michael Shelley, Tim Stoker & Sasha James

Characters: Mikaele Salesa, Getrude Robinson, Michael Shelley, Tim Stoker, Sasha James

Wordcount: 5,314

Freeform:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Missing Scene

Canon Compliant

Vignettes

Summary:

It's not a tragedy. It's not a comedy either. It's a series of unfortunate events and their rather anticlimactic end.

aka What do Mikaele, Gertrude and Tim have in common? A gun!

Contains spoilers up until MAG 115

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28205352

CN: Guns (discussed), Murder (mentioned & idiomatic) Entities alluded to: Buried, Corruption, Flesh, Slaughter, Stranger

Exposition

It starts with a plain looking flintlock pistol and a few percussion weapons. After he had copied Jürgen’s client list, he had studied every last name on it relentlessly until he found one that he was sure enough he could sell to without having Jürgen with him. Then he tracked down a lass in Sunderland who liquidated a relatively sumptuous collection of antique weapons.

Now he’s standing in front of a door belonging to a block of flats which doesn’t look in the slightest like a home for antiques. Mikaele’s used to much too big houses, creaking with old age and looming over him like the head of a giant monster sleeping underneath the earth. He knows brass doorknockers and intercommunication systems at iron gates separating the wide-spreading garden area from the street. A simple intercom at the door and several flights of stairs towards one of half a dozen identical looking doors is unfamiliar territory and sends a rush of adrenaline through his whole body.

After drawing a final breath to brace himself, he rings the bell and waits for the steady thrum of the buzzer inviting him into the whitewashed house with its light grey louvred blinds. His feet hit tiles and then stair after stair until he’s in front of a door with inlaid glass. The sight through is blocked by what seems to be a curtain made from Nottingham lace.

Drawing another breath, he raps his knuckles curtly against the wood of the door and takes a step back. While he listens to shuffling footsteps coming closer, he swallows drily and plasters a sly grin on his face, even though he doesn’t feel like it. He has seen Jürgen interact with dozens of people over the years and had a fair share of interactions with tedious clients himself, so he knows that confidence is the first step to success. If he thinks he can make a deal, then he can make a deal. It’s easy, he tells himself.

The door swings open and a woman in her thirties studies him with tired eyes. She says: “Mr Salesa, I suppose?”

He nods, accompanied by verbal confirmation and greeting, and extends his hand for her to shake, and it only takes an imploring look upon his hand until she grabs hold of it and welcomes him into her small flat.

“It’s in the backroom,” she says as soon as the door clicks shut behind him. “Found them while cleaning out my Da’s cellar but hadn’t had the chance to get them looked at. What with all the funeral preparations, you know?”

Mikaele doesn’t because he never had to take care of such thing, but he makes a non-committal sound at the back of his throat and offers his condolences because it’s the polite thing to do. She thanks him in a detached voice, as one does faced with superficial, sympathetic words.

“It’s a whole chest of them,” she continues while opening the door to a small pantry which is filled to the brim with shelves displaying tinned and pickled food. The floor area is covered with cardboard boxes, two wooden chests and a few rolled up carpets. She gestures towards the chest on the left and steps back to make room for him. He thanks her.

“I don’t know if they’re worth anything at all,” she says, leaning against the doorframe and watching him step closer until the fingers of his outstretched hand touch the copper key of the chest, and sink to his knees. A part of him wants to explain to her that she’s setting herself up to get stitched up like a kipper. But it’s not his problem, is it? Actually, it’s rather his fortune.

Mikaele opens the lid and takes a look at the percussion weapons, eight of them in total. Six percussion rifles and two guns. And right on top of them lies a flintlock gun with a wooden handle. He’s not interested in that, so he takes it out and lays it down next to him on the floor with great caution.

“So, you’re taking them?” She asks and he can hear her shifting her weight from foot to foot. “I’ve got two other potential buyers. But if you want them, you can have them.”

He doesn’t know why she’s so eager to get rid of them and uneasiness settles into his midriff, constricting his breathing in an almost imperceptible way. So, he tells her that he can’t decide without taking a proper look at them. And then he asks her about deeds of ownership.

“Everything I’ve got is in that chest. If they don’t have a deed of ownership, then I haven’t either,” she replies while he takes one percussion gun out of the chest, examining the caplock mechanism and pulling back the hammer, only to be greeted by the strenuous sound of a screw being used for the first time after a long period of inactivity.

Cautiously taking out one musket after the other, splayed around him like sunbeams, the bottom of the chest reveals nine deeds of ownership and even a documentation of the last purchase agreement.

This is too good to be true, Mikaele thinks. But what he says is that he is going to buy them and that he can guarantee her an adequate payment, he can’t, however, say anything about the price just now. He must test if they work, he apologises, then he promises that if they’re usable he’s going to pay her even more. Even though it doesn’t make a difference for his potential buyer. Mikaele will get the same amount either way. But she seems like she could use the money, and this is his first buy all on his own. He can be a little generous, he can be a little accommodating.

“I don’t care,” she says, levity coming back to her and lifting her shoulders as if up until now she had been pressed down by a weight he hadn’t noticed. “I just want them gone. So, if you could take them with you today, that would be appreciated.”

After taking out the documents, he nods absent-mindedly and places the weapons back inside the chest. When he turns towards the flintlock pistol, he asks where he should put it.

“You can have it,” she rushes to say, involuntarily taking a step back and raising her hands in a display of defensiveness, palms spread wide open. He tells her that he doesn’t necessarily want it, but she dismisses his objections. “I don’t want it.” He opens his mouth again. “Look, take it as an eight plus one deal, okay? I don’t want them. Not any of them.”

He nods as if he understands what she’s trying to say. He doesn’t, but does it make any difference?

Together they lift the now locked chest after and they carry it down the stairs, through the small front yard and into Mikaele’s waiting car. As she steps back from the boot, he thanks her for her generosity and extends once again his hand to meet hers.

“Thank you,” she says as if she hadn’t singlehandedly conferred the possibility for his career beyond horror and threats on his life bound in leather. So, he thanks her, too, and as he drives away, he can feel the uneasiness melt from his ribcage into a small puddle of contentment right above his abdomen.

This is the start of something new.

Rising Action

It hadn’t been the start of something new, Mikaele realises when he sees the now familiar chest again. It had been a continuation of misfortune and horrible, sleepless nights. At least until Jürgen’s list began to seek him out to sell him the objects Jürgen wouldn’t take.

It’s a mule chest made of oak, a warm reddish colour and with a beautiful patina spread over the copper of the escutcheon, handles and applications that speaks of a long history of utilisation. Nice to look at with its octagon panelling and its visible age rings and veins of the wood.

But Mikaele knows there’s something inside besides the eighteenth century’s weaponry he held for the first time over twenty years ago. Something that, if it would live in a book, would be in Jürgen’s métier.

Despite his knowledge of the danger that lurks inside this chest, Mikaele had sold it multiple times to all kinds of different people. He thought, a meat grinder, an antique syringe, a wooden crate, a wooden chest – when it comes down to it, it’s all the same.

Slowly, word spreads. Especially in a social circle as small as the one Mikaele operates in. People talk and its hard to bring something to a market that has learned by now that the thing will get them killed. (Of course, there are always the outliers, the unpredictable variables of heedless rich men who think they can withstand temptation, only to fail. Mikaele, however, is not a heedless man and if he knows one thing, it’s that dead men can’t spend money anymore.)

So, he almost got restless at the prospect of owning a chest filled with death impossible to market again, when he remembers the small business card in his middle desk drawer that reads in small capital letters The Magnus Institute.

He calls.

Mr Bouchard welcomes his offer with the generosity of a Lukas and asks him to drop off the chest as quickly as convenient. So, he gets into his car roughly two days later and takes the trip to the institute himself as the loss of Cook is still somewhat thrumming beneath his skin. (He gives the others a few days off, tells Leigh to stock up on supplies, so they can set sails as soon as he gets back.)

When he gets out of the car in the parking lot of the institute, he realises belatedly that he has no chance of transporting the chest all on his own, so he locks up the door and heads up to the institute, a certain spring in his step and something akin to giddiness in his soul.

“Rosie,” he greets the woman sitting at the desk in front of Mr Bouchard’s office and she offers him salutations with a smile as wide as the Thames. “Mr Bouchard awaits me. A delivery for Artefacts that I could not possibly carry alone.”

She tells him that Mr Bouchard is in a meeting with a Lukas, and she says it with a wink and a smile, and even though Mikaele doesn’t quite make heads or tails of her words, he understands that she can’t ring him up until he gets out of his call, so he asks: “Would you mind calling Artefacts to send a helping hand?”

Telephone handset already in hand, her manicured fingers dial a three-digit number, and she waits patiently for the other person to pick up.

Meanwhile, Mikaele studies the stone tiles that could almost look like marble, and the dark, oiled wood that forms the intricate details of the desk she’s sitting at. The surface is covered in paper and sticky notes and handwritten reminders and dates, almost contrary to the planner lying next to her keyboard that is colour-coded and in a minimalistic beauty that Mikaele wants to envy but finds to be incredibly annoying.

Although Mikaele’s clearly occupied studying her surroundings like the engaged columns that bestow texture upon the too white walls, ending in abstract art nouveau capitals that could be worthy of note but only exert tristesse in their colourlessness. It’s a shame, Mikaele thinks, that this is what Jonah Magnus chose to express the prestigiousness of the institute with.

Suddenly, someone’s standing too close to him; entirely unexpected in his line of vision. He startles, ripping his gaze off the columns, and is met with an expressionless look of a woman. She narrows her eyes when he takes a step back to bring distance between them and apologises in a stern voice that doesn’t speak of remorse.

“Oh, don’t be,” he replies, interlacing his fingers behind his back.

From the other side of her desk, Rosie informs him that someone from Artefacts will soon be with them and if he would mind waiting for a bit. He shakes his head in answer, but his attention lays on the gaunt woman before him. She’s one part tenuous and two parts careworn wrapped in white hair and wrinkly skin only broken by thread veins and purposeful inexpressiveness.

She introduces herself as Gertrude Robinson, the head archivist of the Magnus Institute, and asks him for the cause of his visitation. So, without his own volition he tells of the chest and its malevolent contents. He tells of violence and strife and death. And when he’s done, all he can do is blink at her in owlish perturbation.

Adversatively, her gaze is unwavering, examining the parts of his being that he himself is not entirely aware of. With a blink of her eye, he feels like he can breathe again, but her carefully worded question, if he had anything else to say to her, tries to gently pry words from his mouth that he hadn’t previously known existed. He swallows them all down, phoneme for lexeme for root, almost choking on the pre- and inter- and suffixes.

He says: “Beware of the splinters. And always wear gloves.”

Though he thought she’d be displeased, her eyes glow in satisfaction and the smile tugging at the corner of her lips makes uneasiness rear its ugly head like he’s still a twenty-something in the middle of Jürgen’s library.

Climax

Michael’s standing in the doorway even though she has told him a hundred times not to lurk. He’s crossing his arms in front of his chest and the look on his face can only be described as discontent.

“I told you,” she says, weariness settling into her bones, “that it’s an act of utmost discourtesy to earwig my recordings of a statement.”

He doesn’t say anything, just shifts his weight and leans against the doorframe like a scallywag assessing the possibilities to wreak havoc. With a sigh coming from the depths of her soul, she attempts to find chagrin between fatigue and impuissance, but she comes home empty handed.

“I know,” she concedes, “this is of personal interest to you. And I can assure you, I won’t keep you in the dark in regard to research. However, I find myself in the unfortunate position of putting the development of the case before your personal interest. Which, ultimately, should lead to your satisfaction, too.” She interrupts herself in hope that he says at least something. He doesn’t. “Emma is currently tracking down Mikaele Salesa and should return with him and his extensive knowledge of the artefact as soon as possible. A research assistant is accompanying her, for her own safety and the insurance that Mr Salesa will come back.”

Michael narrows his eyes, still rigid and tensed up, every fibre of his body tight-drawn.

She has never seen him like this, without his languid smile and crinkling eyes, without the casual ‘swagger’ of his step and his restless fingers in search of something to hold on to. This is the first time she has ever seen his face in severity and earnest, almost distorted in its unfamiliarity.

“Michael,” she says after a while and she can’t keep every notion of defeat out of her voice. Three words sit on her tongue, heavy and strange, a combination of egoistical self-sorrow and wrong-worded sentiment. An attempt of retaliation, of connecting broken pieces and lost connections.

But her mouth remains empty, her teeth blocking the path separating herself from vulnerability and violability.

It's nothing personal, she thinks to herself, Michael's as good as they come. But here inside the walls of the institute every word is a weapon shock-sensitive and ready to explode. (The shock comes in many forms, most prevalently and most dangerously in the shape of grey-green eyes and blasé smiles that turn benign concerns into malignant worries. The shock comes in bursts, circling into waves that drown out every other thought.)

So, she breathes around three words that Michael deserves and that she would willingly give if he were anyone else, anyone unknown.

Time goes by in little droplets of apprehensiveness, pulling together into a flow of disquietness. But Michael’s not moving, just staring at her demandingly, his jaw locked and his knuckles turning white.

For a moment, she must avert her eyes, cannot take his open display of discontent anymore, and her gaze falls upon the wooden chest, neatly tucked into the corner of her office. A feeling of I can’t believe an unimpressive thing like you could do such harm, but deep down in her core she knows it not to be true. She has had enough artefacts in her hands, only separated from her skin by a thin layer of latex, to know that nothing ever seems as ill-natured and pernicious as it truly is.

Her eyes snap back to him, and she needs him to break the silence. (Needs him to spare a smile to reinforce something resembling normalcy. Although she Knows it to be true that Michael can’t do anything about this situation. He’s bound to the laws of physic, too, and he can’t tilt the world back into its normal position. And Gertrude shouldn’t expect him to do it if she herself can’t do anything about the world.)

“Michael,” she says again, breath catching at the edges of a four-letter word still sitting discomfortably in her throat. “Sometimes the right thing to do and the easy thing to do are two different things.” He continues to stare, vulnerability brought by wholeheartedness. “And the right thing is concentrating on your work so that Emma can do hers.”

Softly, Michael says that they were his friends. His shoulders dropping, weighted down by the acknowledgement of defeat. The start of a sentence escapes his lips, but he struggles to force it out completely, and interrupts himself. He draws a shaky breath. Voice trembling, he tries again and states that one of them did this, and she feels like he should make an all-encompassing gesture, drawing in not only shaky breaths but all the weak-kneed wrongfulness of this place.

He doesn’t know, she thinks, he doesn’t know a thing.

“Sometimes,” she says and lays her hand flat atop the desk to stop them from pushing her upright, “bad things happen. And we must deal gently with them.”

A broken-up sentence that he is just, that he is. But he can’t go on and he swallows the fire in his chest, chokes on the flames and sobs up a few sparks. He says that he’s so, so very angry. And the taste that his words leave in her mouth reminds Gertrude of bonfires and sun storms and the sound of cracking wood. (It reminds her of her adolescence, of nights spend only illuminated by the moon and the flames licking into the sky.)

She nods and presses the palms of her hands on the wooden surface with as much strength as she can conjure. She says: “Anger is a dangerous place. You must tread softly, or it swallows you whole.”

They fall back into silence, the quiet thrum of the air condition a white noise for his grief.

Then his arms fall down, and he tries to smile at her but it's a vain attempt at best. (She knows how his smile looks by heart. And this is only the caricature version of Michael himself.)

Michael's as good as they come, so she settles on: “Trust me, Michael.” And she can see that he does.

Falling Action

In the end, Gertrude is alone in the Archives and she’s buried beneath statements and rituals and eyes that follow every step she takes. Maybe she’s growing paranoid in the wake of a catastrophe she can’t even fanthom the momentousness of. Maybe she’s in her right to collect explosives like wrinkles on her skin. However, she’s still in need of more, more, more. (More certitudes, more dependability, more apologia.)

So, she starts a little fire. Nothing major, just a small one. On the other side of a room that contains a wooden chest that has brought so much grief upon the institute.

Nobody’s in danger of getting hurt, she reasons, every artefact destroyed is a blessing bestowed upon humanity. She only needs them to clear the room, to lose sight of a few things like maybe a Gorilla Skin or a wooden chest full of weaponry.

And the impossible thing is that it worked. Or semi-worked at least because the Gorilla Skin is not in the institute, has never been, and Gertrude’s not any closer to finding it, but she’s got a hold onto the chest, offered by Sonja in an attempt to safe what can be saved.

Time runs out, the Unknowing comes closer, creeps into every waking thought and tries to strangle her into submission. But Gertrude’s not done. She’s almost entirely alone and her hands may be shaking like aspen leaf, but she’s not done.

Shoulders squared and cardigan wrapped around her thin frame, she walks into Research and politely requests help moving an artefact into the Archives. A young man she has seen a few times in the hallways offers his help and she assures him that there will be a sack barrow in Artefacts when he asks if she needs more than one pair of helping hands.

“That will do,” he says light-heartedly and opens the door for her to step through in front of him. It’s a nice gesture and Gertrude enjoys Tim’s joviality as long as it lasts.

They walk in silence for a moment, their footsteps being the only noise they produce. They echo inside Gertrude’s ribcage and for a moment she thinks fondly of Gerry who’s just waiting for her to get started on their trip to the other temples of the beholding. (She won’t think of it as a capital B, she’s been resisting for so long, she won’t cave now. The pressure to give in and paint her dreams with atrocity is big and strong and all-consuming. Just a flick of her tongue and an almost imperceptible strain on her queries and the knowledge of the world would lie at her feet, waiting for her to be crowned and bestowed a gift that she had always declined politely.)

“Tim Stoker.” The research assistant breaks their silence and her train of thought. Blinking through her dusty glasses, she turns towards him without a falter in his steps. “Pleasant to finally make your acquaintance, Miss Robinson.”

Meeting her stern gaze with a friendly one of his, he smiles at her with something more akin to geniality than politeness. (All of a sudden, she’s standing in front of Michael who laughs with an edge of nervousness shortly before she sends him off to find the door. Unexpectedly, she sees Emma in the way he drags his left foot a little more than his right. Without intention, she sees Eric and Fiona in the freckle-constellations on his bare arms.)

She must avert her eyes, forcibly shaking off the images of trust and anger and disappointment dressed in faces she had known so dearly. So, she attempts to focus on their differences, on his height and cadence and the way that he says her name with distant respect like she’s worthy of note.

“Originally, I applied for a position in the Archives,” Tim says at this moment and Gertrude is present again, emerging victorious from the fight with her demons. (Victorious for now.) “But there hasn’t been an opening in quite some time.”

Nodding in thought, she tells him that the Archives is crewed with only her since 2011 and that she doesn’t intend on changing the way that she works. (Gerry’s not employed by the institute, so it’s safe to be in his company for now.)

“Not going to lie, I’m a bit disappointed at that prospect,” Tim retorts without showing any sign of frustration or letdown. And this is the thing that tips Gertrude off, makes suspicion rise in her gut like the tide after moonrise. Tim Stoker is a strange man with unclear affiliations who explicitly applied to be part of the Archives, part of Gertrude’s team. And who, upon dismissal, took work up in the institute anyways. As if he’d like to keep close, take an eyeful of the progress she’s making.

She studies him again, out of the corner of her eye this time, and asks what persuaded him to apply to the Archives in the first place, carefully keeping the compulsion out of her voice, and he says: “I’ve been working in publishing for a long time but in college I used to work as a research assistant in an archive. I guess it’s work I liked doing.”

The lie slips from his skull directly into the hollowness of her chest, and she can feel the draw of the eye to dig deep into the hidden space behind his heart. But she swallows it down, like she always has, like she always will. Pushes it into a corner not to be touched ever again. (It’s going to rear its ugly head time and time again, but hope is a frail thing with sturdy bones and Gertrude is hell-bent on keeping it alive.)

She tells him that she thinks he would be perfectly suited for the Archives, and she apologises that she can’t offer him a position. But he waves his hand dismissively, laughter in his voice and a quick pip on his tongue: “There will be other times.” But she sure hopes there will not.

Denouement

Upon entering the storage room, Tim tells her that he doesn’t believe her, that Sasha James is a liar, but he laughs right with her, holding the door open so she can come inside, too.

“I’m not lying,” she replies, breath still caught in her throat. “Jon really did! I saw it with my own two eyes!”

Tim, however, is not listening anymore. He’s mesmerized by an oak chest in the far corner of the room. A curse falls from his lips into the dusty air of the room and it only takes him a few bee-lining steps until he’s right in front of the thing.

“What’s that?” Sasha asks, following him until she’s standing right beside him. Shrugging his shoulders, he tells her that its from Artefacts and Gertrude Robinson asked him to bring it down here for a time being. (A time being that is long over since Artefacts has been renovated and Gertrude Robinson went missing.)

He kneels down to examine the chest because he distinctly remembers Gertrude telling him to not dwell on the contents for too long. Cautiously, he reaches for the escutcheon of the lid, tinged green and matted by disuse.

Sasha catches his hand mid-air. “Should you be touching it?” The levity of their prior conversation is forgotten, a tension hangs in the air between them, filled only by the muted footsteps of Martin and Jon in the hallways. “If it’s an artefact, it could be dangerous.”

Mischievously grinning, he asks her if she’s as thorough and careful in her daily life as she is with the looming possibility of spooky encounters.

Even though her aim is pretty good, he dodges the jab with a laugh he’s sure causes her to smile at least a little. He tells her to live a little, be great and beyond.

“If you had seen the artefacts we were dealing with,” she says, “you wouldn’t be as careless. You’ve read the statements. You’ve worked in Research.”

He sighs and a constricted look settles on his face, almost mirroring the flood of memories knocking him down, only simmered down to something he can actually display within the boundaries of his flesh. She’s right and he knows it, but he can’t bring himself to voice it out loud, so he settles on the one thing he always knew best: Deflection.

Making a pained sound at the back of his throat, he laments his choice of occupation without acknowledging the true intent of it. He tells her that, when Jon had asked him to move down into the Archives with him and Sasha, he hadn’t thought about it twice, had deemed working with his friends favourable to Research where Conrad works, of all people. He had thought, so he says, that working inside of an archive again would feel like home for an anthropology major like him. Field work may be wonderful, he continues, but he loved working nose burrowed in books.

More quietly, he admits that he misses publishing. Misses reading into the late hours of the night, entranced by academic works filled with hypotheses and argumentation. Misses tweaking phrases and correcting spelling, omitting thoughts only worthy of footnotes to force papers into their linear trickle of thoughts. Misses communicating with people beyond horrifying experiences and lived nightmares.

“This really is an awful lot like Research,” Sasha agrees, still eying the chest just like he is. “Artefacts is much the same, really. Just with the additional splash of weariness of life.”

In as much confidence as they can find in an open room, too close to their colleagues, Tim says that the Magnus Institute is the worst academic facility he has ever seen. That if he has to see Sasha staple documents together one more time, he’s going to pull his hair out and quit.

“I don’t understand your problem,” Sasha replies dismissively. “What the hell is wrong with stapling. It’s fun!”

He stares at her incredulously. Then he tries to explain to her why stapling sensitive documents that they are supposed to keep safe and away from harm is most decidedly the opposite of their job description.

“I think you’re overthinking this.”

Pointing at his face, still on his knees in front of her which means that he has to strain his neck to be able to look at her, he asks if he’s even apt to overthink. And once again she tries to shove at him. This time, though, she succeeds but she doesn’t reckon him trying to hold on to her legs to keep himself steady and upright, which only leads to them falling into a heap on the floor.

Laughing and a bit out of breath, she shoves at him again, trying to free herself to get standing again.

When she manages to upright herself again, she says: “You should stop being quite as overdramatic.” He points at his face once more and mouths Who? Me? at her, feigning a look of innocence. “And you should call Artefacts, so they can come and collect their cursed chest or whatever.” Still pointing at himself, he mouths again Who? Me? This time, however, with fake indignation plastered over his face.

“Yes you, yes you, yes you,” Sasha singsongs, shoving at him for the last time, pressing him into the floor, before she finally gets up and starts to head for the door. “And because of your blatant neglect of your duties,” she’s gesturing towards the chest over her shoulder which, admittedly, looks rather silly, “and your implication– no, your malicious defamation of one Sasha James, I’m going to leave you to rummage through these boxes all on your own.”

She leaves the storage room, and he can hear the echo of her footsteps, while he loudly mourns her absence and begs for her to come back. The laughter, however, that rings out of the hallway, makes it absolutely clear that he has no choice but to suffer on his own.

(If he’s nice enough, and Tim’s confident that he is, then Martin may have mercy with him and join him on their combined quest to conquer the Archives.)

#the magnus archives #tim stoker #gertrude robinson #mikaele salesa #michael shelley #sasha james #fanfiction #schmok writes #missing scene #never posted this here #time to AHHH about tma finale

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