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gav-san · 30 days ago

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Chapter One

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Word Count: 4,500+

A Well-Mannered Threat

This story is not commendation on slavery, cruelty, sexual assault or violence. It’s also held together with tape and war crimes. Read responsibly. 18+

Themes: enemies to lovers, espionage, too many ballrooms, arranged marriage, forced proximity, Celestial Dragon dynamics, fear, manipulation, mutual hatred, uneven power balance, no redemption, literal war crimes, slavery, and slow burn

The Grand Hall of Pangaea Palace glittered with oppressive splendor. Gold filigree climbed the walls like vines, and stained glass murals refracted sunlight into fractured jewels that danced across polished marble. Celestial Dragons glided through the space atop personal platforms, their faces hidden behind ornate masks, voices muffled by entitlement and filtered air. Silks whispered. Perfume clashed. Every breath smelled like old money and new power.

But high above the drifting parade of privilege stood the actual apex of authority.

The God’s Knights.

Clad in ceremonial armor sharper than any blade, they loomed like living judgments carved from myth. Where the Celestial Dragons floated, the God’s Knights stood. Where the others played at godhood, the Knights enforced it—with elegant cruelty and unblinking conviction. Even the most arrogant nobles bowed their heads as the Knights passed.

And foremost of these sparkling diamonds was the promising and highly admired Saint Garling Figarland, daring of the upper echelons, and junior Commander of the God’s Knights.

His hair, bright as moonlit frost, swept up like the half-moon, a pedigree tempered by centuries of war and courtly games. Not the cold pallor of age, no—this was the gold of divinity. Of a bloodline too proud to bow, too cursed to break. Eyes the color of burned starlight peered through the world as though it were a chessboard—lazy, half-lidded, and sharp enough to pierce armor. Something was devastating in how he looked at people: as if he knew what they would say, how they would falter, how they would fall in love with the wrong idea of him.

There was a cruel grace to him, an aristocratic elegance sharpened by battle and boredom.

He frowned slowly, as if such a thing as smiling was rare and deliberate—something he only offered when amused or intrigued. And though he held no warmth, women whispered of that smile for years, dreaming of being the reason it curled just a little.

On display like a prize stallion for every conniving mother and hopeful heiress in the city of the Gods. And he played his role well enough: aloof, garnet-eyed, polite in short bursts, and always, always unmoved.

When he spoke, it was not with volume but presence. The air seemed to hush. Even the boldest nobles stilled. The world had seen tyrants and saints, but only Saint Garling made words rumble like thunder.

He sat slightly reclined in his tall-backed chair, polished silver gauntlet supporting his jaw, the picture of nonchalance. But beneath the half-lidded stare and wine-stained lips was a man barely containing his boredom.

His comrades, stiff-necked nobles and fellow warriors, murmured quietly amongst themselves. They would nod approvingly or tilt their heads in examination.

Garling, however, said nothing. He never had to. His opinion was known by the subtle flick of a finger, a single raised brow, or the curl of his lip as yet another girl curtsied too deeply, too eagerly. Once in a while, his gaze lingered. Not long, but long enough to make a girl stumble in her steps, to make her breath hitch. His eyes were unreadable, ancient, enigmatic, cruel, reddened like a dying sun. A glance from him could ruin a season’s worth of matches or set a rival’s plans aflame.

He presided from on high like a forgotten god, silently choosing who might live, who might shine, and who would never rise again.

And he was so bored.

The wine had dulled, and the music had looped. The girls on parade had blended into one simpering blur of ivory lace and trembling fanwork. The scent of too much perfume lingered like smoke, cloying and artificial.

The debutante parade dragged on, an endless sea of gowns and powdered nerves. Somewhere between the sixth and seventh presentation, the God’s Knights had started murmuring amongst themselves, low voices thick with wine and contempt.

“Pretty enough,” one knight drawled, swirling his goblet as he watched a trembling girl step forward. “But not much in the way of breeding hips. Might do better as a chamber piece than a wife.”

The others chuckled. The air behind the dais darkened with the scent of old velvet and fresher rot.

“Bit too refined for your tastes,” another said, elbowing his neighbor. “You like them screaming, don’t you?”

“Only the first few times,” the knight replied, smirking into his cup.

A third leaned back, gray-plated armor creaking as he stared at the line of young women. “My steward’s negotiating for three new girls from the South Sea Isles. Fresh skin, unbroken tongues. I told him I wanted at least one with pink hair, but you know how rare that is.”

His comrades chuckled over their goblets, already wagering which noble house had the best dowry hidden behind lace and mascara. Garling ignored them, his expression distant. His fingers idly traced the hilt of his sword. Not out of anticipation, but sheer, clawing impatience.

Garling had withdrawn deeper into his chair, resting his temple against his gloved fingers, half-listening to the meaningless chatter of his comrades. They nudged one another like schoolboys pretending to be men, whispering scores and gossip between ceremonial nods. He didn’t care.

By the time the fifteenth girl curtsied, the chamber behind the dais had begun to rot with boredom and appetite.

The God’s Knights lounged like well-fed lions, their gilded armor polished only to mock the occasion. They were not here to judge bloodlines or marriages. They were here to look. To select. And, if the evening proved dull enough, to claim.

One of them clicked his tongue as a trembling girl stood at attention. Her voice cracked as she stated her name.

“She’d cry too easily,” he muttered, licking wine from the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t even last a week.”

The others snorted. “So gag her.”

“No fun if she can’t beg.”

“I say put a collar on her and let the dogs choose. If she escapes, she’s free. If she doesn’t—well.”

“Then she’s broken already,” came the laugh, sharp and low.

They were men who once ruled armies, now corralled into ceremonial chairs, snapping their teeth at silk-wrapped lambs too naïve to understand they were walking into the lion’s mouth.

Another girl appeared. Pretty. Blonde. Fragile.

“Ten says old Manmayer sends her to the breeding stables within the year,” someone muttered.

“She won’t last a month,” another replied. “I’d pay extra just to see the look on her mother’s face when she’s auctioned.”

The laughter was dry and quiet—dead men wheezing mirth.

Only Garling remained still, his wine untouched.

He barely kept his eyes open, ready to resign himself to another failed venture into society.

The grand ceremonial doors groaned open once more.

A hush fell as a debutante entered. Not the kind that could be ignored, but the kind that cut through the chamber.

He didn’t bother looking. Not at first. Likely another noble family shoving their daughter in at the last minute, thinking late entry meant intrigue. It didn’t. It meant desperation.

“Good Lord, look at that,” muttered the knight to his left, voice suddenly sharp.

A jab to the ribs. “Hair is red as a beet.”

“Figarland Red-“

Garling’s eyes flicked up.

A bonnet shaded her face. Her posture was proper but subdued—almost forgettable. Her gown was modest and dyed a humble gray, the color already fading along the seams. Her gloves were tight in the fingers, worn just enough to betray their age.

When the girl reached the dais to present herself, a breeze, perhaps from the towering glass doors left ajar, caught the edge of her bonnet.

Red.

Not dyed. Not artificial. That impossible color—fierce copper kissed with gold and burnished rust—like something drawn from myth or moonlit fields.

Garling sat forward, slow and deliberate.

The other knights stopped speaking. His movement alone silenced them.

Not just any red— Garling thought—but the kind of red that devoured the eye. Her hair burned like fresh blood on snow, unpinned and glorious, cascading down her back in defiance of the stiff coils worn by noblewomen.

Figarland Red indeed.

He studied her, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable.

Nothing else about her was exceptional. Not her gown, her posture, her jewels. Garling couldn’t recall her name, and he didn’t care to. But the hair—that hair—stood out like a flare in a sea of dust.

“Seems like that’s the only notable thing about her,” one of his comrades laughed. “That hair.”

Someone nudged him, half amusement, half invitation. “She’s got the color you like, doesn’t she, Commander? Think she’s for sale?”

That earned a chuckle around the half-circle.

Garling’s answer was slow, calm, and deceptively light:

“If she were prettier,” he murmured, voice barely louder than his breath, “I’d take her just to breed that hair into something useful.”

For a moment, there was silence.

Then the others laughed—louder this time, wicked amusement echoing off the marble columns like knives clattering to the floor. Their mirth was thick with cruelty, the kind shared only by men so powerful they no longer needed to whisper their depravity.

One clapped a gauntleted hand to his knee. “Gods, you’ll bankrupt the coastline of redheads, Figarland. They’ll be auctioning cousins just to get your bastards in boots.”

Another raised his cup in mock salute. “Red-haired brats with your temper? The Grand Line won’t survive it.”

“That one,” he said quietly. “I want to see its face.”

A knight blinked. “What?”

“Dibs for that one? Surely you're joking, Figarland. We know you have a thing for red-heads-“

Garling didn’t answer.

With one look, a steward appeared, ready for instructions.

The girl with the hair just curtsied and turned away. She didn’t even know who watched her, with a face turned down like a peasant.

Garling tilted his head, never once taking his eyes off her.

“Her house,” he murmured. “The red-haired fawn.”

The steward leaned slightly forward, squinting as if to confirm. “The Vauntierre girl? Her family hasn’t sent out the …the usual signals indicating a willingness for a brief… well, Saint Figarland, it seems the Vauntierre family already has a match in mind.”

Of course. That explained the modest dress, the gloves a shade too tight, the heirloom jewels worn like an obligation rather than pride. Trying desperately to just pass among old blood. No need to impress potential suitors. Or men like him.

Garling’s mouth curved, not into a smile, but something quieter, more wolf than man.

Every girl here thought her family wouldn’t sell her. They all would, for the right price.

He watched as she curtsied—polite, correct, forgettable. She turned without fanfare, vanishing into the murmuring current of silk and titles.

“Bring her back later,” he said, voice absent, as if the request cost him nothing. “I’d like a closer look.”

The steward hesitated, cautious. “Shall I notify House Vauntierre of your…interest?”

Garling turned his head just slightly. One brow lifted.

“Interest?” he echoed, dry. “Don’t be ridiculous. I just like the color.”

The men around him chuckled—low and leering—accustomed to his pride, detachment, and unnerving habit of admiring beauty like a collector considering how to break it.

“If I had half your cockiness, Figarland,” one of the knights barked, wine-slick and flushed, “I’d be dead by now.”

Garling didn’t pause. He simply rose, a slow and deliberate movement. His cloak slid from his shoulder like a velvet guillotine, shadow trailing behind him.

“If you had half my cock,” he said coolly, “Your blade might actually land where it’s meant to. Shame you’re as sloppy in bed as you are in a spar.”

A beat.

“But I suppose disappointing women and opponents is just your gift.”

The silence that followed cracked open into laughter—crude, howling, unrestrained. Some knights slapped the arms of their thrones. Others wheezed into their goblets. The insult was too precise, too savage to brush off.

Goblets slammed onto tables, armored fists pounded in laughter, and someone nearly choked on their wine. It was savage and joyful—an apex predator throwing scraps to the pack.

The knight who’d spoken coughed, wheezing through his grin. “Bastard.”

Garling didn’t reply. Didn’t smirk.

He just straightened his cuffs with the same causal grace he used to slit reputations open.

The ballroom shimmered with candlelight and music, the floor filled with spinning silks, painted smiles, and hopeful glances. Debutantes, fresh-faced, trembling, and perfumed within an inch of collapse were presented individually to the gilded stage where the elders of the Holy Order sat in judgment.

The other women overshadowed you, which was good enough for you.

“Just blend in.” Was the sage advice of your handler, Maria.

They, and you, were not among the radiant, pearl-draped daughters of the Old Houses, their gowns custom-cut from royal bolts, their jewels practically screaming pedigree. No. You stood in the quieter corner, where the girls were still noble, technically, but not enough to matter.

Girls from coastal nobles, down the Red Line. Second daughters of third sons. Legitimized heirs with blood too thin to be truly blue.

You all wore the same expressions: polite, practiced. Your dresses were silk, dyed carefully, cut conservatively, but not commissioned. Your gloves were a touch too snug, or a breath too loose. Your jewels were heirlooms, worn carefully, and the shine dulled with age.

They called you debutantes, but everyone knew the truth. You weren’t here to marry a real Celestial Dragon. You were here to fill the space between the real nobility to make them look better. To make the ballroom look full and abundant with fresh flesh.

To satisfy the appetite of the most vicious.

You could feel it the moment their eyes fell on you.

The God’s Knights, seated above like carved statues, wreathed in wine and cruelty. They hadn’t danced. They hadn’t spoken, just watched.

Until one of them laughed. A sharp, mirthless thing.

“I think that one blinked at me,” a knight drawled. “Does that count as consent?”

You didn’t look up. None of you did.

“She’s got the coloring of a sea rat,” another said, swirling his goblet, “but I wouldn’t mind seeing if she squeaks.”

Another girl next to you shifted, her hand twitching. You reached out gently, brushing her wrist. Stay still, the gesture said. Don’t react. That’s what they want.

The teasing would escalate if you did.

And it always did.

Sometimes they sent gifts; Riddles with answers no girl could solve, punishable by mockery. Perfume bottles filled with bitter fluid. Sketches of you bent over the tables where the elder Celestial Dragon sat.

No names. No signatures. Just an implication. Just power.

You’d heard of one girl last season, sent home early with a shattered reputation and a ring she hadn’t asked for. The man who gave it to her swore he never touched her, but he spoke fondly of her “laugh.”

You all knew what that meant.

And it wouldn’t matter because the reality was that you all didn’t matter.

Not bastards. Not commoners. But not the shining daughters of the Founding Houses, either. No one would say it aloud, but the distinction clung to your group like smoke.

You were the daughters of coastal lords, legitimized cousins, and merchant alliances that had clawed their way into the aristocracy with gold instead of divine right. Your silks were proper. Your posture was trained to perfection, but you forced it to bend. Your gloves were as clean as your reputation, but it was no recommendation. But everyone knew: you were not the ones they watched during the opening procession.

You were the second choices. The ones who might be matched to lesser Celestial Dragons, those without land claims, those with rumors behind their names. The kind who needed second wives with quiet mouths and wombs that worked.

In short, you were brides meant to be used, concubines, and the cut above servants.

You and the others stood in a row, smelling faintly of powder and fear. Laughter curled from the dais above, where the God’s Knights sat like crowned hyenas. They didn’t need to lower their voices. Everyone knew their words would carry, and that you wouldn’t protest.

“Those are the ones they keep on standby,” one knight chuckled, swirling a cup of amber wine. “Backup brides, in case the real ones faint.”

“I wouldn’t mind marrying one,” another drawled. “For a week or two. Let the hair tangle, let the hips bruise, then ship her back with a pension and a limp.”

You kept your head bowed.

Someone behind you made a soft sound, whether a gasp or a stifled laugh, you couldn’t tell. Didn’t matter. The knights did.

One of them stood. A gauntleted hand drummed on the gilded rail. “Which one of you lot can curtsy without falling over? Don’t all raise your skirts at once.”

Polite laughter followed. The kind that left a film on the teeth.

You didn’t move. Neither did the girl beside you, nor the one beyond her. You all knew better.

You could be wed, if needed, or broken, or bartered.

It made no difference to them.

You had seen one girl harassed for trembling and another praised for “holding eye contact like a courtesan.” The line between shame and reward was a thread of silk, fraying fast.

Maria, your chaperone, had given you a fairly complete purview of who’s who in the room, but you doubt you’d ever forget their faces.

Not that you needed to remember the grandson of the Nerona estate or the step-aunt of the Bellevue family, names that swirled like lace in the air, pretty and forgettable.

The ones that stayed lodged in your mind were the dangerous ones.

The God’s Knights.

And above it all sat one figure all knew.

Commander Figarland. Saint Garling Figarland.

He was handsome—shockingly so, for a man so feared. Barely into his third decade, with the posture of command and the face of a prince from myth: dark lashes, garnet eyes, a chiseled mouth, the kind that might speak poetry or pronounce a death sentence without blinking.

His hair was a pale, sun-dusted gold, styled high. His uniform, absurdly ceremonial, was worn like a second skin, tailored with the quiet arrogance of one who never needed to draw his sword to be obeyed. The dark lacquered steel was laced with inlays of gold and Tyrian purple—far too imposing for such a romantic occasion. The bright colors of the God’s Knights uniform made others look garish, but he wore it well

At his hip, a saber that cut down kings now rested like a pet at ease.

“Don’t meet his eyes,” Maria had advised.

You heed that advice like gold.

He looked too young to be feared the way he was. That was the first thing. The second was how wrong that first thought was.

When he stood, the ballroom shifted, not stilled, not quieted, but tightened like the moment before a lightning strike. Even the chandeliers seemed to lean toward him. He seemed to mutter something towards the steward before returning to his seat.

You could feel admiration ripple down the line of debutantes.

A breath caught here. A whisper there.

You watched the knights drink. Laugh. Whistle between their teeth when a pretty girl passed.

But Saint Figarland did none of that.

He just sat, one leg crossed, fingers curled loosely over the stem of his goblet, watching. His eyes moved like a predator choosing when, not whether, to strike. And when he did speak, others listened. Even the older knights. Even the ones who had killed men long before Garling was born.

He was a weapon, sheathed in ceremony, not like the others. But when his gaze passed over the row of debutantes, slow, steady, measured, you felt the sting of it.

He said nothing, letting the others play, but the entire room knew everyone watched when he shifted, uncrossing one leg, leaning just slightly forward. He led the whole ordeal.

Even the other knights noticed.

One laughed, half-heartedly. Too loud and drunk. “You’re not actually picking from them, are you, Commander?”

The room stilled.

Garling’s voice came low, bored, and unmistakably dangerous. The room hushed to hear it.

“Gods, no.” A pause. Then, without even a glance your way. “I just like to see them shake.”

Laughter erupted. But not the same kind as before. This one had teeth.

It scraped the back of your spine. You didn’t flinch.

By the Gods, what a terrible man.

“Just follow the plan,” Maria says, and you nod. “And avoid those wretched Knights at all costs.”

His gaze didn’t linger long on any of the girls, and he allowed yourself to breathe and continue with the plan.

You walked around the ballroom like a whilted petal, soft, aimless, entirely harmless. Your path wove as far as you could from the God’s Knights.

It was deliberate.

Maria kept her distance, as she always did, pretending not to notice when your posture slipped slightly or your laugh was too loud for decorum. To anyone else, you were simply a debutante of the second tier: red-haired, provincial, perhaps a little too eager to impress, a little too fascinated by the champagne.

You’d perfected the performance over the years.

Your silk gloves were a half-shade off from your gown. Your jewels clashed, just subtly. And your tongue, when loosed, chattered.

“Oh, that is the prettiest sword,” you exclaimed to Saint Pelligran as he approached. “Do you polish it yourself, or do you have a servant just for that?”

The old Celestial Dragon blinked at you, baffled.

You smiled, wide, unblinking, and gave a curtsy that teetered on disaster.

He excused himself shortly after, muttering something about breeding.

Perfect.

Saint Donatius was next, handsome and roguish and thoroughly unimpressed.

“I hear you’re from the coast,” he said, looking you over. “Chilly winds. Cold water. I wonder if the women there are any warmer.”

“Oh, gods, no,” you replied brightly. “We’re frigid and full of opinions. And we eat fish so often we practically smell like it.”

He stared. You fluttered your lashes.

He bowed and left. You sipped your drink and didn’t hide your smirk.

When Saint Balforte approached, you were humming under your breath and spinning your bracelet absently, anything to project frivolity.

He tapped your hand. “I danced with your mother once. She wept when I chose someone else.”

You blinked, sweet and idiotic. “Oh? That’s so romantic. Was she wearing pearls, or did you confuse her with someone else?”

Maria’s fan twitched behind you. She was trying not to sigh as your theatrics picked up.

Balforte chuckled, but not kindly. “Pretty,” he muttered. “But not much else.”

You beamed. “Thank you!”

He moved on.

You exhaled.

Three suitors gone. The men approaching you thinned out, just as you planned.

And then, A familiar voice. Low, casual.

“I expected you to pretend at least to be charming before I swooped in. Now I’ll look like a cad, courting a fool.” A handsome, dark-haired man said, like he was begging for an introduction. “Does the… family business… think you’re old enough to be here?”

Your eyes lifted. Maria stood guard, ensuring other nobles couldn’t hear.

“Sir Fiero Thorne.” You curtsied, feigning a blush. Just as planned. “I’m older than I look.”

Fiero Thorne wasn’t a suitor. Not truly. And not a Saint, at least not in any honest register. But you knew the face. You knew the name he never said aloud. And you knew the sigil on the signet ring he never wore in public.

Because this wasn’t a debutante greeting a stranger.

This was revolutionary, recognizing her assigned partner in the very mouth of the lion’s court.

Thorne. That was not his real name, but it was the one the Revolution used. To the Celestial Dragons, he was Sir Fiero of House Thorne, a handsome noble with newly elevated blood, a sharp jaw, and a need for an easy wife with money. Cleanly dressed, tastefully perfumed, and far too observant for a man supposedly earning his title through a twist of inheritance law.

He bowed smoothly.

And you curtsied, just a little too unsteady.

“I am double your age, and won’t have a girl destroy my hard work.” He said far too pleasantly.

You tittered, like he said something funny.

“I’ve trained half my life for Mariejois, so I would appreciate it if you didn’t question my abilities.” You were risking just as much as he was, perhaps more.

He gave you a look that you may be here, but you were hardly ready to investigate the dungeons of Mariejois.

“Where's Vanessa?” He says, mouth tight. It was your ‘cousins’ code name, someone chosen initially to be Thorne's partner. Someone with whom he had a history with.

“She was… taken unwell by the weather.” A nicer way of saying the Marines had caught her before she could start. “I was selected in her place.”

He sighed.

“A last-minute disaster, playing a fool. Wonderful.”

You smiled lazily, the picture of an air-headed girl halfway into her second glass of bubbly. “I can be charming,” you said sweetly, eyes scanning the room. “Just waiting for the right suitor.”

“Hmm.” He took your hand and brushed a kiss across your glove. “Don’t blow the whole thing before dessert.”

“Oh, please,” you said quietly, through a flutter of lashes. “You think I’d be so sloppy? I’ve offended three men tonight and pretended not to know which fork is for shellfish.”

For a moment, he gave the room a cursory look, as if he had a choice to choose another girl in skirts able to embroider code and institute blackmail. That look was enough to decide him.

“Very foolish, Miss Vauntierre.” He chuckled low in his throat and offered you his arm. “Shall we take a walk and feign flattery?”

You linked your arm with his. Maria stood politely to the side, carefully playing chaperone. And just like that, you became a courting pair. The court saw something blooming. Others noticed you pair off.

Exactly as planned.

You made a slow, deliberate loop around the edge of the ballroom, your footsteps whispering across the marble like secrets dressed in silk.

“Any movement yet?” You asked beneath your breath, lips barely parting.

Thorne didn’t look at you. He didn’t need to. “Not yet,” he said, voice low and smooth beneath the music. “But the Nerona boy’s been pulled into three separate conversations in less than an hour. Quiet ones. Same men. Different corners. Word is he’s been passing messages about a certain plan.”

Your heart thudded.

The Chalice Plan.

Your revolutionary group only dared send a young woman into the heart of Mariejois for the debutante because, if rumour was to be believed, there were plans to cement power in Mariejois.

Your gaze remained forward. “We’re closing in on something.”

“We’re tightening the net,” he murmured. “It’s hard to tell if it’s about money or blood. I fear that there is much about those at the top we can only speculate about, without risking too much.”

“They keep the blood tight,” You muttered, turning your head just enough to offer a tight smile to an approaching steward. “But they must be desperate to let offshoots of coastal houses present debutantes.”

You passed a group of ladies near the columned alcove. They tried not to stare too openly. Thorne gave them a shallow bow, warm enough to be noticed, cold enough to mean nothing.

They waved prettily, if not politely.

“It seems like they want to solidify power and blood. Perhaps that… plan is the way they do it.”

You waved back, fluttering your fingers with just the right touch of awkwardness, letting the practiced airhead façade slip back into place like a second skin.

Thorne looks mildly placated by the interaction.

“I may have been hard on you. I apologize.”

“None required, Sir Thorne.

“Very well. Our next joint appearance begins at the Juniper ball, but I’ll call on you tomorrow,” Thorne said, pitching his voice low again. “We’ll continue the courtship. Visible. Believable. Let them think we’re playing the same game they are.”

“And the invitations?”

“They’ll come. You’ll get access. You’ll start hearing the names they don’t say in daylight.”

“The ones they whisper behind rings and folded fans,” you murmured.

“Exactly.”

You tilted your head, as if he’d just said something clever—something flirtatious. In a way, he had.

You stepped closer, lowering your voice until only he could hear you. “These are the most vile creatures I’ve ever met.”

Thorne’s expression didn’t change, but you saw it.

The flicker in his eyes. The tension in his jaw was too subtle for the room to notice.

“Welcome,” he said. “To wealth.”

And if revolution can burn its way into the heart of Mariejois, let it begin with a single flame, tucked beneath a bonnet.

#one piece #gav story #figarland garling x reader #figarland garling #garling #dark romance #A lineage in Red #slow burn #mariejois #celestial dragons #Young Garling Figarland #Early Revolutionary Army #revolutionary army

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samaelzdraws · 2 months ago

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Transmechanicus Xenologis Field Report

Study Log Entry: 961.M41

Subject: Planetary Survey of Nullius-57, Orkoid designation “Og”

By: Magos Xenologis Xanthor Vell (Excommunicated)

Location: Segmentum Obscurus, Uncharted Subsector

I. PLANETARY CLASSIFICATION

Imperial Registry: Nullius-57 (Unofficial)

Orkoid Designation: Og — interpreted as “Owned by / Property of” in local feral Ork dialect

Segmentum: Obscurus

Planetary Type: Oceanic-Terranic hybrid

Size: Approximately 108% of Terra’s equatorial diameter

Water Composition: ~80% of the planetary surface

Orbital Characteristics: One sun (G-class), two moons in stable orbit

(I gave up, I don’t know shit about how to draw ocean currents)

II. TIDAL AND CELESTIAL DYNAMICS

The gravitational interplay between Nullius-57’s two moons creates unusually complex tidal patterns across the planet’s oceanic surface. These include:

• Multi-directional tidal surges

• Semi-diurnal hyperwaves in coastal and archipelagic zones

• Periodic tidal inversions recorded every 31 standard cycles, potentially responsible for cyclic mass migrations among aquatic fauna.

The planet lies within an uncharted zone of Segmentum Obscurus, likely masked from long-range Imperial auspex by stellar anomalies and warp turbulence—an ideal breeding ground for unrecorded evolutionary branches.

III. ATMOSPHERIC CONDITIONS

Atmospheric Density: ~1.3 atm (approx. 30% denser than Terra)

Primary Composition:

• Oxygen: 25–27%

• Carbon Dioxide: 3–4%

• Nitrogen, argon, and trace exotic gases

The thick, oxygen-rich atmosphere contributes to:

• Enhanced metabolic efficiency among local xenos species

• Higher combustion rates and volatile respiration thresholds

• Amplified fungal spore propagation due to sustained humidity and pressure

IV. PLANETARY GRAVITY AND FAUNAL ADAPTATION

Gravity: Approx. 0.38g (similar to Mars)

Despite the low gravity, native organisms have adapted in ways that defy standard models:

• Most fauna exhibit eight-limbed arthropodal symmetry, maximizing traction and momentum in low gravity

• Chitinous exoskeletons are dense and layered, likely evolved to compensate for the reduced structural strain

• Muscle fibers in larger fauna (e.g., Gargantuan Hammerfist Champignat) are hypertrophied and heavily vascularized, allowing for sudden explosive bursts of movement uncommon in similar gravity environments

The most significant observation remains the presence of Orkoid species as the only vertebrates. Whether artificially introduced or the result of a rare fungal-vertebrate divergence is still unknown, but their survival and dominance suggest a biome unusually hospitable to Ork physiognomy.

V. GEOLOGICAL STRUCTURE

Tectonics: Mildly active. Continental plates are fragmented but remain in proximity, indicating a prior supercontinent stage reminiscent of Terra’s Permian Pangaea.

Seismic scans reveal:

• Major fault lines still align radially around a central continental cluster

• Shallow subduction zones suggest ongoing but non-catastrophic geological drift

• Volcanic vents support a thriving thermophilic fungal biome, primarily near the equator

VI. CLIMATIC ZONES

Overall Climate: Humid and warm with minimal axial tilt, resulting in very limited seasonal fluctuation

• Equatorial Regions: Tropical with intense fungal overgrowth, average temperatures exceeding 34°C

• Polar Regions: Only moderately cooler, sustaining dense fungal tundra variants

• Rainfall: Near-constant in some biomes due to atmospheric pressure and oceanic evaporation patterns

VII. PLANGUS FLORAL BIOME (FUNGAL-PLANT EQUIVALENT)

Termed “Plangus” by my own designation—a portmanteau of planta and fungus—this fungal flora fulfills all major ecological roles of photosynthetic plant life.

Photosynthesis-analog Process:

• Utilizes green and blue pigmentation in chlorophyll-analog proteins (tentatively classified as Mycophytochrome-X)

• Plangus spore sacs open during peak solar periods to engage in gas exchange and UV absorption

• Bioluminescent varieties assist in nocturnal photosynthesis via energy storage in phosphorescent organelles

Color Morphology by Region:

• Highlands: Deep green and violet Plangus carpets, heavily mossed

• Lowlands: Amber, red, and orange fungal caps with wide lamellae for water retention

• Equatorial Swamps: Translucent white and yellow luminescent fungal towers, growing up to 40 meters

These fungal flora are crucial to nutrient cycling, oxygen production, and even psychotropic symbiosis observed in some mollusk-xenos.

VIII. LOCAL FAUNA

The dominant faunal archetypes fall into two categories:

• Arachnid/Insectoid Xenos: Eight-legged, armored, ranging from micro-scale scavengers to titanic apex predators such as the Gargantuan Hammerfist Champignat

• Molluscoid Xenos: Ambulatory, highly adaptive, semi-amphibious; many exhibit Plangus symbiosis for healing and camouflage

Orks:

The only vertebrate genus present, suggesting:

• Exogenic seeding (possibly via crashed hulk or rogue Sporeship)

• Exceptional fungal adaptation due to their own mycoid origin

Local tribes of feral Orks claim sole ownership of the planet, hence the name Og. This linguistic possessiveness hints at a deep instinctual bond between Orks and this fungal-rich environment, perhaps even more intense than typically observed on Ork-held worlds.

CONCLUSION

Nullius-57, or Og, is a world defined by a dense atmosphere, low gravity, and a unique fungal biosphere whose adaptive extremity borders on the miraculous. Its faunal and floral life appear to have evolved in tight biological concert, and the complete lack of vertebrate diversity—barring the Orks—raises fascinating evolutionary and possibly technogenic questions.

I suspect the planet may have once served as an ancient fungal cradle world, or perhaps even a lost Ork spawning ground from millennia past. In either case, Og is not merely owned by the Orks—it thrives because of them, and perhaps they because of it.

End of Entry

Magos Biologis Xanthor Vell

In Defiance of the Omnissiah, In Pursuit of the Green Truth

#warhammer 40k #my art #orks40k #ork world building #worldbuilding #scifiart #drawing #worldbuilding project #digital art

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sahesha · 4 years ago

Text

/// Mallow means forgiveness ///

Hello! I am happy to fulfill your request, and as always I added something new to the canon. I hope you'll enjoy it!

Thank you for your nice words, dear anon. I don't feel well due to my illness. However, I will try to make people happier with what I write, because it's great when people can feel loved and wanted. 💜

Doflamingo x Female Reader

word count: 7,8k

warnings: angst — it's a really sad story, but with happy ending, hurt/comfort, age gap (41/20~), NSFW in the end — first sex, cunnilingus, handjob, hips fucking, with no condom, ejaculation on body, no penetration (sorry, but right now, I can't write about penetrating sex for some personal reasons), very detailed descriptions

***

A moonlit night's silence enveloped your bedroom in the Pangaea castle. A yellowish flame of a candle stuck in a bronze candelabrum fluttered like a moth's wings. You let your hair down, getting ready for bed. You never liked the stupid traditional hairstyle that emphasized Celestial Dragons' noble status. So the lonely nights when you could take out all heavy gold pins, letting your long hair fall over your shoulders, always pleased you more than the blaze and noisy days you spent with other nobles. Unfortunately, you couldn't help it. These were the rules.

Suddenly, a window frame burst with a crash, and shards of glass splattered in all directions. You pressed yourself against the wall and covered your face with your hands so that the glass wouldn't have injured your eyes, the most significant part of the human body in such critical situations. A sharp gust of cold wind blew in and extinguished the candle, but the moonlight was bright enough to make out the room. You opened your eyes and saw a giant man lying on a floor in the middle of wood and glass debris. Elegant pink wings gradually unraveled into long, thin threads and retracted back into his mighty, broad back. The man tried to get up but fell on the floor again. Beneath him, a pool of blood was spreading, almost black in the silver radiance of the full moon.

You ran to him and tried to help him up, but he was too heavy for you. Finally, the stranger staggered to his feet, clutching his bloody side with one hand. A trickle of thick blood still was streaming from a wound, staining his striped prisoner uniform. The man looked around as if he didn't know where he was. Most likely, it was. You noticed that his left eye was white, and the other was bright red.

You swallowed. The current leader of the Donquixote clan, Mjosgard, had the same eye color. The unknown man even had a distinctive gold ring around his enlarged pupil, unique to that clan. It was the most honorable family among all the Celestial Dragons. Few people had left in the Donquixote clan. Maybe, this mysterious night visitor was Mjosgard's close relative, so now, you were at a loss for what to do.

Then the man saw you. He attentively examined you with his seeing eye. His gaze settled on your accessories that clearly showed which Celestial Dragons family you belonged to and what your hierarchical position among the nobles was. You hadn't had time to take them off before this unexpected accident had happened.

You were the last of the Althaea family. Your parents had died when you were five years old. That's why another, more prosperous family had taken you into the care. Your rich jewelry left to you as a legacy from your dearest mother could tell someone who knew the nobles' culture about you more detailed than ordinary people could guess.

Judging by the spark of recognition in his eyes, the man knew this culture well enough. He smiled insanely. His thin, blood-stained lips parted, revealing white, wetly gleaming teeth that even sea beasts would have envied, so strong and healthy they looked. "Still, a bird always knows where its nest is," he said and collapsed back down.

You realized you couldn't do without servants right now, and you ran out into a corridor, not caring about your tousled hair and your dress stained with his blood. A loud beating of your heart seemed to echo the pounding of your little heels.

Perhaps it was your chance to change the hopeless situation you were in since childhood.

***

"You will marry my son when you grow up, so get used to him beforehand," said Saint Yejua, the old clan leader of the Isenberg house you came to see in his cabinet after he called you in. At the moment, you were ten years old, and you didn't know what was going on.

"All right, master," you said obediently, making a clumsy, child curtsy. Heavy gold pins spilled out of your unskillfully piled hair. When you had woke up in the morning, you decided you could do this weird noble hairstyle yourself without the help of a maid, who always pulled your hair too painfully.

The clan leader made a disgusted face. "Get Maya here quickly. She's doing her job so badly," he yelled into a hallway. There was a faint sound of rapid footsteps outside the door as a servant hurried to call the maid.

After receiving a reprimand with a submissively lowered head and fixing your hair, Maya took you by the hand to your room, greeting with a wooden smile at the palace staff you both were meeting on the way, and there she slapped you in the face. You clutched your reddened cheek. "Don't you dare lie to me again, you little whore," she hissed. Her eyes were crimson because of hatred, and a vein had swollen on her forehead so that her pretty face became ugly angry. "Don't ruin my dream."

You didn't even understand what the word "whore" meant, but it sounded too offensive. Searingly hot tears welled up in the corners of your eyes. You had told Maya that another maid, Rosie, had done your hair because you couldn't wait for her. And you were telling the truth. The woman had been late today, and she was looking a little tousled when she had come.

As it turned out later, she was having an affair with your fiance, Saint Zachary. He was fifteen years older than you. Gossips have always spread quickly in the castle, and she probably learned about your engagement before you did.

"He loves me! And you, you little slut, are interfering with my plans!" her chest was heaving with rapid, ragged breathing. You covered your face with your hands. You didn't understand anything.

You found out about their affair five years later when he got so tired of Maya that he demoted her to a slave. Maya was hoping she would marry him and become a noble. You knew it was impossible, and you felt sorry for her, even though the woman had been rude to you ever since, but you still didn't complain about her — you knew you should have. Maybe you had been too soft-hearted. You even bought Maya out of slavery with a part of your inheritance.

"You're free now, Maya. You can go anywhere you want from here. I've got some things ready for you to go and some money," you told her as you led her by her hand to a dock where a ship was mooring, soon to leave for Grand Line. You were holding a large travel bag with your other hand.

Suddenly, you remembered the day Maya yelled at you, and you stopped abruptly. She paused beside you, as passive as an autumn leaf falling to the chilled ground. You bit your lower lip several times, then shook yourself and moved on fast. You didn't care how she had been treating you back then because all that mattered now was her safety and life.

"Sir, take care of her, please," you said to the captain of the ship, an old acquaintance of your father's, handing him a substantial sum of gold in a leather purse that would have been enough for a year of well-to-do living. The man, gray-haired and sunburned, bowed low to you. You were sure he would grant your request since your father had always spoken of him as an exceptionally loyal man.

"But, mistress, there's too much here! I can't take this sum!" he was confused when he saw exactly how much gold you gave him. "Don't object," you replied, in the tone your mother had used when she was besieging her relatives who were prying into her family life with their instructions. "Consider this as an investment for my future requests and in memory of my father."

"You're very kind to me, mistress," he bowed his head again. "Your parents would have been proud of the daughter they have."

"Thank you," you said shortly because you already knew they would have been proud. You turned to Maya, who was staring at the distant horizon shrouded in a bluish haze. "Maya, take this, please," you said to the woman, handing her the bag. She gave you a blank indifferent look. You breathed out and spoke more slowly, trying to convey the meaning of your words to her. "Here's everything you need for the first time. Take care of yourself, Maya."

The woman didn't thank you, just turned around and went on deck. She didn't even take what you prepared for her. Her hair, once long, thick and pitch-black, was short and dusty-gray now. Her body was painfully thin, and her narrow back scarred. A leather whip, a collar, and a maroon slave brand — Flying Dragon's Paw — had left deep scars on her skin and in her heart.

The captain shook his shaggy head. "Bad business," he told you and then shouted to his crew. "Getting ready to sail, fellows!" He put on his battered old cocked hat. "I will take care of her, so you have nothing to worry about, mistress. Trust the old sea wolf."

You smiled faintly, and it seemed to you that something in the depths of you cracked. "I trust, as my father did."

Soon the ship cast off its moorings and sailed away, so you left standing alone on the dock with a now-useless bag. The cold wind was creeping under your clothes and your sensitive skin. Your heart was aching out of heavy sadness. "No, it shouldn't go on like this," you thought. "Is something like this waiting for me?"

According to Celestial Dragons' Culture, a woman always became her husband's property from the moment she espoused him, and it didn't matter what her origin was. Of course, a noblewoman always had much more privileges than a commoner one, but still, there was too little pleasure in such a life. Often marriages were arranged, and there were no sincere feelings between the spouses.

You never liked Saint Zachary Isenberg, and you'd rather die than marry him.

***

You gently knocked on a simple wooden door to the maid's room with a convulsively clenched fist. A lump in your throat still wouldn't go away. You were having a hard time breathing. The stranger may have been dying at the time.

"Rosie? Rosie, I'm sorry to wake you up in the middle of the night, but I need you," you whispered. "I need you. Help me, please."

"Mistress? What happened?" Rosie peered out of the half-open door. She was up and dressed in a matter of minutes. Her red, voluminous curls pulled into a tight bun, but one unruly curl crossed her broad olive-tanned forehead. The maid looked genuinely concerned. "Mistress, you look very pale. Are you feeling ill?"

"Not me, don't worry. Call Gabriel, please," you asked her. "In the meantime, give me your first aid kit."

"Yes, of course, mistress," Rosie rushed inside her room, then returned to you. "Here, mistress," she handed you a light wooden box covered with white lacquer. After that, the maid ran, lifting her long black dress slightly, down the corridor to the room of Gabriel, your physician. The sound of her footsteps was barely audible. All the servants moved without making a sound since this ability was one of the basic service rules.

You went back to your bedroom and almost fell to your knees next to the stranger. You checked his pulse with your shaking hands. The man was alive, and you breathed a sigh of release. Then you barely rolled him onto his back and covered his wound with a thick roll of bandages without unwrapping it to stop the bleeding. There was so much blood, and it kept flowing, soiling your arms, your sleeves, and your skirt. Time dragged on like wood resin and seemed endless. Finally, there was a knock on the door.

"Come in!" you said, continuing to clamp the wound.

Gabriel, a tall, gaunt elderly gentleman leaning on a long cane and holding his heavy medical valise, stepped inside and, seeing the man lying on the floor, threw up his hands in surprise. "Mistress, how did he get here?" Rosie loomed behind him.

"It doesn't matter how he got here, Gabriel," you retorted, almost crying. Your eyes burned a bit from the hot tears that were coming. "Help him, please. Also, Gabriel, Rosie, my lovely friends, don't tell anyone what happened, even if someone asks you. I'll take full responsibility. I ask you from the bottom of my heart."

Gabriel pulled himself together and went from a confused gaffer to a solemn doctor with steady, skilled hands. He propped his cane on a nightstand, then opened his valise and put on medical gloves. "It was well done, mistress, that you clamped his wound. Okay, be careful, please, and give it to me."

You slowly removed your hands and moved away from the wounded stranger. Your heart was racing. Gabriel put his solid hand over the wound, then glanced at you, assessing your condition. You knew that even though there was a person in the room who needed help, you were still more important to Gabriel. He's looked after you since you were a toddler, and he's been almost like a grandfather to you.

"Do you mind if I give directions, my mistress?"

You nodded weakly.

"Thank you. Rosie, take the young mistress to her living room and keep her company. Help our beloved mistress change there, please. Then, when I've finished my work, you can come and help me move this young man to another room. I think the deceased master's room will be proper for such a purpose. Have you understood me, Rosie? Good. After that, you will clean up here. I'll help you with it."

Rosie nodded gravely and gently lifted you to your feet and took your arm. "We should go to the living room, mistress. Mistress, how are you feeling? Is there anything else I can do for you?" You buried your face in her shoulder. "No, Rosie, it's all right. I only need to..."

"They're all dead," came a barely audible, low, and hoarse voice. "All dead, my whole family. I couldn't save them..."

The man opened his seeing-eye slightly and saw the three of you. Gabriel, ignoring the patient, who had came to his senses, took the necessary tools out of his valise with one hand. His other hand was being busy with the wet wad of bandages. After that, the old doctor said: "Young gentleman, I'm surprised you're still alive. You've lost a critical amount of blood. Now try not to move. I'll stop the bleeding and sew up your wound, and it will take some time, but I promise that everything will be fine."

"Everything will be fine? Huh. What's the point of the word "fine" now?" the man grinned wryly with an insane gleam in his eyes, even in the white one, then fell silent, allowing Gabriel to take care of him. Rosie tugged on your hand, reminding you that you both need to leave.

You took one last look at the stranger. In the bright moonlight, his profile was noble-looking. His beautiful forehead line, an aristocratic aquiline nose, and a well-defined chin were a masterpiece of nature. A shadow of his long, almost white lashes made dark circles under his eyes even darker, and there was something peculiarly tragic about his whole appearance because of this.

You turned away with difficulty and left, supported by Rosie. In the living room, the maid took off your dress stained in dark blood. You slumped into a chair and leaned back. Your strength left you at all, and you watched Rosie fussing around you with indifference.

It was going to be a long night.

***

The following three weeks were like hell on the Earth. The man was refusing to eat, despite all your requests and persuasions. Besides, during all this time, he didn't react in any way to you, Gabriel, and Rosie. In your late father's bedroom, the man was lying on the bed and staring at the ceiling with no emotion on his sharpened and pale face. His skin was almost the same shade as the white silk pajamas Gabriel and Rosie had changed him into that night. Day by day, he was becoming wearier and wearier and losing weight. Now, he looked like a sick bird.

You were about desperate.

"Stop it! I can't take it anymore. Stop tyrannizing me, please. I understand that you have great grief, but why should I suffer with you? Have mercy! I'm trying to heal you here, you stubborn piece of depression without a name because I don't even know what to call you, and I'm still trying to help!" you were pacing up and down the room, wringing your hands out of extreme concern. "Okay, what I have said is selfish. But I have one more thing I want to tell you. If all of them died to save your life, then don't make your life like this! Don't fight imaginary windmills!"

Finally, the man reacted to you by following you with his right eye. His left eye didn't move and seemed glassy, but it didn't frighten you off because your father was blind in both eyes at the end of his life. Noticing this little change, you stopped walking around the room and approached him. "Do you have something to say to me?"

"I'm Doflamingo from the house of Donquixote," he said barely audibly and closed his eyes as if he was tired of saying his name.

You closed your eyes, too, and counted to three. You were right in your guess. However, it was still unknown whether this unexpected acquaintance would help you avoid an unwanted wedding, and now you should have found out everything about him. Although you had already become indifferent to whether this help will bring benefits since you followed the principle read as follows — if you had the bravery to take responsibility, then bear it to the end.

Maya was slowly healing physically and mentally on her home island under the care of her loving husband, who was the same captain's son.

"You're from the house of Althaea, aren't you?" Doflamingo asked you in a faint voice. But he was looking at the ceiling again. "So I'm in the Flower Tower. What do you want from me, you restless child? Leave me alone with my Donquixote windmills."

There was a well-known legend among Celestial Dragons. The founder of the Donquixote clan was an eccentric man who fought windmills, imagining they were giant monsters from the depths of a sea. Locals could still trace such a cultural heritage: the Donquixote clan's tower in the Pangaea Castle looked like a high windmill, and it even had mill blades on which the family coat of arms emblazoned. Celestial Dragons commonly called it the Donquixote Windmill.

As for your family's tower, the nobles called it a Flower Tower since your coat of arms had mallow flowers on it. Mallows of all kinds and colors grew freely on its balconies, and so the white, slender tower looked like a garden of Eden.

"Yes, I'm Y/N from the house of Althaea. And I'm not a child. I'm twenty years old," you snorted, crossing your arms over your chest. Doflamingo turned his head towards you, looked you up and down, and his whole appearance suggested he still considered you an ignorant child.

"I'm twice your age, kid. Now listen to an adult and leave me alone," his voice grew louder, and there was a clear hint of exasperation in it. You attentively watched for the slightest changes in his facial expression. His mismatched eyes flashed, nostrils quivered, thin lips curled in annoyance, and a thick vein on his forehead became more apparent. It made the man look much more alive than before. You decided it was a good sign and it worth continuing to tease him.

"Well, no, this is my tower in the castle. I can go anywhere I want. You're a guest here, and while you're here, you must follow my rules." You chuckled.

Doflamingo exhaled loudly and rolled his eyes. You saw him mentally asking all heavenly saints for what unforgivable crime they sent him such tiny but annoying punishment as you. Then the man looked at you with narrowed eyes. "Okay, you have won, little pest. What do you have there? Bring it here. But if it's porridge, I won't eat it for anything. I hate it since childhood."

You clapped your hands happily and ran into the living room to call Rosie. She was waiting there until you came back with new orders. Before the door closed, you heard him grumble softly: "What an obnoxious child."

You giggled, then told the worried maid you'd feed him yourself, and carefully and even solemnly carried into the bedroom a tray with a plate of appetizingly steaming porridge.

***

"I've never had such a capricious patient as you, sir," Gabriel said calmly, and his pleasant wrinkled face was smiling brightly. The old gentleman sat heavily in a high velvet armchair across from the bed where Doflamingo was lying propped up on a pile of pillows. "And at the same time, there was no one as hardy as you, either. Another person wouldn't have survived. You fully justify your title."

Doflamingo made an irritated face. "I don't have any title right now," he snapped. His upper lip twitched, revealing snow-white teeth.

"Really?" Gabriel smiled warmly. "No one can take away the title of Heavenly Yaksha from you since you have created it by your activity. Of course, I couldn't call this activity honest and humanely, but such a terrifying nickname proves you are worth something, sir. Yes, it still bears a hint of your origin, but you deserved it not because you were born in a certain social class. You have a bright mind and great force hidden in your mighty body. I won't be afraid to tell you that you are wiser than many people I have met. The opportunity to rebuild your life is in your hands, sir."

Doflamingo snorted and turned away. But in his heart, he was glad that Gabriel wasn't calling him "young master."

"You probably don't remember me, but I knew you when you were a small and playful five years old boy. When I had seen you that night, and afterward, your appearance was giving me a vague suspicion of your aristocratic origin. But when our beloved young mistress found out your name, sir, everything fell into place," a little quieter than before, Gabriel said. "Do you mind if I smoke, sir?"

Doflamingo shook his head with no words said. His odd eyes seemed to look through space and time, simultaneously into the distance and the inner core of himself. Gabriel took a pipe from his frock coat's pocket and filled it with tobacco. Then the doctor lit his pipe with relish. "Sir, I was your botany teacher for a while."

"Mallow means forgiveness," Doflamingo mouthed.

"Yes," Gabriel smiled. "However, the clan's name which our young mistress belongs to is derived from a flower of a different species from the same family. I think I may as well continue our botanical lessons, sir Doflamingo," Gabriel took a drag on his pipe and then blew smoke in a few small neat rings. "So. Althaea Officinalis is a plant used as an herbal medication since ancient times. Perhaps that's why the young mistress is so eager to help other people."

Doflamingo was listening to him in silence. He liked Gabriel's measured speech, his courteous tone, and that he tactfully didn't mention either Doflamingo's parents or Rocinante. He remembered he had attended those lessons with his younger brother. His crystal clear memory brought back from the depths of his mind an image of three years old Roci, diligently writing names of various flowers in a clumsy hand. "Mallow means forgiveness. Doffy, will you forgive even if I accidentally snap your house of cards?"

"No," had replied him Doflamingo, who at that time was very fond of that house of cards, the creation of his little hands. Now, forty-one-year-old Doflamingo pursed his lips, and two bitter lines appeared on his thin cheeks.

He closed his eyes. Every night since he had broken out of Impel Down, he had dreamed of the same nightmare. In that horror dream, he shuffled a thick and richly decorated deck of cards. Then each of them slipped out of his suddenly weakened fingers and disappeared into stormy darkness without a trace. Maroon and Pitch-Black Aces, Queens, Kings, and Jacks were slowly sinking into an abyss, and there left only one card in his hands.

A skeleton depicted on it was looking at him with its head slightly bowed and its cheek resting on its hand. A velvet jester's hat was on its bare, villainously grinning skull. "The Joker & The Death," read the inscription, embossed in luxurious gold on glossy black background. He dropped this card, too, and then realized his hands had long since rotted away.

Doflamingo returned to reality and let out a shuddering breath. His hands were healthy again, with mighty flesh and beautifully tanned smooth skin. He put them on a heavy blanket and looked around.

Gabriel was smoking without interrupting Doflamingo's thoughts. In that manner, some time passed. Finally, the doctor ventured to say: "Our flower mistress has a very kind heart. Please don't ruin it."

"You smoke too much for a doctor."

After saying these two phrases simultaneously, Doflamingo and Gabriel looked at each other in silence, and then Doflamingo responded to him coldly: "I won't."

"I'll take your word for it," Gabriel puffed smoke again. "But about smoking — it's my little weakness, which I still can't overcome." He smiled his fatherly smile again. "You're a particularly clever man, sir Doflamingo, so you should know, we all have our weaknesses. And sometimes, the greatest humankind wisdom is to accept some of your weaknesses and maybe even enjoy them. However, I was talking too much. Forgive the old man for his love to chat."

"I forgive you," Doflamingo replied. Gabriel laughed. "And yet you are still the same little sir Doflamingo that I remember! You are charming in your peculiar way. Well, I have to go. You are now in perfect order, so the care passes entirely to the young mistress." Gabriel stood up, leaning on his cane, bowed, and left the bedroom.

Doflamingo left alone, reflecting on the weaknesses he had. He suddenly remembered how the young mistress' soft, small hands had deftly wielded a knife, peeling the pears and cutting them into neat slices to feed him. "I don't care what you have done in the past. Since I have taken responsibility for you, I must bear this through to the very end. You'll only get rid of my care when you tell me to stop and go away. But as long as you need help, I'll be there for you."

"I don't need any help," he had grumbled then, and she put a slice of pear in his opened mouth. He gave her a harsh warning look, but she was smiling at him. A sugary fragrance of mallows made him dizzy a bit. The young noblewoman was carefully looking at him with a pure gaze without fear. That innocence unnerved him, and he wanted to do something to see the dark truth inside.

Doflamingo craved to reach out and grab her tender, delicate skin with his long, mighty fingers and tear it open to see dirtiness hiding under fair grace. He was sure that something was wrong.

"Is something wrong?" the girl asked, looking deep into his eyes. She wasn't intimidated even by his ugly gaze. In the light of day, it was clear that the shape of his right eye's pupil was irregular — as if several black cracks were spreading out from its middle. The left eye seemed to hid under a white haze. Doflamingo covered his face with his broad hand to not see her and not show himself in such a state. It was unacceptable.

"Eat it already," she scowled, shoving another slice of pear into his mouth. "Don't be naughty, you Heavenly Yaksha." Doflamingo felt an unexpected outburst of anger and pushed her hand away. He did it ruder than he planned, causing the pear slice and a silver fork she was holding to fall to the floor. "You're just like a kid, Doflamingo," she muttered, picking up another fork and another pear slice with it. "You were the one who said I was a child. I can't believe it!"

Now, lying in bed all alone, Doflamingo understood that you were one of his weaknesses, and there was nothing he could do about it. But he couldn't afford it because any attachment in his life ended in loss.

Sooner or later.

***

The meeting with Mjosgard wasn't an easy one.

Recovered Doflamingo sat across from him in a chair with his arms crossed. A place where he was now didn't please him, as it brought all of his painful memories back. It was the old Windmill, a high and white tower built in a solemn, majestic style. Donquixote Mjosgard was observing him, and Althaea Y/N was silently sitting aside.

"The Donquixote family is in a difficult position right now," Mjosgard said after a moment of exchanging glances. "The thing is, there are very few people left from our family."

"It's not my problem anymore. It was you who refused us to return," Doflamingo replied in a quiet but threateningly roaring voice. He was much taller and physically mightier than stunted, chubby Mjosgard, so he looked down on him.

"Reputation was above all else," Mjosgard countered, his puffy lips curling and his thick brows furrowing. Unlike the other members of the Donquixote family, he had dark emerald hair — they looked like glossy seaweed at the sea bottom. Doflamingo's hair, grown over a long time, tied in a casual but elegant ponytail, glittered like a celestial golden halo in the sun.

"Has anything changed since then?" the younger man grinned insidiously and maliciously, cocking his head to one side like a giant tropical bird, as was his old habit. Mjosgard's frown deepened, and a shadow crossed his face, broad and high-cheekboned.

"You guessed it. Something has changed," Mjosgard looked thoughtfully out of the window. "Thanks to one queen, I realized, regardless of origin, race, status, political views, and personal disputes, intelligent beings must remain intelligent."

"Otohime, isn't she?" chuckled Doflamingo more viciously than before. "That incident quickly spread around the world in the form of gossip among World Government officials."

"Yes, it was her," Mjosgard said with no expression on his face, but it was clear that Doflamingo's words touched his nerves. A vein bulged on his forehead. "But this idea didn't come to me immediately. It was many years before I realized this uncomplicated truth. As for you, at that moment, you were already an independent adult, so I decided not to interfere with what you were doing. Who knew that the salvation of our historical homeland was false..."

"You're kidding me," Doflamingo's upper lip twitched like an animal's, exposing his strong teeth. "I don't care what you realized or didn't realize because, at that cursed time, we were still a family! Where were you when we were surviving in that God-forsaken wastelands of the North Sea? Where were you when those savages crushed my skull with their heavy bludgeons? I'll say to you to know, from then on, when I get exasperated in my suddenly risen wrath, I can't help but start laughing like a mad clown. What you're telling me is fucking pointless bullshit," his growling voice gradually turned into a howling, hoarse laugh. "Damn you, uncle. If you're going to apologize, don't even try it."

Doflamingo grabbed his head while laughing almost inaudibly and started rocking from side to side. Althaea Y/N looked up, alarmed, and then went to him. He pressed his head against her tiny hands and soon calmed down after taking a few deep breaths. The man looked cold-blooded and collected again.

The girl, the last of the Althaea family, stood beside Doflamingo, her hand on his broad shoulder. Mjosgard thought she was looking like a blossoming plant growing under the long shadow of a centuries-old stone tower. That tower was ready to fall from the cliff on which it stood into a dark sea abyss, but the plant slowly entwined its foundation with flexible stems, helping it not collapse.

"Well, that's what I expected you to say," the older Donquixote said calmly. "Where have I been? Where you're now. I was in a dark place where any human is blind. And I'm talking not about physical sight at all. However, I see you already have problems with your vision. Don't you ever think it's just a reflection of who you are? Because you only know how to destroy."

"You didn't see everything that happened to me. What right have you to judge me?" Doflamingo was breathing hard. "You are not a saint yourself, Saint Mjosgard."

"You're right," Mjosgard said quietly, looking like a cold stone block. The same heavy stone blocks were the foundation of the Donquixote Windmill. Its long blades turned slowly and with a soft creak, telling him of time passage. "But it's better to realize all of this later than never."

Doflamingo leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Without his branded glasses, he felt unprotected, naked, and vulnerable. He had lost them when he was flying over the Grand Line all alone, in quiet, cracking madness. Now the man regretted he had allowed himself such a display of weakness as sincerity.

"And sometimes, the greatest humankind wisdom is to accept some of your weaknesses and maybe even enjoy them."

Doflamingo exhaled. What pleasure can he had found in a razor-sharp headache due to outbursts of uncontrolled wrath? The veins in his forehead nearly burst from the strain every time. Althaea Y/N was stroking his palm. He squeezed her fingers unconsciously, but she said nothing. "So, what do you want from me?" he asked.

"I want to include you back in the Donquixote family since we don't have any strong heirs right now. Your brain works excellently, even though your skull was damaged a long time ago," Mjosgard gazed straight at him.

"Aren't you afraid that I'll go crazy and start slaughtering everyone indiscriminately?" Doflamingo chuckled already calmly. The warmth in his hand he felt was soothing. "I understand this is only the initial stage of your plan. What are you going to do next? Revolution?"

"Don't scare me, little nephew," Mjosgard snorted, rising from his chair. "I won't tell you everything at once because I need to make sure that you're adequate. Think about it for now." He looked at the girl. "Young lady, allow me to take my leave."

Althaea curtsied. "Thank you for listening to my request," she said softly. Mjosgard just nodded back at her and walked out of the hall they were in slowly, in a heavy gait. Doflamingo and Y/N left alone.

"Not so bad," the girl said after a moment of silence. Doflamingo looked at her and then at his hand, in which he held her graceful fingers. He didn't even notice how he had squeezed them earlier. She smiled at him. "It was painful, but I'm okay. It was worth the effect."

He leaned down and kissed her fingers. She blushed slightly but didn't take her hand away. Doflamingo pulled her close, kissing her thin wrist, and her clean, delicate skin smelled of mallow flowers, which always spun his head, sweetly, slowly, deeply.

"If I should enjoy my weaknesses, it's only this way," he thought.

***

"I have a confession to make," you said softly, looking down at the floor. You were in your father's library. A vinyl record was playing on a gramophone, and the room resounded with noble, pure sounds of classical opera. "I hope you won't be enraged at me." After these words, the music became quieter.

Doflamingo put down his book and cocked his head to one side, studying you intently. He was sitting in a chair by an open window. In the distance, the sea was tossing slowly, like a living being, its blue and wrinkled skin shimmering in the bright sun with silver highlights.

"I knew something was wrong here," he said calmly. "Tell me what you want to tell. I don't bite." You weren't looking at him, but you knew his teeth as white as alabaster flashed between his lips carnivorously.

"I had plans for you since you had appeared here," you said quietly, not daring to look up at the man. "I thought if I reconciled you with Saint Mjosgard, I would be able to get out of the situation I was in."

"And what kind of situation did you find yourself in?" he asked in an insinuatingly low voice. The bows struck the strings, and a sudden rise of the music made you shudder.

"I don't want to marry a man I don't love! The House of Isenberg wants me to marry the heir, Saint Zachary Isenberg. But I don't like him because he's a nasty and ugly man. He will treat me like I am his non-living property," you replied quick and squeezed your eyes shut, waiting for Doflamingo to get angry when he found out about your mercenary intentions.

"Oh. Is that all?" Doflamingo asked you. The music faded again, and you could hear him laughing. However, it was not his usual, malicious laugh, which sounded almost every time he got mad, but a cheerful, even kind one. "I thought you were up to something scarier than that. God, what an idiot I am..."

"Y-yes, that's all," you said, confused. "I thought maybe you could somehow help me get out of these obligations... And what did you think?"

"I don't even know," he admitted, still smiling. "It's all nonsense and doesn't matter now. That's the kind of person I am. I have a very suspicious nature."

"Do you hate me?" you asked him cautiously, fidgeting with your long lace sleeve. The music smoothly flowed as if enveloping both of you in exquisite sounds, forming a tremulous symphony. The soft rustling of plants that encircled the Flower Tower, the distant sound of gentle tidal waves, and occasional cries of gulls didn't spoil the atmosphere at all but organically intertwined with it.

"Silly," he chuckled and gently cupped your chin, forcing you to look at him. "Mutual assistance is a completely ordinary thing. Also, if you can do something for others, don't do it for no repaid. Of course, if it's someone not important to you."

You looked him in the face. His right eye glittered like a flame, and a black pirate blindfold was covering his left one. Doflamingo liked to shock Celestial Dragons, so the man hadn't hidden what he had been doing all the time he hadn't been here, in the Pangaea Castle. In contrast, Doflamingo was emphasizing he had combat experience and incredible physical strength. By comparison with him, they were just spoiled mortals who relied only on their wealth. Besides, the nobles inherited that wealth, not created independently, by themselves, with their hands. Among them, he was like a gem among cheap fakes. He was the Heavenly Yaksha in the perfect flesh.

"Am I important to you?" Doflamingo asked, pulling you by your waist to him. The music grew again like a sea wave during a violent storm. The wind was getting faster, and tender-pink mallows outside the window were swaying with quivering excitement.

"Yes, you are," you answered, gathered all your courage, and kissed him on the corner of his lips tenderly. Doflamingo took the initiative and deepened your kiss. His long, flexible tongue slipped between your lips, and his hand slid down your back. You exhaled, feeling your body flare-up everywhere he was touching it. "Wait..." you barely managed not to moan it out.

"Now is not the time," Doflamingo retorted, lifting you and putting you on the nearest table. "I need you right now, Y/N." He pulled up your long, silk skirt, exposing your hips. You had never been alone with a man before, much less with a man who wanted to undress you, so you clenched your legs and covered your face with your hands.

Doflamingo pulled away from you. "Don't be afraid. All of it's not that scary. But I can stop if you don't want to, of course." You took your hands off your face and looked at him. His hair was tousled, and there were sparks of craving semi-madness in his eyes. You swallowed, and he followed the movement. "You don't mind, do you?" the man inquired. He kissed you again, pressing close to you. With a gasp, you laid back on the table, pulling Doflamingo with you. He was on top now and started kissing your neck and caressing your hips with his palms, gradually rising higher to the soft buttocks. You spread your legs and wrapped your arms around his back, holding him close. "Teach me everything you know," you asked him.

"Be a good student, Y/N," he said, licking your collarbones and unbuttoning your dress. "Your skin smells wonderful, and I feel like I'm going crazy because of this aroma," he kissed your round, naked breasts. You were squirming under his caresses, like a brisk lizard in the claws of a bird of prey that, instead of killing it, started to play dangerous games with it. And that felt so good.

Doflamingo ran his hand between your legs, touching your already wet vulva. You slightly flinched as you felt his fingers slide between your labia. "Don't be afraid," he whispered in your ear. "I'll just make you feel good. I won't penetrate you now because you're not ready for my size yet." When you heard that, you felt a fast ripple of shyness rose inside you. "Y-yes..." you replied.

Unveiled and defenseless, you were lying on your dress, among lush laces and silk, and you were like a pearl slipped from a necklace and fell in a floral bud. He was kissing your body, leaving traces of hickeys and soft bites, gradually descending to your lower belly. Finally, his quick tongue slid between your legs, touching your unbearably sensitive, slightly swollen because of lust labia. You barely managed not to bring your knees together. He kissed your vulva loudly, then clasped with his lips your wet folds, so you moaned and squeezed his head with your trembling hips. Without being distracted by your reaction, he began to suck them, from time to time touching your clitoris with his tongue. From an abundance of pleasant sensations, you tightened your toes, hoping that nobody wouldn't disturb you both. With every sound he made eating your pussy, you were letting a quiet groan. Suddenly you felt Doflamingo's tongue slowly slid inward, filling your hotly pulsating core. The tip of his nose was rubbing against your clitoris, and his tongue was moving smoothly inside, prompting you to squeeze your walls to feel it inside you as best as possible. Loud squishing sounds accompanied all of it, and you blushed and trembled because of their very existence. His actions were a bit painful to you since his tongue was quite large, and also, he was holding your thighs firmly, but you felt both pleasant and sweet at the same time. You grabbed him by the hair, pressing him closer to you, and unexpectedly cummed right in front of his face, trembling and with a half-suffocated scream.

Doflamingo pulled away from you, smiling from ear to ear, and then whispered to you: "You deserved the highest grade, my flowery girl."

"W-what about you?" you asked him after you took a breath. You felt like you'd run a few miles.

"You can help me, precious," Doflamingo took your hand and held your palm across his supple, firm muscled belly, lowering it down. When your fingers touched his groin, you realized you couldn't stand this size for your first-time sex. He untied his belt and pulled down his tight trousers along with his underwear, showing off his giant dick. You gently took it in your hand, feeling a pulsation of the veins under its delicate skin, which was slightly darker than his general skin tone. Its large glans was crimson from blood flow and wet, and at its end came a drop of pre-ejaculate. You smeared that semitransparent drop with your thumb, feeling its humidity and warmth. "It's gorgeous," you said softly. Doflamingo bent down and kissed you on the lips, simultaneously squeezing your hips together, slightly tipping them to one side, and pushing his dick between them. The contact was sensually exhilarating and incredibly intimate as the thin skin of the dick touched your newly wet pussy. Doflamingo thrust his dick, rubbing it between your hips, your juicy folds, and your quivering belly. You pressed it with your palm to your stomach, making contact tighter. The man was moving slowly, enjoying the touch of your tender skin and making loud snarling groans. He put his index and middle fingers in your mouth, and you started sucking on them, feeling almost exhaustion from lust. And when Doflamingo cummed, his sperm splattered your breasts, and a few drops hit your swollen, reddened lips. You licked them without thinking, and he exhaled noisily. "You're an awesome student," he said and kissed you. "I have to take you away from your unloved fiance. He doesn't deserve a divine gift like you, my flowery mistress."

"I'm yours," you exhaled into his lips, your chest quivering like the sea in the distance, like mallow flowers outside of the window. "Never let me go. Never hurt me. And I'll be yours forever. I love you, Doflamingo from the house of Donquixote."

"I love you, Y/N from the house of Althaea," Doflamingo replied, holding you tight. "Thank you for everything you've done for me. You're my family now, and I'll stay here for you," he stroked your tousled hair, looking into your eyes, and repeated: "I love you, my flowery girl, my forgiveness, my temptation, my redemption. Maybe one day I'll lose you, but I don't see the point of not being with you right here and now. I love you."

The music began to play again, swirling under a high ceiling of the library, the resident of all nine Muses, and the whole world spun too, within a feast, bright chaos.

And you both were happy.

#one piece #one piece fanfiction #one piece writing #one piece imagine #one piece scenario #one piece x you #one piece x y/n #one piece x female reader #one piece x reader #donquixote doflamingo #doflamingo #schizo bird writings

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silvysartfulness · 4 years ago

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Ohhh, the Scarlet Pimpernel musical! This actually has a fandom? It was played at the school I went to many years ago. It was SO good for being a school production! I haven't yet found a version of Madame Guillotine on the internet that comes anywhere close to what I saw there. They made a huge, chunky, wooden, mobile guillotine for that scene! Even three years later the pupils who sung in the play had a tendency to just randomly burst out into the song mid-rehearsal (and the orchestra people also did!).

(I'm sorry, this ask has no point, the reblog just brought back memories)

I've never seen/heard the musical! Until today, I never even knew there was one!

But my dad got me into the books when I was a wee lass of... 10? 11? Something like that? And I loved them.

Aside from Phantom of the Opera (the musical in this case) they were baby's first fandom obsession... Except of course this was in the earliest 90ies, so there was no internet to fandom on. Just tiny girl me in my room, endlessly looping Phantom and reading those books. ♥

I will admit, though, Chauvelin was definitely a great inspiration for Rannon in my original storyverse Pangaea - dark brown hair, sharp grey eyes and merciless wit. ♥

#pangaea #rannon #asksilvy

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comicaurora · 5 years ago

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Hello Red! Quick question with a nearly limitless number of answers. Do you have any tips for world building? In general is good, but I mostly am curious about how you went about making the actual world in your story (IE. the land masses, the mountains, rivers, deserts, and such). How does one go about the process of making the "physical" world their story takes place in?

Ah, jeez. That’s a much bigger question than it sounds, and it sounds pretty big.

First of all, you need to establish the fundamental functional core of the world. What kind of world is it? Not every fictional world is a planet - some are flat, some are hollow, some stretch out into the infinite. If it IS a planet, that’s already setting some limitations.

For instance: the world of the game Exalted is flat, and around the edges it frays out into unformed chaos, producing a fairly solid center with five “elemental poles” that produce the five elements in their purest form - an ocean in the west, a forest in the east, a frozen wasteland in the north and a burning desert in the south, with stone’s elemental pole forming the stable center. Around the edges you start getting weird Wyld influence that produces unpredictable effects and formations.

This game also features a civilization that lives and works entirely inside the massive still-living body of Autochthon, the Great Maker, a primordial being of order and technology, which is functionally a world all its own.

But let’s say you’re keeping things simple and making your world a planet.

Not every planet experiences tectonic activity. The world of Aurora doesn’t, which means mountain ranges and volcanic formations don’t form along the edges of tectonic plates like they do in the real world. Because of elemental influence in this world, deserts don’t have to form inland in the Desert Latitude Zone of about 30º-50º like they do in the real world. These are properties of the planet due to its makeup - the fused bodies of six elemental beings. Thanks to Stone maintaining much of his inner structure, it makes sense that this world would have remnants of his skeleton, circulatory system, etc all buried deep underground, giving this world a very complex system of caves that run deeper than anything on earth could manage thanks to our gooey molten center. Ocean and wind currents are in large part determined by the arrangement of continents, but because of the existence of weather gods in this world, weather patterns don’t have to strictly follow those currents, giving me a bit more freedom of narrative movement.

These are properties of the planet itself that determine properties of its surface. Some planets have molten cores, some are hollow, some are formed around nuggets of alien technology - some are similar to earth, producing similar structures by way of similar rules. Mountain ranges form because tectonic plates collide, so a world with tectonic plates would form mountains in familiar ways. But maybe your world’s volcanic activity is governed by some kind of monstrous volcano deity that bursts through the surface at random intervals to satisfy some incomprehensible hunger.

If you know the basic functional rules of the planet, you can determine what the surface could look like and how it should work.

Another thing to consider: does world-shaping magic and technology exist? If so, they’ll probably have noticeably reshaped the world. For instance, the world of the rpg Numenera has seen eight highly advanced civilizations rise and fall, each one achieving incredible levels of magic and/or technology. At some point, one of them reformed Pangaea. Another one reset the sun so it wouldn’t exhaust its hydrogen supply. These civilizations reshaped the world on a scale you can see from orbit - the in-game map shows that very clearly. The massive, circular artificial mountain range is just the most obvious change - there’s also rivers that go from organically branching to following a strict circuitboard pattern, a star-shaped forest, a giant rectangular slab of rock one hundred kilometers long, and other odd geometric patterns created potentially millions of years ago by civilizations now completely lost to history.

But beyond the world itself, the planet’s surroundings also determine some factors about its surface appearance. Because of the orbit of the planet and the axial tilt, Aurora’s world doesn’t experience the same seasons in the same order as we do in the real world. Its stars don’t stay still like ours do, so they wouldn’t trace out constellations. It has two moons, so its tides and eclipses play out in a much more complex way than ours do. Some worlds have multiple suns, or are themselves moons orbiting massive planets.

Lots of classic sci-fi focused on worldbuilding in almost the most literal sense. Larry Niven was probably the most prolific writer in that regard. Many of his stories were basically just excuses to explore the cool worlds and aliens he’d come up with. His novel Ringworld is exemplary in this regard, exploring a massive artificially-constructed ring-shaped habitat spinning around a sun. Essentially covering a planet’s entire orbit in one million-mile-wide strip of habitable land, Ringworld has a livable surface area of three million earths, artificially sculpted to resemble the familiar earth-like terrain of mountains, rivers, etc. With no inherent gravity, the centrifugal force from the ringworld’s spin is all that holds people to the surface. To keep the atmosphere from spinning out into space, massive walls surround the edges of the ring to hold it in. With no planetary dark side to provide night, huge dark panels spin over the ringworld to provide periodic intervals of darkness. Ringworld has massive storms caused by air escaping through holes punched in the exterior by meteor impacts, one of which produced a truly massive mountain that extends high enough that the summit is actually outside Ringworld’s atmosphere.

When you’re building a world, it helps to start from first principles and build out from there. But you're also building this world for a narrative purpose, meaning you probably start with some idea of how you want it to look in the end. (A pseudo-medieval fantasy world is probably supposed to look like Earth; a story with a really cool snow-empire probably needs somewhere cold enough to build it; etc.)

Functional worldbuilding, in my experience, is a matter of striking a balance between these two opposing directions of development - building the world from the ground up and justifying the features you need for the story from the top down. You can worldbuild a biome map from planetary first principles, but when you get down to story scale, the features you include can be a bit more unjustified. This region may be a jungle on the map, but you can still include a standalone mountain or river if you need one for the story. It’s very important to give yourself creative leeway so you don’t lock yourself into a design you don’t like and can’t work with. It’s probably unwise to improvise huge features, like an ocean or a major city, but if you want this fight scene to happen on a precarious mountainside in the rain, you can just let there be a mountain and let it be raining without having to work out the entire local climate and weather patterns.

#aurora #asks #worldbuilding

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laurelgavaris · 5 years ago

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who: laurel gavaris, her family and coven members what: her mother never died, but it didn’t mean it caused any changes in her father’s behavior; it just meant that laurel had someone that was able to see her and fuel that fire within herself earlier than laurel did by herself; it was all she needed for her father to finally acknowledge her worth and, perhaps, that was the worst gift in life she could’ve received, because instead of being able to run away from his power over her, she fed from it task: alternative universe inspiration song: here.

Laurel had her back against the wall focused on her phone screen when the door right next to her was opened, her light eyes found Emiliano’s as he smiled at his sister. He’s waiting for you in there, and you should know that he’s not in a best mood. Her brother’s words caused her to scoff. “Is he ever in a good mood, Nano?” That smile in her brother’s face was all she needed as a response before she knocked on the door out of respect and made her entrance. Her father had his gaze piercing through her, trying to read her every move; his attention only moving elsewhere when Marisol moved her hand on top of his. “Okay, I’m here. What is all of this about?”

Members from the coven fled to Nova Pangaea. I’m putting aside the incompetence in your actions and your brothers’ that were unable to notice any change in their actions, specially you... a witch with so much potential to find your way inside their minds, perceive their emotions. Laurel opened her mouth, but Anselmo instantly moved his hand, restraining her from trying to find excuses. I don’t need excuses, Laurel. I need actions. I can’t leave, I have a business to run and your mother’s helping Martin with his powers. I’ll keep Sebastian in here, but you and Emiliano will find a way to get inside of that country and make them understand why they should never mess with our family.

Laurel nodded at first, before she reached closer to his table. “I don’t need Emiliano, I can do this on my own.” He disagreed, which caused her to feel frustration. “Papá...” Mi hija, I know that you can. You’re powerful enough to take those who left us down, but we think there’s trouble ahead, and having someone else from the coven can be helpful, in case you need their magic... reasons why Sergio is also going with you two. She raised an eyebrow, uncertain of what exactly her father was talking about when he mentioned troubling times ahead. She watched as he turned to face Marisol, whom nodded at him; almost giving him permission to share something that, apparently, Laurel wasn’t aware of.

I have another son, Lala. And we think he was the one who helped them flee. The burst of laughter that exited from her body caused her to take a few steps around the room, because she was certain that that was a joke, but soon... soon, she noticed that she was the only one laughing. “You’re not joking. Oh.” He means nothing to me, as far as I’m concerned, he’s not my son and if he did this, then alongside with the rest of the coven, you can take him down. I told Emiliano that he should let you take him down.

She nodded. Laurel hadn’t done that before, she was trained to attack if needed, but she had never been in situation that demanded that from her. Her father used her to manipulate others, bring to surface memories that would let her father aware of people’s lies, changing someone’s memories so they’d forget about her family shenanigans. Still, she was ready. If her father needed her to, she was ready. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

It wasn’t easy getting inside that country due to everything they offered. In fact, the idea of a safe haven caused Laurel to roll her eyes. There was no such thing. They were selling lies, something similar to the lies Laurel, her brother and Sergio offered when interviewed before getting inside the country. It was a good thing she had done a flawless job back in Guadalajara to keep clean records for everyone in the family and coven, perhaps it was so good that the former coven members didn’t have to make any effort to get in when they fled. But what was the point of going through all of that when now that she had her hand wrapped around one of those members’ throat. In fact, she actually felt bad that it had come to this.

“We always kept all of you safe, why betray us like that? You know that we’ll do everything for our family and protect our own. You were one of us.” Her light eyes rested over the person in front of her, watching as he’d weep, pledge for his life after being defeated by her brother during a fight. “Shame... now there’s no one in here to protect you from us, is it?” She pouted, kissing the top of his head before her free hand brushed against his forehead. “First, you’ll forget everyone you ever loved,” No, no, no, no, please Señorita Gavaris... I-

He didn’t have time to do so, she was already inside his mind, letting go of every thought that was deemed important, watching as tears would stream down his face, powerless. Drained of his magic by her brother. “And now, well... now I’ll allow Sergio to have his share of fun,” she moved her body up, passing by Sergio with a grin on her lips as she tapped his shoulder. “Make me proud, love.” She didn’t need to be part of the scenario to know what was going to happen. Besides, Laurel always allowed Sergio to decide for himself what he would like to do to others. In the end, they’d always reach the inevitable death anyway.

And then, she moved to the other room. Her eyes, finding Mateo tied to a chair. I can give him his powers back if you want this to be a fair fight. Emiliano stated to his sister, cleaning the blood from his hands with a piece of cloth that was once part of his shirt. I really loved this shirt, I’m actually disappointed it came to this. She rolled her eyes playfully. “Everything is always about you.” And it shouldn’t be?

“Give him his powers back, it won’t matter. He’s not a Gavaris, not really. He might not even be that poweful,” Emiliano nodded and she watched as her brother used her magic to give Mateo his powers back. And before he could do anything, she was already lifting her hand up. Dolore. She wanted him to feel pain, excruciating pain. She didn’t need to reach closer to him to inflict that kind of feeling in a man that was supposed to be her brother, all she needed was her powers. “Your existence made me seem weak to my father,” Inane. Alongside with pain, she wanted him to feel hollow. “You took from us people that were valuable to us and now all they had in return was death. Was it worth it?” You’re a monster, Laurel! All of you are monsters and I’m so glad I was never part of this family you’re so eager to protect. You’re just another pawn!

She wasn’t expecting those words, and in a way, somehow... It got to her. Maybe her father was right to say that she was weak. Because she could hurt them, but she was unable to murder them. It was easy to leave that action to everyone else. In fact, for a moment her eyes rested on Emiliano. He won’t know, Lala. “I should...” Emiliano reached closer, his hand resting on top of her shoulder. Go find, Sergio. I’ll finish this. She nodded, feeling weak, a coward; but still, she didn’t decline the idea. Emiliano was one of the siblings she was most closed to, and she knew she could trust him. Laurel left the room hearing screams, until she didn’t hear anything else.

She waited for Emiliano with Sergio at Mateo’s dining room, holding Sergio’s hand to have a sense of comfort, home, when her brother finally appeared. I called father, I told him we were able to go through the plan without much trouble. He’s proud, Lala. He really is. She shared a weak smile. Come on, let’s go home.

But home wasn’t a reality. Unaware of everything that happened in the city, they had one obstacle that they couldn’t predict. The Specula Noctis.

Laurel, Emiliano and Sergio didn’t have the chance of leaving the house, at least, not alive. At the glimpse of understanding what would happen when their eyes noticed a group of people comng to them, a thought crossed her mind once again: there was no such thing as safe haven. It was exemplified by the blood bath inside Mateo’s house. And another example was happening at that moment. A lie. They were all living a lie.

#astoriatask #( selfpara. )#( sp02. )#it was really hard to write that ending #but the admin in me couldn't go any other way #i was like: so they can find a way out right? the admin in me: nope #and it's really long #if anyone wants to read it... this is my disclaimer #death tw #murder tw #violence tw

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deadlly · 8 years ago

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TOMB RAIDER DREAMCAST – underworld, 2008. ↳ “ Jörmungandr is the network of the tectonic ridges that encircles the earth on the ocean floor. And we stand now on its weakest point, where the ancient supercontinent Pangaea first broke in two. When this relic unleashes its fury below, the very seems of the planet will burst. “The Midgard Serpent will rise up and spew poison into the air, and all the world will be consumed by fire and ash.” Ragnarök. The seventh age is upon us. ”

#tomb raider #tomb raider dreamcast #lara croft #jacqueline natla #amanda evert #zip #alister fletcher #angelina jolie #cate blanchett #taylor momsen #anthony mackie #charlie cox #tomb raider underworld #tombraideredit #gaming

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tachtutor · 5 years ago

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Earth’s tectonic plates may have sped up three times in its past

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By Colin Barras

An illustration of Earth 250 million years ago when the megacontinent Pangaea existed

DETLEV VAN RAVENSWAAY/SCIENCE PHOTO LIBRARY

At three moments in the past, Earth’s geological activity picked up the pace. Its tectonic plates moved 30 to 50 per cent faster than normal, and there were bursts of volcanic activity and mountain building that helped create…

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newzzhub · 5 years ago

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Earth’s tectonic plates may have sped up three times in its past

[ad_1]

By Colin Barras

An illustration of Earth 250 million years in the past when it was coated by the megacontinent Pangaea

DETLEV VAN RAVENSWAAY/SCIENCE PHOTO LIBRARY

At three moments in the past, Earth’s geological exercise picked up the tempo. Its tectonic plates moved 30 to 50 per cent sooner than regular, and there have been bursts of volcanic exercise and mountain…

View On WordPress

#continents #Earth #evolution #geology #life #plate tectonics #supercontinent #volcano

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earthstory · 8 years ago

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The end-Triassic mass extinction

This image shows rocks from a quarry that sits along the Virginia-North Carolina state line. The rocks are from a fascinating period in Earth’s history, the Triassic period.

These rocks are just a few layers, but they testify to important global geologic changes. The Triassic period was not necessarily the best time for life in this planet’s history. The Triassic starts 251 million years ago at the end-Permian mass extinction; the most intense mass extinction in the fossil record, and terminates ~50 million years later in yet another mass extinction.

Although the latter extinction was smaller than the end-Permian, the end-Triassic extinction is comparable to the Cretaceous-Tertiary mass extinction in number of species that went extinct (that extinction of course involves the end of the dinosaurs).

There were other major events happening on Earth in the Triassic. The supercontinent Pangaea, which was assembled in a burst of mountain-building 50 to 100 million years earlier during the Permian, began to break up. Europe, North America, and Africa, sutured together in Pangaea, began to spread apart. The breakup of Pangaea is represented by the rocks in this image; they formed in one of the basins created as Africa and the Eastern U.S. began to split.

The end-Triassic mass extinction has had a number of proposed causes, but the science generally seems to be starting to agree that chief among the causes was CO2.

As Africa and North America rifted apart, there was a large outpouring of volcanic rocks from an area known as the Central Atlantic Magmatic Province (CAMP). This outpouring of lava was much larger than anything we see today, maybe even large enough to help break Pangaea apart. Those magmas carried some CO2 on their own and also likely picked some up by heating and melting the rocks they traveled through, all of which would be released to the atmosphere.

New research published in this month’s edition of the journal “Geology” by researchers from Curtin University in Australia tells more of the story and starts outlining how this CO2 could have led to the mass extinction. They sampled mudrocks from the end of the Triassic in the United Kingdom, very similar to these rocks, and found that they recorded major changes in the types of organisms and chemistry of the water at the boundary.

They estimated that CO2 spiked by over factor of 2, from ~750 ppm in the atmosphere to nearly 2000 ppm. This is such a large amount of CO2 that the CAMP lavas probably can’t be responsible for all of it; the warming environment had to feed back into releasing more CO2.

They also found a large increase in the amount of pyrite formed in ocean waters; pyrite has the chemical formula iron-sulfide and is very important because it records low-oxygen conditions. Pyrite doesn’t form when there is oxygen around, only when oxygen is low.

These results tell a story of rapid CO2 increases heating the globe and causing major changes in ocean chemistry. The warmer ocean, fertilized by the elements being released by the magmas and the breakup of Pangaea, was a great place for plankton blooms to happen. So much algae grew so rapidly that it used up most of the oxygen in the oceans, leaving portions of the oceans very hot and starved for oxygen, a lethal recipe for life in those settings

This is actually remarkably similar to the mechanisms being suggested for the end-Permian mass extinction as well. The settings are similar, with large volcanic outpourings, restricted seaways (as Pangaea was forming) and low-oxygen ocean waters.

The data regarding these mass extinctions could suggest that large releases of CO2 to the atmosphere, combined with unique settings in the ocean, drove more than one of the great mass extinctions in Earth history. Although there is no similar volcanic activity today, there is more than enough carbon stored in the ground as fossil fuels to restore the atmosphere to the CO2 levels that were reached during the end-Triassic mass extinction, if civilization decides to continue on the current path.

-JBB

Image credit: Appalachian State University http://geology.appstate.edu/academics/field-trips/triassic-solite-quarry

(oh and the sunglasses are there for scale)

Geology article (subscription): http://geology.geoscienceworld.org/content/41/9/955.abstract_ _

#Science #Geology #Climate change #Triassic #CO2 #atmosphere #Mass extinction #The earth story

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dubredofanfics · 8 years ago

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Hit n Run [BONGLENI]

XX. Coffee Coffee

Daphne came to Bongbong's office to hand in some papers. He wondered what is was about, he started to read it.

It was a request form from Leni. It states that she is requesting for his approval for her to be able to transfer another department.

Bongbong flared up and crumpled the paper startling Daphne. "Ano pang hinihintay mo?" He asked her. She was astonished with his response to the request. "Hindi ko pipirmahan yan! Get out!" He slammed the table and yelled at her making her panic to leave right away. He trembled in anger, his eyes glared. He walked towards the small room in his office and punched the wall slightly throwing a tantrum.

He was so mad that everyday, the chance that he'll win Leni back decreases. He hated it. He loathed how much it affects him. He couldn't even focus well on his work because of the pain he was facing due to their issue.

—

Later in the afternoon, Daphne informed Leni about how Bongbong responded to the request form. Leni felt irritated to hear that he crumpled and disregarded it when she was sure that he knew what's going on. She went to his office to hand him another request by herself.

She laid the paper on his table. "Pirmahan mo na, please." She pleaded with demand. His jaw hardened as he glared at her. "Bakit ko pipirmahan yan?" He asked.

"Dahil gusto kong lumipat ng department-"

"Para saan? Para makatransfer kay kay Rodrigo? Para ano? Para landiin siya? Hindi mo talaga mapakalma yang kalandian mo noh?" He yelled.

She scowled at him. "Ano bang sinasabi mo?!" She felt so offended. "Bullshít." He snorted. "Wag mo akong gagühin, Leni!"

She couldn't cope with where his bitterness was coming from as she was sure that in the issue they were facing, it was her who got hurt the most, not him.

"Gusto kong lumipat ng department dahil gusto kong lumayo sa'yo!" She confessed angrily. "Ayoko kitang makita araw araw at kung magste-stay ako dito sa department mo, hindi ko maiiwasan yon!" She continued. He kept his jaw locked and hardened as a sign of his anger.

"Bong! Hindi ako yung babaeng iniisip mo, alam mo yan. Alam mong gusto ko lumipat dahil gusto ko magpakalayo layo sa'yo kase alam mo kung bakit? Kase sa tuwing nakikita kita, hindi ko mapigilan masaktan. Kaso wala ka namang pakielam sa nararamdaman ko 'di ba? Kaya please lang, pakawalan mo na ako dahil ayoko na." She bursted out her emotions.

It somehow made him feel bad and guilty for causing all her pain and he wanted to stop. But then, he grabbed the request paper and ripped it next to her eyes. Her jaw dropped slightly in shock.

"Hindi ko pipirmahan yan." He said coldly. She closed her eyes and held back her tears as she sighed heavily.

She bursted out all her sincere struggles in front of him but she didn't feel any trace of guilt and concern from him. He was like a stone, he was so cold. She was at least hoping he'd apologize or maybe hold her tight but no.

Inexplain ko na't lahat pero di parin niya pinirmahan... I already said I was hurting but he doesn't care. It only proves that I really don't mean anything to him — kahit konti. Why am I still surprised?

She felt so shattered. She just couldn't help but cry over the fact that she is crying over someone who never cared. Someone who never even loved her back no matter how much he meant to her.

Who am I even to make a Bongbong Marcos change or fall in love? It's silly for me to think that I am some kind of, special, to be like a life changing girl character in a movie. I'm not special. I'm just a nobody and I should stop expecting that I could make someone as big as Bongbong change his perspectives and make him settle because it's never gonna happen.

NEVER.

—

It was a typical Tuesday morning. Rody introduced his client to Bongbong and Gina before the meeting began.

Leni entered the conference room and handed Bongbong the necessary papers from Christina.

He looked at her twice. He was fascinated by her the moment she stepped inside the room. He stared at her while she was talking to Bongbong. She was like a magnet and he was a solid steel.

"I'm sorry, what's your name?" He asked. Leni was a bit startled with his sudden talking to her. "Ah... Leni Robredo, sir. Mr. Marcos' assistant po." She introduced.

"I'm sorry. I'm Antonio Trillianes of Pangaea group of companies." He introduced and shook her hand and kissed it making Bongbong, Gina and Rody surprised. Leni felt a bit awkward. She chuckled softly.

"Nice to meet you, Leni." He uttered. Leni nodded and smiled. Bongbong was somehow bothered to see it next to his eyes.

"Ah... Thank you, sir. Nice to meet you too po. Uhm... mauna na po ako." She informed him and left.

Rody smirked at Antonio as soon as she left. "Type mo noh?" He teased as they are that comfortable with each other since they were friends at the first place. Antonio chuckled. "Maganda siya." He replied. "I know. I fell for her charm too." Rody chuckled. "Talaga? I'm not surprised." Antonio retorted and they chuckled.

Bongbong felt irritated to overhear their conversation while Gina felt intrigued with how Bongbong will respond.

"Well, she has a boyfriend." Bongbong cuts in. "Talaga? I don't think so." Rody replied sounding so sure. "Oh? Sayang naman." Antonio chuckled. "Oo, meron siyang boyfriend." Bongbong insisted.

"Talaga lang ha? Hindi ko alam yan ha." Gina joined in while she glued her eyes on the documents.

"Hindi narin nakakagulat, maganda talaga siya e. Malamang sa malamang maraming naghahabol sakanya." Antonio replied. "Exactly." Bongbong stated.

Suddenly, Antonio's phone rang. He went out to pick up the call.

Rody and Gina stared at Bongbong. "Kelan pa nagkaboyfriend si Leni?" Rody asked. "Hindi niyo alam?" Bongbong answered safely. "At sinong boyfriend niya? Ikaw?" Gina snorted.

Bongbong glared at her but didn't reply. That is when Rody and Gina knew that he was preventing Antonio from going after Leni. "Aminin mo na lang kase na nagseselos ka." Rody brought up. "Well." Gina uttered.

"Ang dami niyong sinasabi." Bongbong countered and walked out.

"Okay, sige. Thank you. Bye." Antonio ended the conversation over the phone. He brought down the line and saw Leni from across the place. He couldn't help but be fascinated by her. He smiled at her and the moment she saw him looking, she smiled back softly at him.

—

"Ay!!" Leni mishandled the pile of documents causing it to scatter all over the floor. She immediately kneeled down to pick it up when someone helped her out.

She was stunned for a moment. "Sir Antonio." She uttered surprised. He smiled at her and continued picking up the papers. "Mag-iingat ka" He reminded her and handed her all the papers.

They stood up. "Thank you, nako, ano ba yan. Nakakahiya." She turned red. He chuckled and looked at her. "Okay lang, nagmamadali ka ba?" He asked. "Ah, di naman po sir." She forced a smile.

"May date kayo ng boyfriend mo noh?" He teased making her silenced. "Just kidding." He chuckled.

"Ah... Wala naman po akong boyfriend, sir..." She corrected him.

Antonio was bewildered. "Talaga? Sabi ni Bongbong meron daw." He laughed at the vexation. "Sabi niya po?" She asked. "Oo pero baka hindi siya aware na wala." He replied. "Ah.. Baka nga po... Pero wala po talaga akong boyfriend.." She clarified.

"Actually nakakagulat kase you are really beautiful." He complimented making her blush and shy. "Ah, thank you po..." She uttered sweetly as she stroked her hair towards the back of her ear.

"Well, I hope you don't mind if I ask you out for a coffee?" He asked.

She didn't see it coming. "Uhm... Coffee as in... Coffee coffee po or..." She sounded unsure. He chuckled and found her adorable. "I would be lying if I would ask you out and say it's just a coffee coffee. So... coffee date." He smiled confidently.

"Uh- mm.. Mhmm- hmm uhm..." She made unnecessary sounds in amusement. "Uhm... Osige po." She giggled.

"Really?! That's... great. Okay lang bang makuha ko yung number mo?" He asked. "Ah, osige po.. uhm 0926....." She willingly gave him her number leading them to eventually know each other a little more through some exchange of text messages and calls.

Antonio and Leni's closeness grew upon having the chance to know each other more through constant communication. Eventually, they started going out for a couple of dates, allowing them to explore their romantic and non-platonic sides.

Despite that Leni's heart is still with Bongbong, she didn't close her doors for Antonio. She gave him the chance to go after her and she tried her best to forget Bongbong along with his great company.

—

It was the usual working day, Antonio stopped by to Leni's work area and greeted her a good morning to brighten up her day.

She smiled sweetly and greeted him back. "Good morning." He smiled back at her before he kissed her hand and continued walking to the conference room.

She watched him walk away with a smile on her lips appreciating his little efforts to make her happy.

"You know what..." Gina uttered randomly behind her back. "...Naisip ko lang. Bongbong... Rodrigo... Tapos ngayon si Antonio. Hindi ko alam kugn fetish mo yung mga boss mo pero ang galing ha." She continued trying to make a point.

The smile on Leni's lips faded away upon hearing her. She never wanted people to think she's just using them or they are being dumb over her and it was just a coincidence that they are all Rocos's directors.

"Hindi naman po sa ganon, Ms. Gina..." She countered politely. She snorted and crossed her arms. "Talaga lang ha? So are you saying that these are all coincidence? Enlighten me." She dared.

She looked at her like she was a puppy being pushed away. She, herself, cannot think of a way to defend her pure intentions to her accusations. She just remained silent while feeling bad about the fact that she thinks she is just using the three men to advance in life.

Bakit ako na nga yung nagigive way, ako na nga yung nasasaktan, ako yung naiiwan sa ere pero ako parin yung mali sa mata ng mga tao...

#bongleni #series #hnr

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