#lord clarmont

[mendedwings]

Ultimatum prompt fill for @fyeah7kpp Promptober

Clarmont had made it all the way to their bedroom before Adie caught him. He had longer legs but she knew the castle better, and those facts just evened out to a dead heat.

"Give it--!" Adie demanded, hooking an arm around her husband's waist in an attempt to knock him on the bed.

Clarmont was laughing as he let her succeed. "Or what, dear wife?" He rolled on his back, one hand curled protectively around the prize.

"Or..." She rucked up her bothersome skirt and straddled his hips. "Or I'll make you, dearest husband."

His eyes twinkled. "And if I said I wanted you to make me?"

"I would be forced to come up with an alternate threat." She wriggled slightly higher, leaned forward til their noses all but touched. "If you don't give me that last of Henrietta's strawberry rhubarb fritters--my favorite dessert in the entire world--I'll simply have to banish you from Holt."

Clarmont's shoulder's shook with silent laughter. "That seems a bit excessive, Countess Ariadne."

"Hm." She traced a finger down the bridge of his nose. "I suppose I could settle for I'll never kiss you again if exile is too strong."

"Well, in that case, in order to prevent such a fate as never again kissing your dearest husband" --he smirked, tucking messy waves of golden hair behind her ear with his free hand "--might I suggest we compromise and share it? After all, I've developed a fondness for them, as well, and I did get to it first."

Adie chuckled. "So noble of you, Earl Clarmont, to try and save me from such tragedy."

"It is my chief flaw," he said softly, hand still threaded into her hair. "Wishing to save everyone from everything."

"Flaw or virtue, I find your terms acceptable," she murmured back, closing the distance between them for a kiss. "Though Chloe may murder us here if we get too many crumbs in the sheets."

Clarmont leaned his forehead to hers, freeing his hand from her hair to trace her lower lip with his thumb. "Then perhaps we should adjourn to the balcony. At least," he grinned, giving a significant look to their current position, "until after we've eaten."

Adie matched the grin, digging her fingers into his hair. "Those terms are also acceptable," she said playfully, and kissed him again.

[angstmongertina]

Happy posting day, @mendedwings/ @queen-scribbles and I’m so sorry I’m running a bit late (and therefore it’s a bit on the shorter side)! I hope you enjoy, and that’s in character for Adie and Clarmont!

The hall is getting more crowded by the second. Logically, he knows that there can only be the fifty odd delegates and chaperones in total, and each additional individual cannot truly add much to the spacious banquet hall, but somehow, the crush of people seems to press against him with each additional new body, making it harder and harder to breathe.

Or maybe that is just the suffocating presence of the royal heirs beside him, preening with various levels of subtlety, at least in the princess’s case, under the attention.

With a silent sigh, Clarmont casts his gaze around, glancing over the gathered delegates, scanning for a sign, a hint, of something that may prove useful to him and his. Fighting the sinister whispers in his mind, the ever present reminder that he is using them, that anyone he brings into the fold, if indeed there even is anyone he can, will be in just as much danger as he is.

That he is, in that sense, just as bad as the current rulers.

The arrival of one of the ladies in front of him is almost a reprieve. He has seen her about before, in his observation of the various kingdoms’ delegations, flitting about from person to person, but up close, she is even more striking. A far cry from the proper and collected Wellish crown siblings, her smile is mischievous, impish even, and while she is dressed in the formal dress one might expect for making the proper first impression at the Summit, her warmth and willful personality are clear just from observing her at a distance.

Now, with her standing right before him, her clear eyes and playful smirk are even more apparent, and, for a brief moment, he wonders if he has already gotten himself in too deep.

It is with some difficulty that he manages to tear his gaze away, only to land on another, far less pleasant, headache. After all, whatever he may think of his kingdom, he is, unfortunately, still a representative of it, and that means not allowing his crown prince to run rampant over all and sundry with his… forceful personality. Particularly to one as shy and hesitant as the young Wellish princess.

Before he can do more than suggest a rescue, however, she has set off across the room in that refreshingly open, confident manner, so different from the circumspection from the rest of the Summit’s delegates and not at all cowed by the intensity of the man whose very stature screams his arrogance and conceit.

Well, if nothing else, she would certainly have the gumption to stand up against the Revairan royals…

He shakes his head, pulling away from his polite farewell with more difficulty than he cared to admit. No, he has to focus, and not on the small hand in his, in the way her eyes sparkled a challenge at him. Not on how tempted he is to put aside his goals and plans, his entire purpose, and return to her.

No, he would have to be careful with her, this Countess Ariadne of Holt.

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He runs into her, completely unexpectedly, in the garden, and he finds himself uncharacteristically warring between delight and dismay. He has already tested her, and more importantly, himself, once and found at once nothing and everything to worry about. She has proven herself to be honest, thoughtful, and caring in a way that he has almost given up on finding in the political machinations of the Summit, in the growing rebellion he himself is embroiled in. And he…

Well, he has proven himself to be far too vulnerable to her charms, a fact that he proves to himself yet again as he accompanies her through the gardens, letting her playful guidance and cheerful teasing wash over him, convince him that maybe, just once, he can put aside his worries and duties and be… himself.

With her mischievous smile and independence, with her bright eyes and golden curls—like daffodils and sunshine—stubbornly fighting any attempts at being tamed, he finds himself thinking of Elspeth.

For the first time, he finds that the thought doesn’t hurt.

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He is not at the summit for romance or to find a partner. He knows this, has known it from the day he began making plans to expand the rebellion. His job here is to mingle, to find allies among the elite, to use external pressure as well as internal, and to maybe, just maybe, pray to find a solution that will not end another round of endless bloodshed.

That may, somehow, if it is even possible, grant those specters, the memories of his family, cut down defense in cold blood, that both haunt and buoy him, peace.

He is certainly not expecting to find her, someone who can still bring out the best in him, who can still make him laugh and tease and feel. Who reminds him that he still is, that he still can be, just a man.

And while he does not dare speak of her, of how he feels, to others, not yet, he knows, and she knows. And that, that beautiful, dangerous fact, is the most important of all.

[awaylaughing]

I am sort of playing catch up on @fyeah7kpp‘s 31 day prompts, who knows if I’ll actually get to all the missing ones but here’s four I’ve managed.

Like a Painting: Day 4 - Gold (Corval Lady, no warnings, gen, pre-canon)

i heart a rumour: Day 9 - Renown (Jiyel setting, no warnings, gen, pre-canon, POV-outsider)

Tea Leaves Unclear: Day 12 - Temperate (Corval Lady, sexism, gen, pre-canon, POV-outsider)

all the world’s a stage: Day 13 - Rehearsal (Corval Lady, Lord Clarmont, Week 5 spoilers, gen)

[bee-a-garbage-shipper]

Zarad: Truth or dare?

Clarmont: Dare.

Zarad: I dare you to kiss the prettiest person in the room.

Clarmont: Hey Gisette.

Gisette: Composed but flattered. Yes?

Clarmont: Could you move? I’m trying to get to Cornelia.

[birdmanart]

Rather late, but happy holidays @the-duelling-tophat ! I’m sorry this is so small - it’s been a very busy break and I was only just able to work on this in the past few days TTATT You had so many references and cool things tagged for Bel! She seems so interesting, I really wish I’d had more time to go through them more and learn about her further. As it is, I hope this is an acceptable depiction for the time being! :) This is the second year in a row I’ve drawn Clarmont for someone’s secret santa gift, I’m starting to feel like it’s a pattern... 

[mer-birdman]

7KPP Week Day 6 - Hope or Despair

To be Revairan is to remain graceful even as the earth crumbles beneath your feet.

"Xián! Come in, please, you look terrible!"

The young man — really barely a man at all, still gangly and awkward with large feet and freckles under a mop of curly brown hair — ducks through the door before Yuè can open it any further and pulls it shut behind him with a click, panting. A dark stain slowly seeps through the fabric at his shoulder, and a reddish smear is visible on the sides of the hand he has clamped over it. He immediately hurries away from the entryway, tugging the curtains over the door and front windows shut with his good hand before grabbing Yuè's wrist and pulling her further into the house, calling, "Lord Clarmont! Where are you?"

Yuè stumbles behind her younger brother, caught off guard. "Xián, he's upstairs in his study, what's—" and gets no further, because Xián changes direction and hurries them up the stairs, where her husband has already stepped out of his study to meet them with a concerned expression.

"Xián Chén? What's going on?"

The boy pants, dropping his sister's wrist and leaning heavily against the wall. "They came for us. Last night, or yesterday? I'm not sure. All dressed in black, came in through the windows after we'd gone to sleep — I only saw because Hào Yíng had had a nightmare and I was getting her a sweet from the kitchens." He winces, fingers digging into his shoulder around the bloodstain. "I got back to her in time, but they— Mother and Father, Bì Ān and Guì Fú and Jī Huā — I'm so sorry, Yuè, I couldn't get to them in time."

She freezes, and Clarmont wraps one warm arm around her shoulders as the words run circles around her head. All but one of her precious sisters — dead? Gone, forever? Jī had been in love with a boy from a nearby family, they'd been exchanging letters. Bì had only been eleven years old, she hadn't even started wearing hoops yet. Guì was saving up to travel to Jiyel to study music there, Avalie had even offered to help her set up an apprenticeship... and they're all gone now?

Her voice cracks when she tries to speak. "And what of my other brothers, Xián? What happened to Mīn Lán and Xiāo Sēn?"

"Mīn was with Hào, so I took both of them and ran. Xiāo was camping out overnight with one of his friends — training, they said, but I think they just didn't want to admit they're sleeping together." Against her will, she giggles, the sound weak and strained. "I picked them up on the way out — they're hiding on your grounds right now, Lord Clarmont. Is it— can I—"

Yuè doesn't see it, but she knows from the movement of his shoulders that Clarmont nods firmly, and she can tell from his voice how worried he is. "Yes, of course they can come in. It would be terrible of me to leave family out in the cold like this. Where did you leave them?"

"The stand of maple trees, sir. I left Xiāo and Orion in charge, since they're the oldest."

Pulling away from them, Clarmont hurries down the stairs, and after a few moments Yuè hears the door shut noisily and sighs. Her mind is still fuzzy with shock, but there's much to be taken care of now. Clarmont with find her siblings, she can trust him with that, so now she must care for the eldest of her younger brothers. "Come on, Xián. Let me clean your shoulder."

Her brother winces and nods, following her slowly down the hallway and into the washroom attached to the bedroom that she and Clarmont share. In a deceptively small cupboard hidden under the sink, she finds a salve and bandages, and wets her handkerchief in the washbasin before gesturing for her brother to take off his shirt so she can clean the injury underneath. The fabric sticks a bit where the blood's already started to dry, but she dabs at it gently with the kerchief and it slowly comes off, revealing a thin gash across the outer curve of his shoulder. "Oh, Xián, what happened?"

"One of them got me while we were running." Xián shrugs and winces as she slowly begins washing off the wound, wiping away crusted blood and cleaning out the edges. "It was going to hit Hào, and I thought— well, better me than her."

A mournful sigh escapes her as she examines the cut, checking for signs of infection and feeling very much like she had at eleven again. Oh, how she'd wished her little brothers and sisters could have had the childhood she didn't, wished they would never have to make the choice of sacrificing for another's livelihood. "Well, it doesn't look infected. You're not allowed to use your shoulder for a few days, though."

"What?" A panicked look creeps into his eyes. "But then how am I going to carry Hào and Mīn?"

She pauses. "Carry them where? Aren't you going to stay here?" Where I can take care of you, but she doesn't say that. It would seem overbearing, since they weren't actually all that close when she still lived at home. None of them were. Yuè loved her siblings dearly, but they hadn't particularly returned the feeling for most of her childhood.

Xián blinks owlishly, staring at her in surprise and only turning away to hiss in pain as she starts dabbing some of the medicinal salve onto the wound and smoothing it over the raw edges. "I— I didn't think— We mostly just hoped you'd let us stay the night."

"Just the night? Xián, you can't be serious." Placing a gauze pad over the cut and wrapping linen bandages around it to keep it firmly in place, Yuè sighs. "You're barely of age, and they'd find you in no time if you stayed in the open. They—" She flinches at the words, but presses on, "—they'd probably not assume that you'd find shelter with your estranged freak of a sister, so you'll be safer here than anywhere else."

Downstairs, the front door opens and closes, interrupting her brother as he opens his mouth to respond with an unhappy expression. Yuè stands, folding his dirtied and torn shirt in her arms. "I'll send this to the wash — I'm sure Clar will be more than willing to let you borrow one of his. Is anyone else hurt?"

"Just— um, just me."

A firm nod, and she turns and leaves the room, almost colliding with her husband in the hallway as he reaches the top of the stairs with a gaggle of children following him, the smallest being carried in his arms. Xián follows her, immediately bending down to throw his arms around his youngest brother as Mīn runs forward to meet him, and grunts slightly as the movement jostles his injured shoulder. Xiāo (standing at the edge of the bridge between childhood and adulthood, the proportions of his face all out of sync in their growth, and he's grown far too much since she last saw him) hurries to embrace his elder sister, tugging at the hand that is wrapped around Orion's so they both end up in Yuè's arms as she bends her head and presses her nose into their hair. They smell like trees and smoke, and she suspects her brother has forgotten to tell her the fate of their childhood home on purpose.

Hào, in Clarmont's arms, reaches for her as she straightens up, and Yuè steps forward to take her littlest sister in her arms. Hào's only seven, born just a year before Yuè was married off to the Baron and too young to really remember her, but Yuè has their mother's round cheeks and flat nose and their father's round lips and high forehead and looks just enough like home that she feels safe to Hào. Pressing a clumsy kiss into the girl's curly hair, she looks up to meet her husband's eyes and some sort of silent message must pass between them, because he immediately crosses the space between them to wrap his arms around her and let her rest her head against his shoulder. 

Neither of them say it, but they both know why her home was attacked. Clarmont may be well-respected and well-liked and safely hidden behind his political cover, but Yuè is outspoken and dangerous to the crown. She's only become more public and more controversial since their return from the Summit just over a year ago, and while her marriage keeps her somewhat safe... her estranged family clearly didn't share that same security. She wants to feel something at the loss, some sorrow or regret at the fact that it's her fault her parents are dead, and yet all she can think of is how eager they were to marry their eldest daughter off to a man who clearly only wanted an exotic plaything, how they fawned and fluttered over her luck to have become so wealthy while ignoring how she had been treated as less than human by her first husband. Yuè wants to mourn them, but her heart simply feels empty, and she recalls her mother warning her not to fight back or argue because she was their livelihood now. Her father telling her to let the Baron do as he pleased, she was a wife now and should submit to her husband's wishes, as though she wasn't barely fourteen and terrified.

No, she can't find it in her to feel sorry at this fate.

The loss of her sisters is hard — they hadn't deserved it, had only been children born to the wrong family at the wrong time — but she's grown up in Revaire, and she knows that war doesn't care whether you're a child or a crone, it will kill you either way. And this is war — not outright, not soldiers versus soldiers and not war in any traditional sense — but everyone within her country is fighting now. For peace, or for power. And now because of her, because she refused to bow her head and stay silent any longer, her family has suffered.  Her siblings — her children, in all but the traditional sense — don't deserve this, don't deserve to have their lives cracked and shattered to pieces like this. She hadn't been able to protect them from this loss they never should have suffered, but she can and will protect them now.

"They're staying." 

It's not a question, nor a request, and Clarmont simply nods and presses his lips to her temple gently. "Your family is my family, Yuè. They're staying."

The world falls apart beneath them, and they build an island out of the pieces, for that is what it is to live in Revaire now.

AAAAAGH I made up the names of all seven of Yuè's siblings on the spot while writing this. behindthename is my new best friend, sorry y’all. 

This is intended to be post-canon in a sort of ‘bad ending’ where Revaire is still in turmoil — maybe not as much, but it’s still a bad situation. I wanted to do hope and despair instead of one or the other, so... yeah. Also, I feel I should point out — Yuè calls herself a ‘freak’ because it’s a sort of internalized discrimination after years of hearing it from others. She’s mostly gotten over it by the point when this story takes place, but it’s still a bit of a reflexive habit.

Crossposted to AO3!

[loriane-elmuerto]

oc name meanings

got tagged by @preachercuster to share the name meanings of my kids and let me tell you, I howled at the opportunity, THANK YOU MACY 🥰🥰🥰🥰

gonna tag @chuckhansen, @queennymeria, @frankwoods, @cryptcombat, @prometheas, @jmiacolt, @lucky-107, @countessrooster, @jackiesarch, @honeysides, @indorilnerevarine, @themysteriouslou, @dredgenyoure, @pheedraws, @shellibisshe, @jennystahl, @cobb-vanthss, @heroofpenamstan, and @sigma-skull, only if you want to!

Aminata means “trustworty”, “faithful”, “honest” (from Arabic “amīn/أمين”) and “to feel safe” (from Arabic “amīn/أمين” = safe/secure).

The Clarmonte surname is of French locational origin from any of the various places so called from the Olde French 'cler' or 'clair' meaning 'bright' or 'clear', plus 'mont', a hill i.e., a prominent hill standing out from a plain.

Adelaide - a form of Adelheid, meaning "noble kind or type" comes from the old German adal "noble" and heid "kind or type".

Kane is an Irish surname. The name is an anglicisation of Cathán meaning descendant 'of the war like' or a sept of Scottish Clan MacMillan.

The meaning of Caroline is 'free' or 'beautiful woman' in Latin. The name Caroline also means 'strong, free woman' or 'song of happiness' in French and German. It is the feminine form of the name Charles, which means strong, 'free man' in French.

Becker - Dutch, German, Danish, and Jewish (Ashkenazic): occupational name for a baker of bread, or brick and tiles, from backen 'to bake'. English: occupational name for a maker or user of mattocks or pickaxes, from an agent derivative of Old English becca 'mattock'.

Dominique is a unisex French name of Latin origin that means "of the Lord".

Thorne is a surname of English origin, originally referring to a thorn bush.

No one can quite settle on what the name Lauren means. It has been interpreted to mean “wisdom” or “laurel plant.” The name is derived from the French name Laurence, which is thought to also have been derived from the Roman surname Laurentius.

Gilbert - English (of Norman origin), French, and North German: from Giselbert, a Norman personal name composed of the Germanic elements gisil 'pledge', 'hostage', 'noble youth' + berht 'bright', 'famous'.

Sarai - form of Sarah, a biblical name, meaning "princess" in Hebrew.

Clarmonte - see Aminata's description.

Meaning "victory," Victoria is of Latin origin and the feminine variant of the masculine name, Victor. In Roman mythology, Victoria is the goddess of victory, equivalent to the Greek goddess Nike.

Adler - German: from Adler 'eagle', denoting someone living in a house identified by the sign of an eagle. The German noun is from Middle High German adelar, itself a compound of adel 'noble' + ar 'eagle'.

[faejilly]

surrender

7kpp fictober day 10: Theodora of Arland vs The Summit

so if “renown” was right as the welcome feast began, this is during... and the not so fun after.

Theodora commits, then and there, while talking to Princess Anaele... no. Dora commits, while talking to Ana. She cannot be unaware of how her parents have trained her to behave, but this... this is more important than their expectations, this is about everyone’s future, not just hers.

She gives in to that thought, more impulse than a conscious plan, and lets herself go. She looks at each new person she meets, looks at how they stand and how they talk, how they lean towards the people around them, how they look around the rest of the feast, how they look at her, what they say and how they say it, and takes every ounce of experience she has watching her parents’ Court to help her interpret it. (Watching only, never participating, and now she wonders why, why she’s stuck like this, so far away from who she needs to be, for this, when all she needed was a little more give... but that doesn’t matter now, it doesn’t matter what she had or what they did, only what she can do with who she is, right now.)

She offers her respects to most of the Chaperones, to their countries, to their interests, and thinks she succeeds. (The Grand Duke of Wellin catches her eye, and dismisses her with a flick of his own, and she lets him, and decides there’s only so much that can be expected of her on her first day.)

She sees how stiff the Prince of Wellin holds himself, and and speaks to him as she always wished people would dare to speak to her, at home, and he smiles.

She offers Princess Penelope comfort, rides the terror of Hamin of Hise’s brash laugh and pretends she likes this adventure she’s embarked upon, pretends so hard she almost believes it.

(And yet she’s desperately relieved to fall back on comforting formality with Princess Cordelia, a break where she can breathe, and do what is familiar, what is safe, and be greeted with the same in return. She falls a little bit in love, right then and there, with the one other person here who seems to speak the same language she does, the language she’d been told her whole life was the only one she’d ever need to know.)

Prince Zarad sweeps her into a dance, and she calls him every insulting name she can think of, with a smile on her face. (She means them, every one, and hates him a little on behalf of the girl she was just a few minutes ago, before Ana, before Cordelia, who would have burst into tears and had her entire Summit ruined for one madcap young man’s whim. He bows her away again, a glint of respect in his eyes, and she wonders at how fragile Constance’s life must be, caught in the Corvali Court surrounded by men like that. And worse.)

She greets Crown Prince Jarrod, because she must, and the grip of his hand makes her realize how much worse could get. Because this is cruelty, and selfish caprice, and she is afraid.

She almost flees when she gets the chance. She manages to hide her desire to retreat, but she cannot make herself brave Princess Gisette’s cold eyes.

And maybe, maybe she can see how Zarad’s greeting was a test, a way to see if she had what it took to survive the next seven weeks now, rather than waiting ‘til later when the consequences would still be worse.

She hates herself almost as much as him, that she thinks she’s already forgiven him for it.

Lord Clarmont puts her more at ease than she thought possible, after that, and she stood up with Prince Zarad, with Clarmont behind her she can stand up for Penelope too, can’t she?

(She can, she almost doesn’t believe it, and the Theodora in the back of her thoughts is screaming, terror and shock and worry, but Dora smiles, and keeps going.)

Lady Avalie is beautiful and smooth, as flawless as porcelain and gold, and Dora wonders if there’s a way to be more like that, when she grows up a little more.

And Duke Lyon...

He lets her talk about the past, rather than making her worry about the present or the future, and she hopes she gets the chance to talk to him again.

She saves the Earl for last, her sweetly remembered Emmett, the one friend she hopes she has just for herself, and it’s more difficult than she expected not to throw herself into his arms and cling to the one spot of comfort here in this horrifying new stage of her life.

But she doesn’t, and he smiles, and she smiles back, and maybe they’ll both survive the next seven weeks, as long as they help each other through the days.

And Dora smiles, and smiles, and makes it through dinner, and back to her room, and it’s only when she’s finally behind her closed door, curled up in every blanket she can find, that she lets Theodora out again, eyes dry but burning, body shaking so hard she’s surprised to realize she’s still in one piece when she wakes up the next morning.

[krys-loves-otome]

question for houki! I noticed you said you don't want to be "directly involved" with violence or killing, but don't you think that's similar to a bystander effect? 👀 just some food for thought!

Picrew used here~

I took the question more in the literal sense, in that I wish to not take up a sword or dagger and do the deed myself, as the warlords and others I’ve known would more readily do. I myself am not built for combat and would only be considered a hindrance with my lack of physical prowess. Even under the most favorable circumstances, the best I could do would be to surprise my aggressor and wound them, never mind my own emotional state under this imagined scenario. Surprise, panic, even the possibility of rage only clouds one’s judgment, meaning I would have less chances of successfully landing a debilitating hit, let alone a fatal one. There’s also the size and ability of my aggressor that should also be taken into consideration, as while I could potentially surprise the aggressor by, say, an elbow into their stomach or pinching the soft part of their hand, certain heights would be out of my reach so I cannot blind them or punch them in the nose. 

All of that aside, if I can help defend someone else with the skills that I do have, I’ll do what I can to help them. When I was at the Summit, there was a Princess named Penelope, from Wellin. Very sweet girl, but the Summit clearly wasn’t the place for innocents like her. She was approached by the recently crowned prince of Revaire, Jarrod. As though the rumors of the bloody coup weren’t enough, Prince Jarrod himself was cold and domineering and frightening to the gentle princess. I had been speaking to another lord from Revaire, Lord Clarmont, and we both noticed the situation. Unlike his fellow Revarian courtiers, Lord Clarmont had a warm smile and a charming demeanor. He was also quite chivalrous and disliked seeing Princess Penelope under duress from his ‘prince.’ Lord Clarmont asked if we should go and rescue the poor princess. Having the… pleasure, of meeting with Prince Jarrod myself, I felt sorry for Princess Penelope. No lady, no matter her status, should have to deal with that, especially if they are ill-equipped to deal with gentlemen like Prince Jarrod.

Luckily, from what I gathered from my encounter with him, he will back down if stood up to. For all of his aggression, he backs down when he sees he cannot intimidate his victim. 

So, even before Lord Clarmont had a chance walk over to them, I walked over to them and just… started rattling off random trivia. Prince Jarrod probably thought I was mad, coming towards him again after our first encounter. But he did back off from Princess Penelope, the girl thankful and she ran off towards her brother. Lord Clarmont was impressed and we became friends after that. 

So, from what I understand of what the ‘bystander effect’ is, I don’t think I fall into that effect, not easily anyway. I may not be able to fight like the warlords or the warriors and fighters I’ve known, but that doesn’t mean I won’t step in when the occasion calls for it. 

I hope that this answers your question sufficiently. Feel free to ask more questions if you wish. 

[mendedwings]

Fair Trade

Happy holidays, @angstmongertina! I’m your @fyeah7kpp Secret Santa! All your girls are so lovely, but I couldn’t resist writing something for Tempy/Clarmont. I hope you enjoy!

---

Most of the obstacles Temperance had faced thus far in her bid for self-sufficiency and independence had been more mental or metaphorical. The sturdy black and white paint mare eying her from the stall was a tad more literal.

Temperance took a deep breath and stepped closer. “Hello, Sugarplum.” She kept her voice soft and soothing and one hand out, a cube of sugar balanced on her palm. That much she knew about horses; they appreciated treats. 

Sugarplum took the proffered peace offering eagerly, her lips tickling Temperance’s palm, then nickered.

“There, we’re friends now. hm?” Temperance kept her hand extended and carefully moved to stroke the side of Sugarplum’s muzzle. The horse took it well, content with the attention and treat.

Step one. Temperance bit her lip and lifted the stall latch.

Sugarplum’s ears pricked and she shifted her weight with a quiet snort as Temperance slipped into the stall with her.

“It’s alright, I’m not going to hurt you,” Temperance soothed. She stroked the mare’s neck. “I just wanted to go for a ride, we can do that, right? Get you some exercise and fresh air?”

She’d read about the process of tacking a horse, watched the footmen both home in Arland and here on the Isle. Surely she could manage to do this alone, tack and mount a horse. There were a couple stablehands... somewhere if she ran into trouble she couldn’t handle.

Sugarplum huffed and lightly stamped a hoof. Temperance had picked her because she seemed even-tempered, but there was an edge of restlessness to the motion. She dug a pair of carrot slices from her pocket as further gesture of goodwill and reached for the bridle.

Step tw- It was different. There were fewer pieces to it, not as many straps as Temperance expected. She froze in uncertainty, looking between the bridle and Sugarplum, trying to gauge how this one would work.

Sugarplum’s ears went back when Temperance stepped closer again, dodging backwards to avoid the extended bridle. 

“Come on, girl.” She was trying to sound encouraging, but it probably came out closer to begging.

Sugarplum snorted and dodged again, tossing in a nip for good measure this time.

Temperance yelped as she backpedaled, avoiding the very large teeth. Tears pricked her eyes regardless as she bumped the stall door. It shouldn’t be so hard to do things for herself-

“Everything alright- Princess?” The familiar voice sounded surprised, and it added to her desire to curl up in a ball or vanish. Perhaps both. Pasting on a smile, she turned to face her company. “Good morning, Lord Clarmont.”

He arched a brow, clearly seeing through her brave front but kind enough not to call her on it. “And to you, Princess Temperance. Might I ask what you’re doing out here so early?”

“I wanted to go for a ride and... thought to tack my own horse.” She gave a shaky laugh, flexing the almost nipped fingers as the other hand maintained a death grip om the bridle. “I... Sugarplum’s always seemed a more gentle horse. Easy-going.”

Clarmont smiled warmly, leaning his forearms against the stall door. “She is, but even easy-going horses will nip if stressed.” He gestured her closer. “Come out for a moment, let her calm down.”

Face hot, Temperance followed the direction. “I was trying to be gentle,” she mumbled.

“I’m sure.” Clarmont stroked Sugarplum’s forelock. “If I may offer some advice?”

She nodded mutely. 

“It’s usually wiser to tack a horse out of the stall, unless it’s a large one. So they have room to not feel trapped.” He nodded toward the bridle she held. “And Sugarplum’s mouth is sensitive; while that would be correct for the other horses, she needs a bitless bridle.” He held out his hand. “I can go swap it for you, if you like, while you lead your noble steed out for tacking?”

Another nod, still silent as embarrassed frustration made her eyes burn. Couldn’t even tack a horse on her own...

Clarmont paused, rested a hand on her arm. “Temperance? It’s an admirable goal, and no shame to ask for help with a new task.”

“Thank you,” she managed, her face still warm--though not solely from embarrassment any longer, as she gingerly guided Sugarplum into the main aisle of the stable. The horse was laconic about complying, but did follow to one of the securing lines. Held still for Temperance to loop the rope around her neck. “Good girl,” Temperance whispered, offering another carrot, which was greedily consumed.

“Here we are.” Clarmont returned with the correct bridle in hand. “Did you get a saddle and pad?”

Temperance nodded and pointed to the bench where she’d draped them with one hand as the other stroked Sugarplum’s neck.

“Have you ever used a bitless bridle, highness?” Clarmont asked, twinkle in his eye, as a pair of stablehands passed by.

“Can’t say that I have,” Temperance confessed, tucking loose hair behind her ear. “Even the standard ones here look different from the ones I’ve seen back home.”

“It won’t be much of an issue with Sugarplum here,” he began as he guided the bridle over the horse’s head, slowly to let Temperance see how he did it, “since she’s so calm, but controlling a horse with no bit is different, and trickier if they’re headstrong.”

“Good to know.” Her embarrassment was subsiding, replaced by curiosity and desire to do better next time, so she watched intently as he settled the bridle around Sugarplum’s ears. “I chose her precisely because she’s calm and gentle. And it’s my understanding paints are more laidback in general?”

“They are indeed,” Clarmont said with a smile. “You know horses?”

“To a degree.” Temperance retrieved the saddle blanket and laid it over Sugarplum’s back. “Even if I don’t know everything about their care, I have read quite a bit about various breeds; their temperaments, strengths, areas of use and the like.”

“I’m impressed,” Clarmont grinned, shifting the blanket an inch or so toward the withers. “Can you manage the saddle?”

“I can try.” It had been... very heavy heavy when she brought it out, she wasn’t sure she could get it up on a horse’s back. But she’d give it her best shot.

He watched her collect the saddle, stagger under the weight, and when it was clear she wouldn’t lift it high enough he stepped in. “Allow me.”

And before she knew what was happening, his chest was against her back and his hands under hers, guiding the saddle to its proper place on Sugarplum’s back.

The heat in her cheeks was definitely not embarrassment this time. “Thank you.”

“You are most welcome. Make sure the girth is tight enough as you buckle it, but not too tight,” he said, withdrawing his hands but staying close.

Temperance took a deep breath and tried not to get distracted as she buckled the girth. “Is there a risk of it changing?”

“Mm. I don’t know if it’s foible of Sugarplum’s, but some horses will hold their breath while being saddled, let it out after for a looser fit.” Clarmon rested a hand on Sugarplum’s flank. “More comfortable for them, but dangerous for the rider.”

Sugarplum nickered and nosed his pocket until he laughed and produced a few carrot pieces.

Temperance smiled to herself, kneeling in scratchy straw when her calves started to burn. With the horse distracted, it was relatively easy to confirm the girth was buckled safely. She started to stand, just as Sugarplum shifted position and bumped her shoulder. Temperance teetered and would have fallen into the wall if Clarmont didn’t grab her arm.

“Careful, dear princess,” he said with a twinkle in his eye as he righted her.

“Thank you.” Temperance enjoyed the warmth of his hand on her arm once more as he let it linger. “I’m doing a bang up job of handling this on my own, aren’t I?” she commented ruefully.

He gave her an encouraging smile. “Everyone has growing pains with a new skill, Temperance. Besides, when working with or around horses, it’s better to have two people or more. For safety’s sake.”

“And good company?” she teased, almost--pleasantly--surprised at her own boldness.

Clarmont’s smile widened. “If you’re lucky.”

I am. “Well. Then, in the interest of both safety and good company...” Temperance’s fingers curled around the reins. “Would... would you like to join me on my ride, Lord Clarmont?”

His eyes twinkled. “Princess Temperance, it would be my honor. Give me a moment to fetch a horse.”

Temperance spent that moment stroking Sugarplum’s neck and murmuring quietly to her. ‘He’s quite the gentleman, isn’t he? Very kind and handsome.’

Clarmont returned with a starred sorrel ambling beside him much more swiftly than she expected, and she hastily strangled off her asides to the horse. “That was fast.”

He smiled sheepishly. “I confess, I was hoping to accompany you. Marquis is a good trail mate for Sugarplum; I asked the stablehand to saddle him while I was helping you.” He paused and cocked his head. “I apologize if that was too forward of me.”

“N-No.” She fought the urge to bury her face against Sugarplum’s neck. “Not at all.”

Clarmont’s eyes filled with relief. “Glad to hear it. Would you like a hand up?” He nodded toward the horse.

Temperance nodded. “Yes, thank you.” Sidesaddle was so much trickier to mount on your own. She didn’t loosen her grip on his hand until she was settled and it was only half for safety’s sake.

“Set?” he double checked, waiting for her confirmation before he eased back and mounted his own horse.

“Thank you,” Temperance said as they made their way toward the trail. “For all your help. I do want to learn to do things like this on my own, but I’m... glad you were here for the learning curve.”

“It was my pleasure,” he said. “As I told you, it’s an admirable pursuit.”

“I do feel I owe you something for your efforts.”

“Not at all, but if you insist” --his eyes were twinkling again-- “there’s a sweet and lovely lady I’m trying to court, if you had advice on how to win her heart, it would be welcome.”

Temperance’s smile widened. “Seems a fair trade. I think I can help with that.”

[altairtalisman]

Hey again @distracteddaydreams, this is the second gift that I’ve promised you. As mentioned, I’ll explain the reason to why I’m giving you two gifts. The reason is because in your reply to whether Isidora has high stats in poise, you had expressed delight under the assumption that the original story would be based around the play. As I didn’t wish to disappoint you, I felt that writing a second story that had a setting somewhere related to the play in Week 5 was the best solution. With that, I’ve managed to come up with this story that features Isidora and Zarad (who’s your favourite LI if I’m not wrong).

“I still can’t believe that you’re my stage lover.” Isidora remarked dryly, with Zarad smiling as though he had successfully humiliated Blain again. Maybe he did, though it was surprising that Blain wasn’t complaining about it during rehearsals. “At least I get to insult you twice-fold.”

“Oh, how you wound me! Were our secluded meetings not enough in showing my undying love for you?” Zarad exaggerated a gasp, pressing a hand to his forehead theatrically. “Say it isn’t so my sweet Vienna!”

“My, is your love for me really so pathetic to the extent that you don’t dare to show it to me in public?”

“Sweet, dearest Vienna, how you tempt me!”

“As amusing as this is to watch, I would rather not watch your actual chemistry bleed into this… entertaining scene between the two lovers.” Avalie chuckled, her brown eyes deliberately averted away from them. Penelope was a blushing mess, while Clarmont was inquiring to the Wellin princess’s wellbeing. Isidora smirked in response, raising an eyebrow in a mocking fashion. “You tempt me, but no I shan’t fall for your honeyed jabs.”

“Should I be concerned that a fair lady has thrown her hat in the ring?” Zarad mused, enjoying the slight respite from their rehearsals. The Grand Duke was absolutely terrible at his role of a director, which was a good thing that Woodly wasn’t here. In terms of skill, Avalie was a wonderful director. However, she usually liked to ‘challenge people’s worth’ which ultimately made her an ineffective director. Her words, not the delegates. “Your highness, my lord, should I be wary of you two?”

“I-I… um… I don’t have a hat and there’s no ring?” Penelope knew what Zarad was trying to imply, but she had no comeback to that. Furthermore, she still wasn’t confident interacting with Zarad. Clarmont frowned, though he didn’t wish to play a lead role, he still felt that the performance must be taken seriously. Which made him wonder why he was losing sleep over Isidora’s so-called admirers. “L-Lord Clarmont? Are you alright? You don’t look well…”

“I’m… I’m fine. Just a bit tired, thank you kindly for asking your highness.”

 “As fun as it is to watch, we should get back to rehearsals. The climax sounds like a good place to rehearse.” Avalie suggested, gesturing for the delegates playing Serah’s clumsy maid and Lady Matterly to come closer to them. Blain, on the other hand, need no gestures for he had proudly walked over to the group, his chest puffed out. “Lord Blain, how wonderful of you to join us. It’s a shame that you’re not needed.”

“What?! You just said that we’re going to rehearse the climax!” Blain squawked, outraged that whatever screen time he had (be it on stage or not) was to be eliminated completely. He actually wanted a lead role, but Jaslen had forced the role of Lady Matterly’s knight on him. It was a perfect fit for him, though none of the delegates would ever voice this out. “I’m integral to this scene damn it!”

“What Lady Avalie means, is that we can replace you with someone else and there wouldn’t be any issues at all.” Isidora quipped, if there was one thing she liked, it was to see Blain getting all riled up. It was strange to admit, but she learnt best about human behaviour whenever someone was angry. Avalie smiled innocently, though her eyes lit up with approval towards Isidora’s comment. 

“Yes yes, I hear you clearly Blain.” Zarad nodded gravely, his face turning serious. “We should replace you with Prince Jarrod instead! After all both of you are equals.”

“Excuse me?!” Blain sputtered, his cheeks turning purple with rage. “I’m not anything like… like… like that murderer!”

“Oh, stop it Armand.” Isidora swatted Zarad’s arm, a coy smile on her face as she glanced at Blain. “Imagine the sheer torture Lady Matterly will be in with that poor knight of hers.”

“T-This isn’t part of the script…?” Penelope frantically looked through her script, believing that they were already rehearsing. The delegate playing Serah’s maid wanted to intervene, but accidentally slipped on the floor (which was not only shiny but slippery) and fell on Blain. This resulted in Blain yelling at the delegate, who proceeded to hit him with her hands. “U-Um… is this the part where I’m supposed to thank my maid?”

“This is the part where both directors shake their heads and avoid the fingers pointed at them.” Avalie smiled, ignoring the scuffle between the two delegates. “Horus, shouldn’t you do something for your dearest Serah?”

“You’re right. Come, do not look at that terrible sight.” Clarmont led Penelope away, and out of the practice room. Isidora sighed, as much as she wanted to see the delegate ruin Blain’s hair… 

“I think we should end for the day.” Zarad hummed in agreement, his bet with ‘Lady Matterly’ coming to an abrupt halt as a result. Isidora grinned, placing a hand on his bare chest. “Now come Armand, did you not say that you want to declare your undying love to me?”

“... I’m going to be sick.” The delegate playing Lady Matterly muttered, exiting the practice room while mumbling about how the performance was bound to be a disaster. The ‘maid’ stood up, dusting her dress as she followed the previous delegate out of the practice room. 

“I wonder if I’ll be hearing yowling in the music room later. There’s something alluring about that hideous noise, don’t you agree?” Avalie asked, sauntering towards the door. She glanced back at Isidora, an amused smirk on her flawless features before she left the room. That left Isidora and Zarad with the other remaining delegates, most of them unsure if they should practice on their own or not. Isidora nudged Zarad, a wicked smile spreading across her face.

“Say Armand, I think I know of a way for you to win my affections.” 

“Vienna! To think you’re willingly offering me the key to your heart! Dare I question it to be a dream?” Zarad comically gasped, placing both hands mockingly to his exposed chest. 

“A key, foolish Armand. Where’s the fun in giving you the right one?” Zarad nodded appreciatively, their banter was basically equivalent to flirting after all. He just hoped that when the time came, Isidora wouldn’t drop their relationship immediately. Perhaps she won’t, he reasoned. There was some benefits being matchmade to a prince like him, even if they were both from Corval. “Shall we go Zarad?”

“Of course, will you deign to sing for me this time Isidora?”

“Only if you break the piano.” The pair left the room, laughing while exchanging barbed yet flirtatious insults. The rest of the delegates shook their heads, a singular thought in their minds as they started to clear the practice room.

‘I guess it’s time to avoid the music room on my way back…’

[angstmongertina]

contest

I am once again now technically two days late, but I had a lot of fun writing out this first date with Clarmont properly, especially with Morgaine’s more... cynical approach to it all, so you know what? Worth it. :P

The two lines of dialogue were lifted wholesale from the game.

Day Eight: Reticence

AO3 Link

When she first received the invitation from Lord Clarmont, she wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. In her time at the capital of Revaire, he had always been studiously polite and certainly well-liked within court, but just quiet enough, just distant enough, with an air of melancholy and mystery to attract the attention of more than one besotted and ultimately unsuccessful noblewoman. Then again, suspecting what she did about his… affiliations, it was perhaps only a surprise that he, dashing and burdened as he was, did not hold more interest than he already did.

Which only made his request that she join him for a meal all the more baffling.

Were it anyone else, she might have suspected that he had an underlying motive, that perhaps he had figured out her intentions at the Summit and meant to do away with her before she could have a chance to reveal his secrets to the Crown. Except she knew she had been careful, had surely passed his test, such as it was, with the nervous Wellish princess. Had worked hard to win his trust.

It made a little more sense when her preoccupation led to another test in the form of the serving girl and the fallen letter. There was no doubt that, regardless of her own mental state, the collision would have occurred and the missive so carelessly dropped so as for her to see its contents perfectly. Even if the idea that she could be fooled by such an obvious test was laughable, it was, in some ways, almost a relief, both that her secret had not been found out, and that her adversary, such as they were, was not entirely incompetent.

It would have made for a disappointing, if not embarrassing, show otherwise.

And yet, sitting opposite of Lord Clarmont in the small dining room, faced with his earnest expression, his brilliant smile, she was beginning to wonder whether she had underestimated the man. Inquiries and deflections fell from his lips with ease, natural and understated, and she found herself intrigued despite herself, especially at the authenticity, the simple truth that rang in every statement.

In that moment, it suddenly made sense why he was likely acting as the face of the Revairan rebellion.

The revelation and its implications were almost enough to make her visibly stiffen, and certainly enough to completely derail her thoughts. Rather, she found herself fighting the sudden urge to gasp, to give any indication on the direction of her thoughts with more difficulty than she cared to admit.

Which was, of course, exactly when he spoke again, calm yet mischievous and utterly disarming as he asked about her past.

It was not, in any sense an unexpected question and certainly a strategy that she was intimately familiar with; she knew full well that information could be obtained from any type of personal information, that knowledge about a person lay in everything from the content of a tale to the way it was presented, and as such, she had long since prepared answers to such inquiries, tales and half-truths designed to show herself in the best possible light.

And, catching the warm earnestness in those bright blue eyes, she found the words dying on her tongue.

Instead, and without any conscious thought, she found herself transported back to her childhood, back to a time before the world had fallen into pieces around her, and she couldn’t, for the life of her, figure out how.

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur of conversation and frantically racing thoughts. His story was lighthearted and innocuous enough, or at least would have been if not for the slip of tongue, and yet…

And yet, for the first time, rather than making a mental note of it, of finding a way to use the information to her advantage, she found herself wanting to distract, to comfort, to wipe the melancholy, the heaviness, from his brow, and it was infuriating.

As she rose to her feet with a quip at his proffered assistance, she once again found herself struggling for words against that heartstoppingly dazzling smile. As if sensing her hesitation, he bowed his head.

“Thank you very much for agreeing to have dinner with me, Lady Morgaine. I have enjoyed our time together very much.”

It was nothing more than the niceties expected of him and she knew this, knew the socially dictated lie that rolled off her tongue without hesitation, even as she curtsied, resisting the urge to send him a sharp look, to ascertain just how much subtext was hidden behind that studiously polite acknowledgement.

“No, thank you for the invitation, Lord Clarmont. I also enjoyed myself a great deal.”

Only when she stepped into the hall, his bright smile at her words still lingering in the back of her mind, did she allow herself to breathe. While it had certainly been an… experience dining with the man, and thus informative in it of itself, at least in earning his trust, it had also been, in some senses, an inefficient use of her time. She had gained little in concrete information and, considering her slip, perhaps lost more than that. On information useful for the Crown, she had nothing.

And despite it all, when she made it back to her quarters, it occurred to her that her parting statement had not been a falsehood after all.

[irregularincidents]

As is well known by this point, Mary Shelley wrote her masterpiece Frankenstein in a villa in Switzerland following a competition between herself, Percy Shelley, Lord Byron and his physician Dr John William Polidori to write a ghost story.

Out of this Mary produced Frankenstein, while Percy and Byron either didn’t complete their works or just never bothered to start in the first place. The only other piece to come out of the competition was Polidori’s the Vampyre, a story which was not so subtly based on the doctor’s increasingly low opinion of Byron and just so happened to be one of the first vampire stories in modern fiction...

HOWEVER, just as Mary Shelley initially struggled to get people to believe that she had in fact written her novel and not her husband Percy, many believed that it was in fact Byron who had written the Vampyre, citing that the similarlities between the villainous Lord Ruthven and Byron himself must mean the character was an author avatar of some kind.

Because of this, several versions of the Vampyre were published with Byron erroneously listed as the author, despite Polidori and the poet very much insisting that this wasn’t the case.

Personally, I’m not 100% sure that Byron had the self-awareness to portray himself in a book as a thoroughly toxic monster who lives only to corrupt those who fall under his sway, only to cast them aside when they no longer satisfy him any more.

If Byron appeared to feel guilty about how he treated women, for example, it certainly wasn’t reflected in how he treated Mary Shelley’s 16/17 year old half-sister Claire Clarmont, whom Byron got pregnant, only to reject her as an annoyance both before and after taking custody of their daughter Allegra, who he stuck then in a nunnery when he grew bored of her too, where Allegra eventually died of disease aged only five years old.

Byron basing a monster on himself as a self-critique, and writing it from the perspective of a narrator who appears to VERY MUCH be a representation of Polidori, would be really strange is what I’m saying.

[drhu0806]

1 - “Can you feel this?”

For Fictober day 1!

Fanfic written for the game 7 Kingdoms: The Princess Problem between Clarmont and a self-made origin character, a Jiyel knight

Clarmont’s light touch traced the slightly mottled skin across Octavia’s arm. What she told him to be an old burn wasn’t easily visible, but now that he knew it was there, it would be difficult to miss in the future. The scar was patched over a sizeable portion of skin, and his imagination started to run away from him when he wondered how she could have gotten it.

“Can you feel this?” he asked, applying just a little more pressure.

Octavia snorted. “Only barely. Some days I think you could stab me in that spot and I would never notice until it was too late.”

“It’s not wise to tempt fate like that,” Clarmont chuckled.

“Milord, you should know how much effort it would take to truly injure me. Or do you really think so little of my abilities?”

“You know I think the world of you, love. I just worry, is all.” He traced the blemish once more, lost in thought. Though he had always been good at keeping a straight face, Octavia could practically see the question threatening to spill from his lips.

“Do scars bother you?”

He shook his head. “Of course not.”

“I hope you’re not saying that just to soothe me.”

“I am as genuine as I can be, Octavia.”

She raised an eyebrow. Why did she think getting an honest answer out of him would be so simple?

“Milord, if your curiosity burned any brighter, you’d set your eyes on fire,” she said with a mock roll of the eyes.  “And I have had quite enough of burn injuries, as you could probably tell.” She leaned forward onto her knees, and a chill ran through Clarmont as he noticed the dangerously playful glint in her eyes.

“Let’s play a game. Show me how creative you can be.”

“A game?”

“A guessing game. How do you think I got this burn? What kind of story can you spin? How utterly deranged do you think my life in Jiyel was?”

“I’m hardly a storyteller, Octavia.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “The first time we met, you told me you had the social grace of a grumpy cat. You are perfectly capable of telling tall tales.”

Well, there was no arguing that point. Knowing there was no getting out of Octavia’s little games, Clarmont halfheartedly pitched in a few ideas off the top of his head. She yawned, clearly unimpressed by his lack of imagination. Knowing she would never let him quit so early, the lord dug deep, adding more embellishments to his thoughts. He searched for signs of causing offense as his tales grew more and more outlandish, yet Octavia wasn’t insulted in the slightest.

“Exploding gunpowder.”

“I would have never reached squire status had I ever misfired like that.”

“A weapon struck your gun as you were about to shoot, and that is when it self-imploded.”

“Convoluted, and I have an issue with the physics of it, but I quite like that one.”

“Someone with a vendetta against you planted your bedroom with explosives.”

“A bit plain, and it doesn’t match up with the location of the scar. But quite likely, honestly.”

Clarmont threw out any level of plausibility in his ideas at this point.

“A group of assassins set up a trapped firecracker stand during a festival, and enticed you into buying some of their wares,” he deadpanned. “They trained a dog to run up to you with a match and light one you bought, which in reality was much more potent than a normal firecracker. Luckily they had enough foresight to coat their products in adhesive so you were unable to remove it before it detonated. Clearly it was not enough to defeat you.”

At this, Octavia burst out into laughter. “See, milord? With a little practice, you are perfectly capable of telling the most fascinating situations!”

Shaking his head, he replied, “Honestly, you’re beginning to make me think the way you received that burn is far more ridiculous than even the strangest of fairy tales.”

“Oh, I’m flattered you think so highly of me!”

“Is it high flattery though?” he mused. Smiling as he ran his hand over his face, he pleaded, “Please just tell me the truth. If your objective was to somehow get me to stoke my own curiosity, then you have succeeded.”

Octavia’s expression suddenly became serious, and she leaned forward, her voice barely above a whisper. “You want to know? You truly want to know the answer?”

“At this point, I’m in too deep to say otherwise.”

She leaned forward even further, her face so grim that Clarmont began wondering whether he should rescind his statement.

“When I was a child, I wandered into the kitchen after my mother had just finished cooking,” she began. “I was careless enough to reach up to a pot on a counter, and I ended up spilling hot oil all over my arm! I was crying for days afterward!”

Clarmont knew few truths, but he did know these: that he would never play one of Octavia’s games again, and that he would hear her raucous laughter behind him as he immediately left the room for the rest of his days.

[bee-a-garbage-shipper]

Cornelia: You often use humor to deflect trauma.

Clarmont: Thank you.

Cornelia: I didn't say that was a good thing.

Clarmont: What I'm hearing is, you think I'm funny.

[birdmanart]

Since I’m in PST, it’s not actually Christmas yet... but hey! It’s Christmas somewhere (actually, many somewheres), so I should! Post! This! Hey! NextTrickAnvils! For some reason I can’t? Tag you? But here’s your gift for the 7KPP Secret Santa! I hope I did Loriela justice :)

@7kppsecretsanta