#patchwork luster

[sososunniest]

yay!!! two others!!! error and swap are next..... :9

i need a new name for lust. maybe luster? i mean, i did make some of his outfit shiny after all

[midmorninggrey]

Happy DADWC-day

I'm really intrigued by Cal... And seen to be gagging a Fenris night myself 🤣 so i come bearing the promt of "a Sketchbook marked with a griffon insignia" for Cal x Fenris

Cal! Fenris' strange little man! The Maker's strongest solider! My favorite chew-toy!

Alright, but seriously, there's nothing better than someone liking my OC, so thank you. And thank you for the prompt <3

For DADWC @dadrunkwriting

cw: brief violence

wc: ~900

The mage was dead before he hit the ground. Sliding off Fenris’ sword, the body landed on the stone with a dull thump. A momentary gurgle concluded any calls to the fade.

Grateful for the silence that filled the alley, Fenris sheathed his sword and bent over the body. He did not enjoy scavenging, a skill honed from three years on the run, but it was a necessity even as he stayed in this city. They were supposed to share what they found on these excursions of Hawke’s. However, he suspected Isabela was not entirely forthcoming about what she lifted; even if the pirate was swept up in the spirit of generosity, Fenris trusted Hawke to give him his fair piece as much as he trusted a fox to split a chicken.

Cal limped over, looking suspiciously honest. There was a dripping slash across his cheek – he hadn’t been fast enough to avoid a Shade’s claws – but his concern was for Fenris.

“You ok?”

“Fine,” Fenris responded.

After a moment, when it became apparent the man was intent on lingering, Fenris continued his search. He found a gold and two silvers tucked away in the mage’s belt. Poking through the rags of the dead man’s robes, Fenris felt something solid in a pocket. Extracting it from the filth, Fenris found himself holding a small book. It was old book, thick pages and leather bound together for utility, not beauty. The only marking on the cover was a silver griffon, painted in scratched luster.

In the night gloom, Fenris could make out little of what was written in the journal, and he could read less. What he could understand were the drawings; in blue ink, someone had sketched moments of a barren landscape. Scattered across the pages, there was a rocky mountaintop, a sun-bleached skeleton, and several strange and spiky plants.

Fenris looked down at mage, dead in a puddle. He hadn’t seemed the artistic type.

“Can I see that, please? After you’re done?”

Typically such a request came with demanding hand, but Cal kept a pleasant, respectful distance. With a nod, Fenris handed the book over.

“Was he a Warden, then?” he asked.

“No.” Cal didn’t look up from squinting at the pages.

Fenris waited for an explanation, shifting his bare feet on the cold cobbles. He could feel grime creeping up between his toes. “How do you know?”

“I’d know,” Cal said then crinkled his round nose. “We aren’t all deserters, you know? The Order does have standards.”

So far, the two examples of Wardens that Fenris had encountered proved otherwise. First, Anders, the mage who had turned himself into a whining Abomination. Then there was Cal, wearing patchwork armor at night and coddling children during the day.

“Obviously,” Fenris snorted.

As usual, Cal appeared immune to Fenris’ insults. He waved the sketchbook. “Do you mind if I keep this?”

Hawke called to them from down the alley, already impatient. Fenris stepped over the body on his way to meet her.

“If you want it, you are welcome to it.”

-

From the way Cal’s hair was falling across his brow, Fenris couldn’t see his eyes, but he knew the man was awake. He was too still to be asleep. After rearranging the blankets, he’d tucked himself tightly against Fenris, laying his cheek on his chest without a word.

Fenris did not know where Cal went when he was in this state. He did not ask. Much had happened in the man’s life before they met, Fenris was certain, but he spoke of it sparingly. This had once been a quality Fenris admired in him, considering it strength. Now, with Cal so close to him, miraculously returned to his arms, Fenris wished he would finally speak. To tell of whatever fear came in the night and left him silent and frozen.

Overcome, Fenris foolishly lifted his fingers. Before he could brush the hair from Cal’s face, Cal turned his head. He looked at Fenris, his blue eyes suddenly very close. The low candlelight made them look as gray and wide as the wounded sea.

“Do you feel like reading something?” he asked.

Fenris knew this was Cal’s way of saying that he would like him to read.

Without complaint, Fenris left the warmth of Cal’s narrow bed and went to his bookcase. Everything was in order – or in as much as order as a bookshelf could be when crammed with twice as many books as it was intended to hold. Fenris scanned the crowded shelves for something familiar. He found it in the red rose spine of a volume of Tantervale poetry.

When Fenris pulled the book down, a smaller book slipped out from behind it, landing on the floor in a quiet heap. As he picked it up, Fenris recognized the dull flash of silver griffon. Somehow, the journal looked to be in better condition than it had seven years ago, as if Cal had scrubbed it like he did his laundry.

Without much thought, Fenris opened the journal. The blue sketches were still there – the mountain, the trees, the bones – but now the words were unlocked to him. They were written in a long and swirled hand, and as he read them, it occurred to Fenris that the Warden must have been a woman.

it isn’t as bad as they said it would be…it is beautiful...I never want the song to end

He turned the page.

It is getting louder...I hear it in my head...I hear it in my blood…

“Not that.”

With a start, Fenris turned back to the bed. Cal was watching him from the sheets, motionless. His eyes had turned the color of the blue ink.

“That’s not a very good bedtime story.”

[mediocreanomaly]

Heya! Same patchwork anon here >:]

Im so glad you like the idea! And id definitely see Vash being so protective of it, but sir we need to clean that omg 😩

But i did wanna shoot another reply cause i had another thought (Its 3am, so its the perfect time for thoughts) but imagine instead of white solid thread for Nai's janky ass milk puzzle blanket, its instead stitched with colored thread to at least give it some more life :0

I do like the idea that Nai just keeps it hidden, but imagine Nai's mate finding it and wanting to improve on it more, so little by little theyve been hand-embroiddering stuff on each patch to give it more life, and Nai doesnt notice cause he doesnt really lay it out often, and one day he just has this urge to look at it again, maybe give it a chance and add it to the nest, afterall its the thought that counts right? but then he spreads it out and sees the different embroiderry, like hearts or flowers that Nai's mate saw in books~ Theres even an ongoing embroiderry that makes it clear that his mate has been stitching this behind his back lol

(okay thats all sorry for the ramble im just so weak for them huhu)

Authors Note: Oh my gosh??? I'm so sorry for being away everyone work is busy busy busy rn, gotta serve up some of my drafts fr...anyways! Patchwork anon strikes again! You know nesting hc's are my weakness I had to indulge, R.I.P. Knives milk puzzle.

In reference to both of these post: Nesting Hc's, Patchwork Anon

A Blanket of Many Colors, Knives x Reader

You run your fingers over the blanket you had gifted Nai, the patchwork of white making the blanket look more like a haphazard ghost costume rather than a gift you'd painstakingly sown together. You sigh, you didn't really blame Nai for hiding it away in fact you'd been a be relived when you found out your mate kept the scraggly piece of fabric at all. While the vision had been there the end result had ended up lack luster at best.

You groan, about to tuck it back away in its hiding spot for good when you pause over one of the squares. Although by itself it wasn't much...it'd be the perfect base for something else. You think of what you could fill the tiles with, you had more than enough colored thread to add a bit of life to it, you mull over a couple options before remembering the book of flowers Nai had shown you once, his expression had soften as he explained the differences between each species. Inspired, you quickly grab the blanket and march over to the large bookcase in the corner of Nai's room, running your fingers over the spines of the books trying to find the correct one.

"c'mon...it's gotta be here somewh- ah!" you say triumphantly, pulling out the book containing pictures hundreds of different flowers. You'd been amazed when Nai first showed you, plants like this didn't bloom on Gunsmoke, so the idea of their soft petals were all you had to go off of. You quickly flip through the book picking out one of the flowers and grab some red thread and a needle, ready to go to work.

Some where along the way this little practice had become routine for you. Every time Nai was away or you were bored you'd sneak over to the cabinet your mate had stored the blanket and add a small embroidery. Adding a different flower every time until the blanket was becoming a colorful tapestry of your own making. You weren't sure if Nai even knew what you were doing, if he did he didn't say anything about it. So you continued the harmless pass time figuring he had just forgotten about the gift to collect dust.

He hadn't. Nai was, admittedly, particular when it came to his nest and he knew it. He'd mull over the sheets over and over making sure they were the same shade of white and that they were both soft and large enough. When you had presented him with the hand made blanket...it wasn't that he didn't apricate a gift from his beloved mate, it's just that he cringed internally anytime he thought about it in his nest. He couldn't bring himself to throw away something made by your hands though, so he had stored it away for safe keeping, not wanting anyone else to get their filthy hands on something made specifically for him.

It wasn't until a couple months and one tedious day later that he found himself marching towards his quarters. His instincts where screaming to wind down and drag you into the nest with him but you were out in Ja'Lai, escorted by Legato. He huffs, thinking of grabbing some of your clothes to add to the nest for your scent but then grimaces at the idea of all that disorganized fabric against the white sheets and pillows. He pauses looking at the cabinet that contained the gift you had made all that time ago. Although he still bristles slightly at the idea of it sprawled out in his nest...maybe it's the thought that counts? No. Absolutely not. But he could at least drag it out for a little while, maybe it wasn't as bad as he remembered.

Nai opens the cabinet and reaches in for the blanket but when he pulls it out...his eyes go wide. He holds it up so that he had a better view of what he's seeing, flowers he had only seen as a child blossom against the white fabric painting a scene of an intricate garden that only his memories and dreams could recreate. Had his mate been doing this the whole time? He tilts his head and gently traces the patters of the petals and whining stems that adorns the blanket now, then...he glances up towards his nest.

"Nai? You you here?" you call walking towards your shared room. The others had informed you of your mates arrival while you were out in town and you were eager to welcome him with open arms. You pad in, cold floor beneath you feet. He must be curled up in the nest it's where he liked to recharge after being gone. You walk towards the bed where you know a heap of white blankets and pillows is waiting as you quietly peek in the room. Your mate is in the nest alright, but...instead of the usual stark white, a myriad of color litters the top. Your blanket, you realize, is now the main center piece of the nest, curled securely around your sleeping mate as he purrs in his sleep, plant marking glowing softly. It seems...he liked the gift after all.

[quirksphere]

Why Philadelphia Homes Need High-Quality Paint Finishes

Philadelphia isn’t just a city—it’s a patchwork of history, architecture, and weather patterns that keeps homeowners on their toes. From cobblestone streets in Old City to the colorful rowhouses of Fishtown, Philly homes are known for their character and charm. But maintaining that charm? That’s where high-quality paint finishes come in.

If you’ve ever wondered why some homes look polished year after year while others fade fast, the secret often lies in the paint. In a city like Philly, using high-quality paint finishes isn’t a luxury—it’s a smart investment. Here’s why.

1. Weather in Philly Is No Joke

Let’s talk about the elements. Philadelphia weather runs the gamut: hot, humid summers; bitter, icy winters; and everything in between. That means your home’s exterior (and even the interior, to some extent) is constantly battling expansion, contraction, moisture, and UV damage.

High-quality paint finishes are formulated to handle these shifts. They resist peeling, blistering, and fading far better than cheaper alternatives. In other words, you won’t have to repaint every two or three years—which can save you a significant chunk of change over time.

2. Historic Homes Deserve Better Protection

Philadelphia is home to some seriously historic architecture. From 18th-century colonial houses to iconic Victorian row homes, these properties are as delicate as they are beautiful. Using low-quality paint on these surfaces can cause more harm than good, especially when wood, brick, or stone needs breathable or specialized finishes.

Premium paints not only offer better adhesion and coverage, but they also come in historic color palettes and finishes that meet preservation standards. If you're restoring or refreshing an older home, this attention to detail is everything.

3. Curb Appeal Counts in Competitive Neighborhoods

Whether you’re in Chestnut Hill, Queen Village, or Northern Liberties, curb appeal matters. Philly is a walkable city, and neighbors—and potential buyers—are always watching. A high-quality paint finish instantly elevates a home’s appearance, giving it a clean, sophisticated look that lasts.

Cheaper paints can dull or chalk over time, especially when exposed to direct sun. High-end finishes, on the other hand, retain their luster, color, and smoothness much longer. That’s a big plus if you ever plan to sell—or just want to make your block a little more beautiful.

4. Interior Paint Quality Matters Too

It’s not just about exteriors. Inside, Philadelphia homes often feature plaster walls, high ceilings, and intricate moldings. These architectural details deserve finishes that highlight—not hide—them.

High-quality interior paints offer better color depth, smoother application, and easy cleanability. Ever tried scrubbing a wall painted with bargain paint? You’ll know the difference immediately. Premium interior finishes can resist scuffs, moisture, and mildew—perfect for rowhome bathrooms, kitchens, and high-traffic areas.

5. You Actually Save More in the Long Run

It might seem counterintuitive, but high-quality paint can be more cost-effective. Better coverage means fewer coats. Better durability means fewer repaints. And better aesthetics? That just adds long-term value to your home.

Think of it like this: would you rather repaint every three years with a cheap product, or every 7–10 years with a finish that actually lasts? When you add up labor, supplies, and your own time, the math favors quality every time.

The Bottom Line

In a city as dynamic and historic as Philadelphia, your home deserves more than just a quick coat of color—it deserves a lasting finish that protects, enhances, and reflects its unique story. Whether you're painting a brick exterior in South Philly or revamping a living room in Manayunk, investing in high-quality paint finishes is one of the smartest choices a homeowner can make.

So next time you’re at the hardware store or chatting with your painting contractor, remember: in Philly, paint is more than just color—it’s protection, preservation, and pride.

[jewelpassions]

18K gold exaggerated personality irregular shape earrings

18K gold exaggerated personality irregular shape earrings December 4, 2024 at 11:31PM https://ift.tt/fan3M4A https://ift.tt/9u3L6MI This earring is a bold fusion of modernity and personality, and is a work of art that breaks the convention. It brings you avant-garde fashion and unique charm with its irregular design and luxurious texture of 18K gold. Choose these earrings to make your look stand out, show your fearlessness and confidence.All our jewelry are made of stainless steel material. For the gold pieces, we added an 18K PVD gold plating.This means the colour will last for a really long time . It will not fade easily and it's also an anti-scratch material. Features:     Size: 1.83cm/0.72in 3.6cm/1.41in. Weight：8.8g     Irregular shape design: The earring adopts bold irregular shape, breaking the traditional symmetrical design. The unique lines and patchwork shape add a sense of modern art to the earring, showing unique personality and creativity.     Fashion personality: This earring breaks the convention with its exaggerated design language, giving the wearer a strong personalized expression. Whether it is street style or fashion party, it can make you the focus.     Versatile design: Despite the exaggerated shape, the metallic luster and simple design style of the earring make it complement all styles of clothing, and it is a perfect item to show personality.     Light and comfortable: Despite the exaggerated design, the earring remains light and comfortable, without burden when worn, ensuring the comfort of daily wear. Jewelry for Every Moment by jewelpassions.com

[bxtailoralteration]

Perfecting the Art of Craftsmanship with B X Tailor's Expertise in Leather Tailoring, Alteration, and Repair

Leather, with its timeless appeal and durability, has been a favorite material for fashion enthusiasts and connoisseurs alike. Whether it's a classic leather jacket, a stylish pair of pants, or a beloved handbag, these pieces often become wardrobe staples. However, as our bodies change or the inevitable wear and tear occur, the need for leather tailoring, alteration, and repair becomes essential. In this blog, we'll delve into the meticulous world of leather craftsmanship, exploring the expertise required for leather tailoring, the importance of alterations, and the art of leather repair.

Leather Tailoring: Crafting the Perfect Fit

Precision Measurements:

Leather tailoring begins with precise measurements. Unlike fabric, leather requires special handling due to its thickness and unique characteristics. A skilled leather tailor Alteration understands the nuances of working with this material and takes accurate measurements to ensure a snug yet comfortable fit.

Expertise in Leather Types:

Different types of leather demand varying techniques. A leather tailor should be well-versed in working with everything from supple lambskin to rugged cowhide. Understanding the properties of each type of leather allows for tailored solutions that bring out the best in the material.

Customization:

Leather tailoring goes beyond alterations; it's about creating a garment that complements the wearer's style. Whether it's adjusting the length of a jacket sleeve or tapering the waist of leather pants, customization is key to achieving a polished, personalized look.

Leather Alteration: Adapting to Changes

Resizing and Reshaping:

Bodies change, and so should our wardrobes. Leather alteration is a meticulous process involving resizing and reshaping to accommodate weight fluctuations or style preferences. Whether it's letting out seams for a looser fit or taking in areas for a more tailored silhouette, alterations breathe new life into cherished leather pieces.

Restyling and Modernization:

Leather alterations aren't just about size adjustments; they can also revitalize outdated styles. A skilled leather tailor can update a classic leather jacket by modernizing the collar, adding contemporary details, or transforming a dated design into a fashion-forward statement.

Leather Repair: Preserving Treasured Pieces

Patchwork and Stitching:

Wear and tear, scratches, or small tears are inevitable over time. Leather repair involves patching up damaged areas with precision and skill. Expert stitching techniques are employed to seamlessly blend patches into the existing leather, preserving the integrity of the piece.

Color Restoration:

Leather can lose its luster and color vibrancy with use. Leather repair specialists have the expertise to restore the color of faded or worn-out leather, breathing new life into old favorites and maintaining the timeless allure of the material.

Hardware Replacement:

Zippers, buttons, and other hardware components can also suffer from wear. Leather repair involves replacing damaged or worn-out hardware to ensure the functionality and longevity of the garment.

Leather tailoring, alteration, and repair are arts that require a combination of skill, experience, and a deep understanding of the unique properties of leather. Entrusting your cherished leather pieces to a skilled leather tailor ensures that they not only fit like a second skin but also withstand the test of time. As we celebrate the enduring allure of leather, let us also appreciate the craftsmen and women who masterfully bring these pieces to life and keep them looking impeccable for years to come.

[broadway-jane]

Hoo hoo, I do like some of that swingy, big band music on occasion! :B Prospit is very pretty, I bet it was even prettier in a working session!

Lyrics under the cut:

Have you seen the well-to-do

Up on Prospit Avenue

On that famous thoroughfare

With their noses in the air

Nice hats and are those collars

White spats and five boondollars

Spending every dime

On a wonderful time

If you're blue and you don't know where to go to

Why don't you go with all the glitz

Puttin' on the ritz

Patchwork gowns upon the cluster of white brows

With all the luster, all misfits

Puttin' on the ritz

And that's where each and every Jade Harley goes

In a different game sesh with her swell beaus

Rubbing elbows

Come with me and we'll attend their jubilee

And see them spend their last two bits

Puttin' on the ritz

Have you seen the well-to-do

Up on Prospit Avenue

On that famous thoroughfare

With their noses in the air

Nice hats and are those collars

White spats and five boondollars

Spending every dime

For a wonderful time

If you're blue and you don't know where to go to

Why don't you go where fashion sits

Puttin' on the ritz

Patchwork gowns upon a cluster of white brows

With all the luster, all misfits

Puttin' on the ritz

That's where each and every Jade Harley goes

In a different game sesh with her swell beaus

Rubbing elbows

Come with me and we'll attend their jubilee

And see them spend their last two bits

Puttin' on the ritz

[gorgonei0n]

the way she bounced on her toes when we first saw eachother, a voice inside of me singing out on high. will she be reserved? i think, will i? will we ponder the unknowns accrued ? in those moments of next i do not remember. only seeing the world from a satellite's view.

she said i was skittish, to come down, back to earth; all the while she tirelessly wove- straw to gold, straw to gold. a patchwork bridge of her heart and soul. climbing up and up she offered a hand i pulled her closer to see; the craters in her skin, the lusterous shine within- my god, you're made of stars.

[theimpossiblescheme]

Under a Wand’ring Star

I have Gus the Theatre Cat Feelings now, after watching two shows in a row with some of my friends on stream, and I felt the need to get my feelings down into text.  This is one of my oldest Cats headcanons--about his first mate and leading lady Andromeda and how her star eventually faded.  Trigger warning right out the gate--this story contains a vague, but still somewhat visceral depiction of the progression of Parkinson’s Disease (the “palsy” that they both suffer from at some point).  If you don’t feel like that’s something you can comfortably read about, feel free to give this a skip.  If you feel like sticking around... I just hope you like what I’ve written!

Andromeda came to the Criterion Theatre right in the middle of rehearsal for The Pirates of Penzance.  And a good thing, too—their Mabel Stanley had just fallen ill with a terrible sneeze, so they needed a queen who could sing such dizzyingly high notes without it all going straight to her nose.  Luckily for all of them, she proved to be a fast learner and a dab paw at improvisation, and she somehow managed to be off-book before the rest of the cats in the troupe.

Gus was still young enough to play Frederick then, still the toast of London’s feline theater scene, but even he had to marvel at her.  How bright she was, how effortlessly charming, how quick to strike up a rapport with her new cast members even though she had just met them a few days ago. And though he would never admit it out loud to anyone, he couldn’t help but admire her physically, too… her dark golden fur, her almost black eyes with shots of warm brown in them, her smile, oh Everlasting Cat, her smile…

It wasn’t until the last rehearsal of their first number together that she turned that smile on him full force.  And when she turned to him and sang in that deep, rich soprano…

Poor wand'ring one!

Though thou hast surely strayed,

Take heart of grace,

Thy steps retrace,

Poor wand'ring one!

Well… he might have completely forgotten how to breathe in that moment.

 Between performances and roaring crowds, Gus learned where Andromeda had come from.  She had once lived with a wealthy human family, a married couple who used to dote on her, but sadly it was not to last.  When they welcomed a new baby, they apparently felt the need to shoo out the cat (Gus had never understood why humans did that. Did they think cats understood so little about how to care for things weaker than them?  Were they really so cynical?), and she had ended up on the streets. Her collar—a shiny ring of fool’s gold—was all she had to remember them by.

“It seems that you were the poor wand’ring one, my dear,” Gus quipped gently, giving her a smile in hopes it would cheer her a bit.  When it didn’t, he reached over to take her paw very gently in his.  “But I promise you, this is your home now.  For as long as you would like it to be… and we would very much like you to stay.”  I would very much like you to stay… but he didn’t dare say that out loud.

Andromeda simply smiled that radiant smile and replied, “Oh, I couldn’t dream of leaving.  And you’ve—I mean, you’ve all been so kind… I’m sure you wouldn’t mind?”  There was a coy, but somehow genuinely shy note in her voice that shot straight through Gus’s heart so fiercely he was sure he could feel the arrow sticking out the other side of his back.

“Trust me,” he said once he recovered his voice, “there is nothing I would mind less in the world.”

“Poor wand’ring one” became something of an in-joke between the two.  Over time, it morphed into more of an affectionate nickname.  And when Gus finally asked her, right in front of the rest of the troupe because damn it he didn’t care who knew it, to be his mate, the words came out as if they were made of the most musical, beautiful syllables any language had to offer.  He’d never forget the look on her face as she tearfully threw herself into his arms… not for as long as he lived.

 It wasn’t the only nickname she picked up over the years.  Whether she was acting onstage with her mate or cajoling full meals out of nearby human restaurants so her fellow artists would never go hungry, Andromeda had the habit of brightening up even the darkest moods and places.  It was that smile, those eyes of hers—with one turn of her head, she risked blinding nearby cats with her very presence.  Even when she became the mother of little Asparagus, Gus’s darling son and greatest student, she never lost her shine.  So Gus took to calling her “Starlight.” Whether out in the middle of the crowds or alone in their den, she was his Starlight.

He never dreamed she would ever dim.  She was so lively, so effervescent… and she’d already survived so much.  And after her wild successes as an actress, neither did she.

So neither of them noticed at first when she started catching a chill more often.  Gus would simply wrap his coat more tightly around her. When Andromeda continued shivering, even though she was swaddled in warmth, she would insist she was fine, just overwhelmed.

When her handwriting shrank to a tiny indecipherable scrawl, she still insisted it was nothing.  And when food started tasting differently for no reason and her sleep schedule became more erratic (Gus never counted the times he’d fallen out of bed due to her tossing and turning—it never seemed fair), they both assumed she only had a cold.

It wasn’t until she fainted in the middle of rehearsal for their new opera that Gus became really alarmed. When she came to and found she couldn’t fully straighten her back, he could finally see the fear in her eyes, too.

Asparagus did his best, bless his poor little heart.  He took his duty of care to his mother so seriously, always hovering around her sickbed always offering her warm food and blankets and simple company when all of those failed.  While she always seemed to appreciate it and put on a brave face, Gus could tell where the cracks in her smile had begun to form.  Slowly—so agonizingly slowly—her fur lost its luster and her eyes their keen glow. His Starlight was fading… they both knew it.  It was all the could do to keep Asparagus from knowing it, too… not until the time came. So every night, Gus would shoo the poor tired lad off to bed and curl up with Andromeda under her great patchwork quilt. It did nothing to stop her shivering, but Gus liked to pretend… he liked to imagine she would get better, that they would open more plays and have more children… they were the imaginings of a foolish old cat, but he kept them close regardless.

Then one day, Asparagus ran up to his father to report that his mother wasn’t eating.  She hadn’t touched a morsel the whole day.  And Gus had never seen such terror in the eyes of someone so young.

“What am I supposed to do, Papa?” he’d asked—no, begged, as if Gus had been hiding some kind of miracle cure.

But he hadn’t.  “I’ll… I’ll take care of it, lad.  You just go to sleep, w—I’ll see you in the morning.” And giving Asparagus a gentle squeeze on the shoulder, as if to give both of them courage, he ventured back into his and Andromeda’s den.  She was still shivering, and he curled around her as he always did under her quilt, tenderly nuzzling the back of her neck the way she’d always liked.

“Are you cold, Starlight?” he asked softly, pulling her against his chest and wrapping his arms around her waist.  Usually she would have some kind of bleakly witty retort—she was either always cold or never cold.  But today, she didn’t answer.  Gus merely held her as she trembled weakly.  And after some time, he started to sing very quietly, so only she could hear…

Poor wand'ring one!

If such poor love as mine

Can help thee find

True peace of mind-

Why, take it, it is thine!

Andromeda’s head tilted back ever so slightly until their whiskers were brushing, but that was as far as she moved that night.  And come morning, she never moved again from under that quilt.

Neither did Gus, for that matter.

[luvdell20]

A Bouquet of Nothing

I was next in line to wed the best man,

placing a bet on long stems and petals,

catching the tradition above the band

playing the hits to dance with the fellows.

Over time the flowers lost its luster,

and my dream guy married another

lover in a fake ass bridesmaid dress,

even when I was above the rest.

Another chance at care came my way,

but I was still hooked on shit from the past

that real love told me to have a good day,

because a patchwork on the heart can’t last.

The third and last time was a charm,

a different culture with benefits

looking for a green card set the alarm

packing bags in one year and six minutes.

Ceremonies are beautiful settings,

but my door is locked to these blessings

and this bouquet for singles was bad luck,

because each relationship was fucked.

-Cordelia Hunter

[rancher-briar]

This is a sequel to this post: https://www.tumblr.com/dreemurr00/704943450815070208/writing-prompt-s-youre-a-supervillain-and-you

I didn’t think that I’d be doing a part two, but this has become genuinely enjoyable to write for… I might do art about it, but that’ll be if I actually make a call and finish a project for once in my gay little life.

— — — — — — — —

The man in the button down shirt and the woman in the floral dress stare at each other for a good moment before the man speaks in a firm, almost aggressive tone.

“Use me instead.”

The woman is taken aback, her vibrant orange hair flowing unnaturally like though she’s floating in water as she replies. “I- I can’t do that! I don’t like her being put in these situations anymore than you do, mister Kio, but I can’t just-“

“I didn’t stutter Flower Queen, or whatever the hell I’m supposed to respect you as. I refuse to let my baby girl go out and risk her life any more than she has already. Put me in whatever frilly pink uniform you need, I don’t care, but we’re getting my daughter off of the celestial battlefield.” Robin Kio says, his face unwavering.

The flower goddess can’t help but smile as she sees so much of her newest acolyte and guardian in her father. Stubborn to a fault, and unimposing in stature, but willing to do anything to protect what they care about… the goddess sighs before shaking her head, the smile never leaving her face. “Alright then, Robin… I can try to figure this out, but I can’t guarantee that your daughter won’t still be within the Magical World.”

“Good… so long as I can keep her from danger, even if I just join the fray that she can’t leave, that will be enough.”

— — — — Days Later — — — —

Robin Kio feels cold as he rises from his bed, the air seeming devoid of the unusual life and luster that had taken hold after Amanda was coerced into the Flower Goddess’s grasp.

He goes about his day as he usually would, taking his baby girl to school and reminding her how proud he is to have such a smart, kind, and strong eight year-old under his wing.

On the drive home, Robin notices things in the corners of his vision that he’d never taken the time to see. The way the leaves curve upward towards the slowly falling rain. The way the dogs at the park bound around, leaving dents in the sand where their paws once stood. The way vines of darkness creep out from the shadow of a man walking down the side of the road… Robin commits the man’s face to memory… just in case it comes up later.

After parking his car and entering his home, Robin is greeted not by his usual cozy suburban house, but by a wild mess of torn apart furniture and a pair of big cats snarling at each other in the living room. One of which is a Lynx with patchwork markings of pink and baby-blue along her sliver coat that he recognizes as his daughter’s favorite stuffed animal, Miss Claws. The other big car is unfamiliar, a Lion with silver fur like Miss Claws’ and stitch markings along its spine, though through snarls Robin can make out snippets of a conversation between the two cats.

“I told you, Claws! I don’t know who Lilith sent me to pair with, but she said to come to this house!”

“HA! A likely story! Even a brute like you should know I’m not dumb enough to not know that you’re trying to steal Amanda away to be your partner!”

“Please, I swear I-“

Listening to the conversation, Robin slowly and carefully moves to grab the bat he has mounted on the wall from his baseball days in college… he hasn’t gotten a chance to swing the thing around in a while, but he still knows how to if it comes down to it…

Upon hearing that the lion was sent by the flower goddess, Robin tenses a little before hearing the panic in the larger cat’s voice… why would he be so scared if he was lying like that?

Taking a step forward, keeping the metal slugger at the ready, Robin speaks in a clear voice, overcome with a forced calm. “Which one of you two decided to have your scrap in the middle of my living room. I know the couch was old and kind of ugly, but you didn’t need to shred it.”

Both of the cats look over at Robin as he makes his presence known, and the lion’s eyes instantly light up, his tail raising curiously. Miss Claws rolls her eyes before looking way from both the lion and Robin, speaking with a sharpness in her tone that the man had only heard a few times. “This brute decided to enter the domain I protect. I cannot be blamed for trying to usher him away with due haste.”

“You can, however, be blamed for ruining my furniture and failing to hear him out,” Robin snaps back, the bat in his hands slowly lowering. “Anyway, lion, I think you were sent for me. That flower goddess said she’d try to figure out a way for me to help my daughter to get out of the life threatening danger she’s constantly in… I assume that you’re the solution?”

The lion stands up a little taller, feeling a small inflation in his pride at the mention of his purpose. “Yes sir, I am… there’s no really cozy way to tell you this, but you’re going to be a magical girl from now on.”

Robin gives a small sigh and a nod before approaching closer. “Okay… so can I assume all the same rules apply as do with Amanda and Miss Claws? You shrink down into a little stuffed animal that I carry around with me, and when the going gets tough, you grow again and we do a little dance to put me into frills?”

the lion nods and smiles as the human he’s been paired with seems to catch on fast. “Indeed, sir! Now all that’s left is to give me a name, and the pact will be sealed. I will grant you the strength to achieve your goals, and in exchange, you will help squish evil in the world.”

Robin nods, and Miss Claws can’t help but hold a small look of horror on her face. The man speaks, brushing his hair out of his face before officially signing his contract. “Alright then… I suppose this is an alright agreement… Bernard.”

— — — — — — — —

When you discovered your daughter was a magical girl, you angrily confronted her patron. However, you were surprised to see that they also did not like the fact that your daughter was a magical girl but unfortunately, she was literally the only option they had.

[awake-and-strange]

This obituary by Janis Ian about Anne McCaffrey is very A Passion for Friends:

There've been so many mentions of Anne McCaffrey in the post below, I thought to post this homage I wrote for Locus Magazine when Annie died. I miss her, a lot. I kept a few of the most precious books she gave me, but last time I opened one I burst into tears... I feel fortunate to have loved someone so wonderful, to have been loved in return, and to miss her this much. From Locus Magazine: THE MASTERHARPER IS GONE "I have a shIelf of comfort books, which I read when the world closes in on me or something untoward happens." —Anne McCaffrey I miss her fiercely, more than I have any right to miss her. I remind myself of this whenever I run into her at the library and am stricken with tears. She was not kin, was not connected to me by family ties, not even a distant cousin. Not even Jewish. I have no right to miss her this much. And once in a while, when I chide myself for my silly sentimentality, the sudden lightning that pierces my heart gives way to a duller, deeper pain. One I can live with, perhaps. Like today, waking to a terrible cold, with headache and foggy brain I reach for solace. Put on my red flannel comfort shirt, add my favorite PJ bottoms, then a pair of  fleece-lined slippers. Make my favorite tea, cover myself with an old patchwork quilt, and reach blindly for a book on my “comfort shelf.” Of course. I can’t escape her. Hours later, still miserable, I finish "All the Weyrs of Pern"  for the umpteenth time, and scold myself for the tears that fall – first, because she is gone, and second, because I never really succeeded in telling her just how much she meant to me. I’d never heard of her when I stumbled across for "The Ship Who Sang" at my local library. I wrote to her, saying that it had moved me profoundly, wondering how a prose writer could have such a clear understanding of a musician’s soul. Being one myself, I said, a musician that is, and would like to send a copy of my last record in gratitude. She responded with a laugh that she had never heard of me but oh my, her children had, and could we trade books for recordings? And so, we began. I raced through everything she sent – such generosity, so much that it took two large boxes to ship it all. She, in turn, told me that while she appreciated the beauty of my “Jesse” and the clarity of “At 17”, she was writing her current novel to the beat of my one disco hit, “Fly Too High.” I laughed aloud because it made an artist’s sense to me – dragons flew, and Anne flew with them, regardless of the beat. It was the third or fourth email that she began with the salutation “Dear Petal,”.  Petal. Me? I responded that of all the things I’d been called, no one had ever dreamed to name me “Petal”. She answered briskly that obviously, they’d never seen me bloom. From that day forward, I was her Petal, and she my Orchid. We corresponded ferociously, both all-or-nothing no-holds-barred types, Aries to the hilt. Weekly, daily, sometimes hourly. Dropped out at times when one of us was “on tour”, came back to it as we could. The time passed. Her beloved agent died. My parents passed away. She got a scathing review; I sent a few of my own. She was stuck on a chapter, I was stuck on a verse. We got unstuck, stuck again, and through it all we talked, comforting one another as only a “good hot cuppa” can. She picked me up herself in Dublin, leaning on a cane, nervous to meet in the flesh until I ran into her arms and smothered her with hugs. She drove between the hedgerows with complete abandon, a total disregard for ruts or speed limits, while I clutched the seat and wondered who’d get the bigger headline if we crashed. Annie, I decided, for she was truly a two-column, bold print kind of gal. By then, she was always “Annie” to me, or “Annie Mac”. My larger than life friend, who consorted daily with dragons and starlight, her own luster never dimming  beside them. Once, after she showed me the rock cliffs of the Guiness Estate and explained that Benden Hold looked just like that, she asked if I would write a theme for it. For the movie? I said. “Yes”, she said, “A theme. Because if Menolly came to life, it would be with your voice.” I say this not to brag, but to indicate the trust between us – such trust that when I got home, with no film in sight, I began sketching out some notes for “Lessa’s Song”. I wanted it to be haunting, the way her words haunted me. I wanted it to be sweeping, like the thrust of dragon wings. I wanted it to be everything I could bring to her, a gift for someone whose words took me out of my world and into hers. As she said herself, “That’s what writing is all about, after all, making others see what you have put down on the page and believing that it does, or could, exist and you want to go there.” I hope someday to finish that melody. I hope it’s good enough for a MasterHarper to sing. I hope she regarded me worthy of the title. Because that’s what she was for so many of us – the MasterHarper, singing in prose, songs that reminded us of where we’d been, and what we could become. She came and stayed with us in Nashville, bringing a broken shoulder and trusting me to care for her. We visited Andre Norton, Annie insisting I not just drive but sit with them and listen to “a bit of gossip”. These two women—one writing at a time when pseudonyms were necessary for a woman to get published, the other cracking the New York Times bestseller list with, of all things, a science fiction book, and by a female at that!—talked of publishers, rumors, scandals old and new, while I sat as silent as an unopened book, wishing I’d thought to bring a tape recorder. At first, as her health declined, she bore it cheerfully. “I’m bionic now, Petal, complete with metal knees!” she declared. “Better than ever, and no pain.” She kept to her writing schedule, doing what she could to help her body retain its youth. Swam every day, bragged about her granddaughter’s accomplishments at school – “First prize, don’tcha know!” and commiserated over our various surgeries. We sound like a couple of old Yiddishe mamas, comparing whose surgery was worse! I laughed, and she laughed along with me. Neither of us reckoned on the psychic toll. “Old age is not for the faint of heart,” she quoted, as her energy began to leech away. How is it we artists always forget just how hard it is to write? how much work it is? How can we ignore the vast psychic drain that accompanies every act of creation? We both knew it from her Pern books, when going between enervated even the hardiest of dragon riders. But somehow, we never expected it in “real” life. It’s only when we lose that effervescence, through age, through illness, through sheer attrition, that we realize how necessary it is to our work. How fundamental to our beings. “I can’t write.” She confessed the shameful secret to me not once, but dozens of times, as if repetition would prove it a lie. At first, playing the friend, I tried to reassure her. Then don’t! Take some time off, Annie. Restore your body, and the brain will follow. Talent doesn’t just disappear, you know – it lies in wait. But she knew better. “I'm still not writing.  I think I know how Andre Norton is feeling, too, because I suspect that she's finding it very difficult to write, as the wellspring and flexibility that did us so much service is drying up in our old age. And no false flattery. AT 76 I AM old, and she's in her nineties.   It takes a lot of energy to write, as much as it takes you to keep on adding flavor to your song presentation. Sorry to blah at you but you're one of the few people who does understand the matter when an artist questions their output.” I responded in kind. "No worries talking to me about not writing... I sure as hell know the amount of energy it consumes. Every time you sit down to write, it's a performance. Only you don't have the luxury of props - no lights, sound, other actors to step behind when the inevitable fatigue hits. Heck, Annie, I'm feeling it more and more now, and you've got a quarter century on me.  I notice it mid-show; two hours used to be a piece of cake. Now I feel myself flagging at 45 minutes, and I really look forward to that 20 minute intermission, if only so I can have some water and sit for a few minutes. "Same with writing, for me. Used to be able to sit and write for 6 hours at a stretch. Now I'm good for two if I'm lucky. Part of it's my back, but most of it is - I fear - just that I'm older. It sucks." And she wrote back. “Must write. There are IRS problems. You wouldn’t believe. Mouths to feed, people depending on. Advances already spent and gone. Must write.” And so, she wrote, but for a while there was no joy in it. Still, I loved what she wrote, and told her so. I was proud of our friendship, not because she was so damned famous, but because she was so damned good. She even used my name in a book – Ladyholder Janissian in Skies of Pern – and roared with laughter when I admitted I’d been so wrapped up in the story that I hadn’t even noticed. But she knew – as artists always do – that while her ability to plot continued apace, the actual writing of it was becoming an endurance contest she couldn’t hope to win. “Turn more of it over to Todd,” I argued. Her son had a real knack for a sentence, but it was hard for Annie to let go. Of course. What artist can? “His words may not sing the way yours do – yet. He doesn’t have your lyrical grace – yet. But he will, Annie, you’ve just got to let him breathe!” I said it and said it and said it, to no avail. Then came a day when, 25 years younger and an ocean away, I finally lost patience and angrily berated her. “Damnit Annie, quit complaining and just stop! By God, you have created a mountain of work, an incredible legacy that will endure and be read by zillions of people long after both of us are gone – so quit whining about what you cannot do and start looking at what you have done. It’s time, Anne. Take this unbearable weight off your shoulders and stop!” I sent the email off and waited for her response, fearing I’d gone too far. A day. Then another. Finally, sure I’d lost a friend, I called to ask just how angry she was with me. Oh, no, not at all, she’s “in hospital.” She took a fall. She’d write soon. And she did, quoting me and saying “I knew you, of all people, would make sense.” A sweeter absolution I’ve never had. We continued our friendship, bitching about our bodies, menopause, the inevitable “drying up” of everything that comes with the feminine mystique. You cannot imagine the luxury, for me, to have a compatriot a quarter-century older. As an artist, I admired her work. But as a woman, I was relieved to have someone relentlessly honest about what was to come in my own life. We traded constantly. I sent her Lhasa de Sela, Sara Bettens. She sent stories about her animals, and the garden. One spring she changed my salutation to “Dear Crocus Petal – there are eight coming up now!” We planned  to visit Prague together in September ’01, but then came 9/11, and I chickened out. To be brutally honest, I was afraid to fly. Annie gently took me to task, then went off with someone else instead. I will regret that for the rest of my life. She went into the hospital for the last time while I was touring the UK – just a ferry boat and an ocean of commitments away. Knowing how out of touch she’d feel, how fretful she’d be, I tried to call every day. We fell into a pattern – I’d wait until I was in the van, then phone her up and tell an off color joke, a bawdy story, a bit of kindly gossip. Sometimes about people we knew in common, Harlan perhaps, or Scott Card, whose work she admired. Sometimes just a silly series of puns I’d found on line. Whatever it was, I wanted to make her laugh, because I loved to hear her laugh. She died while I was on vacation, just days after the tour’s end. I’d brought a copy of Dragonsinger with me because on vacation, I always brought a few “comfort re-reads.” I’d fallen asleep over it, waking to an email from Gigi. Please keep it quiet until I can reach everyone, she asked. My older brother Alec is still in flight, and we don’t want him seeing it in the paper before I can reach him. I called with sleep still in my eyes and heard the hum of people behind Gigi’s answering voice. It was fast, it was painless, it was everything Annie had wanted. No lingering. A “good death” for her. But not for me. It’s hard to open my computer knowing there will be no “Dear Petal.” It’s hard, after knowing such a warm and giving shelter, to go without. Sometimes I run across a sentence that sings to me, and jot it down to show her. And sometimes, when she leaps out at me from the cover of a book, I remember she is gone, and it hits me like lightning, fast and lethal and completely unexpected. It stops my breath, until I remind myself that she is gone, but I am still here. When the lightning hits, I comfort myself with this. The beauty of Anne’s writing is that she makes it all seem, not just possible, but normal. For men to go dragonback. For women to become ships. For young, unwanted girls to become MasterHarpers. For brains to pair with brawns, and sing opera under alien skies. And for an unlikely friendship to bloom, a pairing no one could have imagined, between a petal on earth, and an orchid in flight.

[cottonprintclubblog]

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[the-maddened-hatter]

I Can't read their names, but here's their character blurbs!

Witch 1- Fairy Witch. Nature: Paranoia. A witch who fears dying, her true form is a faintly humanoid blob of nectar. Her vines entangle all over her barrier. The bells will alert her familiars of an intruder. Coming from a girl who loved botany her barrier is a thick and deep forest, her vines wrapped all over the place.

Witch 2- Succubus Witch. Nature: Hollow. A witch who desires to fill the void in her chest, she can show other people's desires but cannot fulfill hers. She is quite ashamed of her barrier's form (a striptease). When a human comes near, she will drag them into her void. She targets humans in a drunken stupor.

Witch 3- Rainbow Witch. Nature: Zealous. A witch who has one wish: to be adorned with the brightest of hues. She prides herself on all the colors that she has slathered on her body. If she sees any colorful item (alive or not) she will suck them dry. Her barrier is a monochrome sky with lollipops and paintbrushes sticking out of the ground.

Witch 4- Crescent Moon Witch. Nature: Serenity. The witch sees her barrier as an ideal haven. Although naturally calm, she considers humans as pests and the mere presence of a human will set her off. Her barrier is breathtakingly beautiful: a sky full of stars, glowing flowers, and a castle in the distance.

Witch 5- Gown Witch. Nature: Insecure. A witch who desires to be beautiful. She always finds herself hideous and is envious of models and actors for their beauty and charisma. She hates someone looking at her. You can stun her by giving her a genuine compliment. Her barrier is a large maze, and clothes litter the floor and it looks like a closet

Witch 6- Tsukumogami Witch. Nature: Perfectionism. A witch who craves the perfect show. She never accepts even the smallest mistakes. She puppets all of her barrier and even makes the music. She will tear apart any disturbance to her rehearsal. Her barrier is an old & decrepit Japanese theater. With every strum of her shamisen her barrier shifts and moves.

Witch 7- Alcohol Witch. Nature: Lovesick. A witch who desires one thing: Love. She will kiss you until your lips bleed and hug you until your spine breaks. She sees everyone regardless of race or gender. She is always devastated when her "lover" dies, but will forget about them when a new person enters the barrier. Since she is made of alcohol she sets on fire easily.

Witch 8- Unicorn Witch. Nature: Bliss. A witch who lives her days blissfully day dreaming. She is a docile witch as she never attacks, however this does not mean she is defenseless. She leaks rainbow mist that is filled with toxins. She loves sweets. Her barrier may look harmless, but everything in it is deadly: the flowers are carnivorous, the water is acid, and the butterflies feed on blood.

Witch 9- The Witch of Gold. Nature: Superficial. A witch who desires only more and more gold. She is never satisfied no matter how much gold her familiars find. She will eat and devour anything that looks remotely valuable, only to puke it out when it loses its luster. Her barrier may look like a luxurious mansion, but it turns into a bleak mine deeper within.

Witch 10- Witch of Perfume. Nature: Courtship. A witch who creates and contains different perfumes. She makes them to attempt to find love and friendship. Unfortunately her perfumes cause death and hallucinations. Those hallucinations will make anyone fall into madness.

Witch 11- Cradle Witch. Nature: Crybaby. A very infantile and innocent witch. She believes that she is always alone. She tries to soothe herself using her music box. Despite her familiars begging her to come out of the witch's chambers she will never, as her sobs will drown them out. Her barrier looks like a giant crib: Soft patchwork blanket floors, toys littering the floor, and giant white pillars that are seemingly endless.

Witch 12- Pumpkin Witch. Nature: Trickery. A witch who finds human souls to be sweet. She has quite the sweet tooth and is easily distracted by them. Any soul she devours she is able to create an identical puppet of to lure more people into her barrier. The barrier she dwells in has a multitude of colorful doors and Halloween decor. The artificial fruit scent it so strong that it gives anyone a headache.

Art Repost #7

[sunriseoverastorea]

Blossoming Tongues

♬ Jeremy Soule - In the Forests of Tamriel

The first thing she feels is cool, lush grass, pressing against her back. When she opens her eyes, tall, leafy treetops spin against a starry sky, buoying this way and that, as if on a shifting sea of space. A high pitched ringing fills her ears, drowning out whatever else might surround her, and when she licks her lips, she tastes blood. She is an empty shell, dazed beneath the late night's gaze, and for a while, the only thought to punctuate her conscience is that she can't feel her hands. A muted panic rises in her chest, but her breathing never quickens. She only stares at the stars, tears welling in eyes that have forgotten how to blink, even as a warm trail drips down her forehead and fills her left eye with scarlet film.

After a time, the trees grow still. The grass becomes hot against her back, and the trance has been broken—she shoots upright, screaming out in terror as if she had only just fallen to the ground. A vision of the void flashes in her mind, and she whimpers, grabbing her head in her hands and squeezing her eyes shut. From head to toe, she trembles violently, and although she begins to sob, no tears fall upon her cheeks. She merely heaves and shudders and twitches, jerking her face away as those streams of shooting stars play across her eyelids. She can't escape them, embedded in her head, but she thrashes around as if she could, as if it was not futile to seek shelter from something that's a part of you.

As she hunches over, a sharp pain in her chest abruptly pulls her out from the vision. She opens her eyes, breathing unsteadily, and a searing, prickly burning sensation spreads across her skin. She looks down at her legs, where her pants are almost entirely shredded, and swollen, deep red skin fills in the gaps, blood glistening wetly on the surface. Her back feels similar, if not worse, and though she doesn't have hands of flesh with which to reach over her shoulder and touch, she is certain the burns are there as well. All the way up to her neck, where she discovers with a clumsy grasping of fingers that her braids have burnt off, leaving a jagged fray of hair at chin length.

She holds her hands in front of her face, staring at them quizzically. She moves her pinkies, then forefingers, she cycles through each finger, gritting her teeth with frustration as they scrape and screech, some little bits deeply hidden in the machinery knocked out of place so that she can barely move them. After a few seconds she manages to form fists, which she pounds against the ground, just once, shaking her head as a cruel, bitter smile breaks through the dried blood on her face. She begins to chuckle under her breath, the low, rolling laughter of a slightly mad woman, as she forces herself to her feet in one swift movement, the earth swaying precariously under her steps.

A long groan of pain escapes her lips as she straightens her back, bones and cartilage shifting unnaturally in her chest, and she gently brushes her fingers over the top of her forehead, coming away smeared with scarlet grime. Taking a long, steadying breath, she turns in a slow circle, surveying the clearing in which she stands, even as she grits her teeth to keep from bawling over the hideous pain that  sets her legs and back afire with every mild movement.

Only a few trees were mowed down by her arrival—three trunks lie splintered across the ground, the remains of her airship scattered amongst them. A pile of charred books lying at one end of the clearing, pipes and gears at another, her most precious possessions strewn out alongside huge slabs of white sheet metal. She limps over to the nearest piece, one end stuck securely in the earth, and brushes the ashes from the face.

Horiz, says the pale blue lettering. Her heart drops to her stomach, and all at once the void returns to the forefront of her mind, mentally smacking her in the face and sending her reeling through the air, though in reality she still stands in the grass, and she jerks her head to the side, keening and murmuring unintelligibly. Her hand seems to move on its own—steel fingers suddenly dig into the pulverized flesh of her thigh, and she screams out in pain, baring her teeth, wild eyes staring ahead at the soft, shadowy forest.

Pulled free from the vision by more tangible suffering, she finally finds words in her parched throat.

“Fuck,” she rasps, barely audible, “Fuck, fuck, ah, fuck. Fix it. Fix it Marea, fix, yourself. Fix--”

She spies her focus lying nearby in the grass, unharmed, the white luster of the skull perhaps even brighter than before, and she stumbles over to it, picking it up in her sluggish hands, and reaching. Reaching out into the plants and the air, feeling around for energy, not with her limbs but with unseen spectral intent, just as she always has, for the last two years of semi-successful necromancy she has indulged herself in.

And the air is dead. It does not hum or tingle with life. She can find no strain of magic to follow, no leftover impressions of some great and recent feat. The breeze stings against her skin, and she feels as if she stands in a vacuum, a bubble within the void where there is existence, but it is empty and hollow as the void itself. It seems impossible, in a copse of rich forest, as real and familiar as Kryta, that there could be nothing for her to latch onto, not even the tiniest inkling of magic, too small to help but just enough to comfort.

“How,” she breathes out, fingers squeaking as they tighten their grasp on the Separatist skull. “How? Hello? Is this real?”

Crickets reply, chirruping rhythmically into the silence. Accompanied by the snap of a twig.

She whirls around, staring in the direction of the snap. She carefully sets her focus on the ground, and looks over her person, finding one weapon still intact along her belt—her tiny M pistol, blackened from the fire but otherwise not structurally compromised. The forest spins and pulses as she takes quick, unbalanced steps into the thick of the trees, making straight for a lantern light not too far ahead. Just the golden glow of it fills her with relief, but still, with great lethargy she makes her fingers wrap around the handle of her gun, held at the ready by her hip.

Gradually, two figures come into view. They stop in their tracks at the sight of her. An older man, wearing the simple patchwork garb of a farmer, with a scruffy beard, and a loaded crossbow in his hands, pointed at the ground. And beside him, a small boy, dressed in slightly nicer rags, carrying the lantern, and gazing at her with wide blue eyes, his face lit up as bright as day.

Marea holds her hands in the air weakly, leaving several lengths between them.

“More humans. What did I expect,” she jests, immediately coughing up a bloody ball of phlegm, and spitting it on the ground. She takes a startled step back as the man raises the crossbow, taking aim for her chest, and speaks in a voice full of bravado, yet wavering with fear. And what comes out of his mouth is gibberish.

Flowering gibberish, gibberish that seems to paint a vast landscape in the air, strange, alien tones like music played in reverse. Marea stares at him with wide eyes, dumbfounded, and he repeats what she assumes is a warning, as he inches slightly closer.

“Help,” she says loudly, intonating each sound as clearly as she can. “Help. Hurt. Lost.”

The man's reply rolls off his tongue like a babbling brook, chased close behind by a burst of lilies, lilting, ethereal tone sharpened into an obvious threat as he squints one eye shut, hands trembling as he braces to loose the arrow.

“No!” Marea exclaims, a bit more forcefully than she intended, stretching a hand out to caution him. “I don't want to hurt you, I'm hurt, help, please, I need help, heh-elp, look at me, just goddamn--”

The man's finger twitches, and the pistol comes down and shatters the peaceful cricketing of the woods. One lone shot is like thunder, critters in the trees scattering with the wind. The man drops to his knees, crossbow shooting off into the grass, and the little boy, after a moment spent staring at Marea in pure terror, takes off into the night, like a pale ghost fleeing the reaper.

Marea watches his fading form. She glances at the farmer, lying face down in the grass, blood pooling around his head. And with an agonized, drawn out groan, she begins to stomp after the boy, each stride of her ruined legs jostling her broken ribs and leaving her bloody head ever more woozy.

The homestead is not too far off. She comes to the edge of the forest, long after the boy has passed through, and sees the farmhouse, a stout stone abode, windows lit with warm light, behind it a small stable and fenced in pasture, and beyond that, she can just barely make out interweaving, sprawling hills in the silver moonlight, dancing against the horizon like waves carved of marble.

She limps up to the door of the house, and knocks a playful rhythm, before pushing it open and peering inside.

A small but cozy kitchen greets her, fireplace lit, round dinner table set for three. A roasted chicken sits on a cutting board, untouched, and Marea slowly creeps inside, examining the counters, stacks of dishes and bundles of greens strewn across them, a basket of apples and a peg on the wall holding a large ring of skeleton keys. As she picks up an apple, taking a ravenous bite out of it, her eyes travel to a knife rack, fastened up next to the keys. Curiously missing two of the blades.

A floorboard creaks, and she whips around and strikes at the first thing she sees. Her apple goes flying, as does one of the missing knives, catching the light of the fireplace as it skitters across the floor. A young, simple woman, not much older than herself, is already reaching for the second knife from under her bodice, and Marea knocks it from her hands just as easily, grabbing her by the shoulders, and forcing her back against the wall as she screams and quakes before Marea's madwoman visage.

“Listen!” she shouts, bloody spit misting over the poor woman's face. “Help! Help! Me!”

She releases her with a jerk, stumbling a few steps back to collapse in one of the dining chairs, sighing with relief. She takes her pistol from her belt once more, lazily pointing it in the direction of the woman, who gathers her long, full skirts in her hands, as if to hide behind them.

“Please,” Marea says more softly, trying to sound calm. “Everything. Fucking. Burns.” She points one stiff finger at her pulp of a thigh. “Though I'm pretty sure my nerves are damaged, because it should be way worse. And I gotta hunch you don't know what nerves are.” She pauses, narrowing her eyes at the woman's bewildered face. “I mean. Help. Heeeeeelp.”

Though the woman gives no sign of comprehension, she scurries over to a cabinet beneath the counters, and pulls out a small wooden chest, setting it quickly on the table next to Marea, before backing away as if afraid she were contagious. Marea flips the lid open, and a powerful stench of medicinal herbs makes her eyes water. She sniffles as she nudges around the contents, some familiar plants and pastes, and others foreign, almost as unusual as the sound of the strangers' voices. And all decidedly primitive.

She pulls out a salve with an antiseptic smell, and begins lathering it onto her legs, hissing through gritted teeth. She leaves the gun sitting on the table, still pointed at the woman, and watches from the corner of her eye as the little boy peers around a corner, rather high up, perhaps coming down a set of stairs.

“See? Literally all I needed,” she calls to him. Realizing he's been spotted, the boy tries to retreat, but Marea immediately jumps to her feet, gesturing from the woman to the boy, back and forth.

“Get him! Get him, now, both of you, here.”

The woman rushes up the steps, grabbing the boy by the arm and dragging him back with her, whispering what is likely words of comfort in her odd, blossoming tongue. Marea falls back into her chair, and continues slathering her body in silence, aside from the occasional whimper and whine. The process is long and the pain exhausting, and when she has coated her burns in medicine, she lifts her fingers to her forehead, flinching as she prods them into her open wound, trying to get a feel for how deep and severe it is. Yet she can tell little better than if she was using a random stick, and ends up drowning the gash in paste, before wrapping a long bandage around her head, sealing it up tight.

“Sure would be nice if you had an actual doctor, huh?” She wipes her slimy hands on the remnants of her leggings, and picks up the pistol again, scratching at a mysterious crust on the barrel. “But no, you're just lowly, humble farmers, with ye olde herbal concoctions. Not your fault, I'm not holding it against you.” She gestures to herself with the gun. “Marea. My name is Marea. Muh-ray-uh. And you?” The gun flips back to the woman, and she holds the little boy tightly to her side. Though her posture is defensive, some of the fear seems to have faded from her face, replaced with wariness.

After a pause, her name falls from her tongue like sunlight against chilled skin on a fair autumn evening.

“Maegan,” she says simply, and then, placing her hand on the boy's head, “Tomas.”

Marea blinks, leaning forward slightly. “Say that again. Again.” She waves her hand, signaling to repeat.

This time, the words take shape in her mind, and the glittering sounds of the strangers' language fall into a familiar, if altered, mold.

“Maegan and Tomas,” the woman says bitterly, brown eyes fixed on Marea. “Wife and son of Frank Ferny, who you murdered.”

“Shit,” Marea interjects, completely missing the bit about murdering, “You're speaking Common. You've got Tyrian names. Can you understand me at all? Me, Marea?”

“Marea,” Maegan mimics, nodding to her.

“Alright, that's a start. Who am I kidding, not like I'm much better. Medicine,” she proclaims clearly, pointing at the chest of herbs. “Burns,” she gestures to her spongy flesh, “Gun,” she waves her pistol in the air, and both mother and son attempt to squash themselves into the rivets of the wall, clearly frightened by the firearm.

“Gun,” Marea repeats, raising an eyebrow. “Everybody and their grandma has one. Unless—nobody does.” She bites her lip, thinking for a moment. “Because, because you haven't gotten to gunpowder yet. Sorry, I'm fucking up your timeline. But hey, don't tell anybody about this and it will be like it never happened. Okay?”

Maegan shakes her head, pressing her son's face against her chest. “I don't understand your harsh tongue.”

“My what what?”

“Wut wut?”

Marea sighs heavily, throwing back her head, and daring to close her eyes, just for a moment.

A wave of lights and darkness throws itself upon her, and she shouts and jerks her head and her eyes pop open. Maegan and Tomas stare at her, more bewildered than ever.

“I—had a hard time getting here. I traveled. Travel. From far away.” She wipes tears from her eyes, goosebumps standing out on what little of her skin is not crisped or metallic. “Tyria. I come from Tyria. My world is called Tyria. Is this Tyria?”

Maegan shakes her head, mousy hair coming loose from the bun that once held it back. “Middle-Earth,” is all she offers. Marea tries to make an encouraging smile, though it hurts her face.

“What Earth?”

“Middle.”

“Myeetel—middle. You're saying middle. Um, what's on either side of it? Afterlife sorta thing?”

Maegan shrugs, brow furrowing distastefully at hearing the name of her home from Marea's lips. Marea mimics the expression, and pushes herself to her feet, rolling her neck and her shoulders and squeaking in pain as her broken ribs shift.

“Well, this has been a great talk, but I need to find a doctor so I don't puncture a lung. Don't move,” she says, waving the gun at the pair vaguely as she roams around the kitchen, finding a coil of rope beside the fireplace. She hefts it back to them, and takes hold of Tomas's arm, prying him away from his reluctantly compliant mother.

“Not gonna hurt him. It's like insurance. I need to sleep before I can go anywhere, but I don't like kids, and he's probably gonna try to kill me. Y'know, the usual.” She loops the rope around the small boy, pulling it tight, so his arms are good and trapped at his sides. She does the same to Maegan, and once the two are snug as bugs, she ties the remaining rope to each of their ankles, and then back to the fireplace.

“There. Now you aren't killing me, or tattling on me.” Marea nods once, content with her work, and grabs a scarf from the back of a chair. She balls it up into a pillow, and lies down on the floor, resting her head upon it so that she still stares at Maegan and Tomas, pistol held gently in her hand, fingers always poised to pull the trigger.

“Now, before I go to bed, I have a few questions. Try your absolute hardest to understand.”

“Fine,” Maegan murmurs, staring her down with a look of utter loathing.

Marea pauses before speaking again, moving her lips and her tongue around, trying to get a feel for her own vocal functions. “Where is the nearest town?” she asks, lilting and drawing out her words in an attempt to mimic the Middle-Earth accent.

Maegan grunts as if she's been punched in the gut, and barely keeps from rolling her eyes. “Five spans north of here. It is called Archet.”

“Don't know what a 'span' is, but north, got it. Second question. In what ways do I look scary to you?”

This time the woman laughs, and Tomas huddles close against her, even without being able to clutch to her dress with his hands. “Everything, Marea. Your eye is strange, your limbs are stranger, your voice is hideous and you look like you've been burned alive.”

Marea can't help but grin, and even giggle a bit alongside her, letting her eyes droop closed. “So I've heard. I'll have to take care of that. I had another question, but—I'm so tired. I could sleep and never wake up—good thing I don't need to be awake for this thing to shoot people,” she adds hastily, eyes popping open just long enough to hold up the gun, before she nestles her face against the scarf again.

“Goodnight, Maegan and Tomas. Be good so I don't have to kill you.”

The mother and son offer no reply. Exhaustion finally overtakes her, overtakes even visions of the void, and Marea drifts into a deep sleep. In her sleep there is only blackness, but far from empty, it fills her with warmth, if impermanent, if only for a time. Sleep is the same wherever she goes. And on that fever dream evening, she clings to it like a lost friend.

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