#quail should be hardy

[sassyhazelowl]

Sometimes, on the quail groups, I wonder what exact people do with their quail to get such poor results. Coturnix are not that hard to hatch and raise. They are literally the easiest bird I have on my property. If you have a decent incubator and take basic steps to ensure you have good eggs and good brooder practices, you shouldn't have low hatch rats/high chick mortality. 85-100% hatch rates are fairly easy to obtain with mature hens, good breeding ratios and proper nutrition for the breeders (aka not chicken feed). You shouldn't be having issues with DIS or failure to thrive or wryneck or clubfoot/splayed leg or crossbeak if you put any effort at all into picking and maintaining your breeders well. You shouldn't have to do a lot of hard culling after a few generations let alone 3/4ths of your hatches. Your hatch rates shouldn't be 25-30% from your own eggs.

This is not survival of the fittest - this is negligence and poor husbandry.

[abetteranglican]

continued

enjoys playing therapist, fascinated by emotions, have been able to learn very well from therapy about my own thought processes and others'. am now very good at seeing and holding different sides of people, *considering*. stimming with literature/prose - immersive writing in Jane eyre. intensely empathetic with impersonal things, crying at things that aren't even sad in movies, things that should be funny- mr bean. sympathetic with people, am able to take in a lot of emotion one on one without becoming emotional myself. thinking back on old conversations, revolving them in my mind, what can I learn about myself/others. basing my moral compass off of shows I watched as a child, taking the moral lessons to heart, watched very emotive shows as a child. able to enjoy long periods of doing nothing by looking/watching/imagining. was very good at acting/theatre. I like to sit in an interesting space and look/watch, appreciating atmosphere - stimming?. I needed to prove to myself that I could go without food, sleep, wanted to be 'hardy', something about needing to be strong for others if needed. being loud about being underweight. dont experience hunger I the same way, feels confusing and sad. I can get emotional thinking about myself as if im watching myself, in a sad situation, tears come from a wave of intense empathy/pity for myself. this often happens around food, forcing myself to eat food or being aware that im forcing myself to eat it. I enjoy the feeling of rain, never understood how/why others dislike it or see it as bad, I almost always go out without a coat. I like the atmosphere of rain, how it looks. synesthesia - people/numbers have colours, feelings, quail, people seem like 'things', needles etc. I still end up offending by accident, have to remember that 'weird/funny' seems an unkind word to most people even though I mean it as a compliment. I feel like I passively stim by looking at people by feeling/experiencing their vibe/atmosphere/character in the same way other people watch slime videos. eat things I dont want to out of guilt and can get very quickly overwhelmed and upset by texture, not wanting to eat things/not salivating when looking at food even when im hungry actually does impacts my life a lot- lack of concentration/awareness, overemotional, very low weight/energy. very easily put on edge, fragile.

[dramatic-shitpost-poet]

African Egg Eating Snake

Enclosure:

Adults can be housed in a 20 gallon tank or 24 x 18 x 12 in minimum with more length than height

You can house multiple together, but adjust enclosure size and monitor their behavior

Substrates can be aspen shavings, coconut fiber, etc.

They need enrichment and hides like caves(one on cool and one on warm), flower pots, thick branches, fake or live plants, moss, hollow logs, driftwood, etc.

There should also be some higher up enrichment for climbing

The cool side can be about 75-80 degrees F and the warm side can be 90 degrees F

UVB not needed, but day and night cycle is

40-60% humidity 

A water dish that’s large enough for them to soak in should be present and changed every other day/whenever dirty

Spot clean daily and completely disinfect every month

Diet/Feeding habits:

They do not eat rodents or insects, they instead eat eggs

They can eat small chicken, finch, quail, and canary eggs depending on the snake’s size

The eggs should only be a big larger than the snake’s thickest part

They need to eat fresh eggs, not ones that are old and have semi-hard embryos

Refrigerate the eggs until eating time, then let them go to room temperature

They eat by swallowing the egg whole, then spitting back up the shell in which you discard. 

Set the egg around the enclosure for them to find and eat. They typically eat once a week if they are juveniles, but it can sometimes go to every 2 weeks for adults. Just monitor their eating habits and check everyday

Age identification:

Average lifespan is 10-15 years

They reach maturity in 2-3 years

Physical traits:

Morphs exist, but most are a grey-brown in color that are sometimes broken up by white, yellow, or black spots or stripes. Their belly scales are white

They have keeled scales

Females tend to be larger than males

Average adult size is 2-3 feet long

They have small and more round heads than most snakes

They do not have teeth, but they do a small tooth like structure in the back of their throat to crack eggs

No details of breeding, but females can lay 6-25 eggs per clutch

Personality:

If they feel threatened they will rub their scales together to create a hissing sound

Hardy

Docile 

Nocturnal 

They do tend to be skittish at first, but will calm down

They tend to wrap around arms and hands

Health concerns:

Stuck shed can result in dead tissue, but can be helped with right humidity and soaks

Mites are small snakes parasites and see a vet

Scale rot and respiratory infections result from wrong humidity, temperatures, and improper care

Metabolic bone disease results from not enough calcium in their diet

Handling:

Let them adjust at least a week in their enclosure before handling

Wash hands before and after handling

They do tolerate and sometimes love handling

Support their entire body while handling, so they feel secure

Scoop them from their bellies as to not mimic predators

[where-the-fig-tree-twists]

Quail: Pt 2, an Ongoing Saga (and other matters of the farm)

My friend is giving me her bobwhite quail. There's 5, 3 hens and 2 cocks, and I'm looking forward to having them. I'm hoping I don't fail spectacularly. While they take 6+ months to reach maturity and begin laying consistently, I'm happy to take that time and work with them to make them handleable.

My mother - god, how old am i? - has also offered to get me Blue-Scales, so I'm really curious to see how that plays out. I want to do more research into Coturnix breeds, before I settle on my next breed; I thought I had settled pretty solidly on keeping a native breed to my area, for the sake of making sure they'd thrive.

Now, I'm wondering about crossbreeding. Specifically, I'm curious about mutating my own line for healthy birds that don't die from "the stress of egg-laying" (*ahem* looking at you, Button quail!) that mature quickly like the Coturnix, is hardy for the area like the Gambel, but interesting in coloration like Anyone But Bobwhites. Logically, my next breed should be Texas A&M Quail, as they're local to me, and I should be able to get ahold of older hens and cocks first, before incubating eggs. I'm not sure I have confidence in myself in doing so successfully. What's the worst that happens, though? My Bobwhites lay eggs, my Blue-Scales lay eggs, and we use the TAMQ everywhere else?

In Other News

One of my Carolina Dogs got into the room I'm starting herbs and 3 Live Oak acorns in. I lost my Parsley and Thyme, but the rest of the pots are doing fine.

They were planted a week ago, and I already have sprouts. Mustard, specifically, and there's some open seed shells in the dill, so I suspect they'll come up soon.

There's...also a dubious, very small two-headed sprout coming up out of one of my acorn pots. I'm more than a little suspicious that the seeds I assumed were duds in the soil I reused are no longer duds. Problem is, I don't remember what was in the pots! I don't suspect it's my lavender, as I've had issues upon issues getting it to grow.

While at TSC a few days ago, I grabbed an Elderberry bush and an...unlabeled plant? It appears to be a Thryallis, so we shall see when it blooms what it...actually is.

Relatable.

[hetaczechia]

8:00 - 8:30 - Awakening in Bilbo's burrow. From the garden comes the sound of Sam's scissors, but it's clear to all of us that he's listening to what we're talking about, a scribble one. The first breakfast follows.

8:30 - 9:00 - Visit of the Godfather Quail connected with listening to his stories, gossip and finally, of course, a second breakfast is served.

9: 00-10: 00 - Excursion to Barrow-downs, only for the hardy. The following is a presentation of magic tricks by Tom Bombadil. Only one trick can do it, but the ring disappeared really nicely.

10:00 -11: 00 - Morning party in Rivendell. Unfortunately, the second group also arrived for a visit, which is said to have some advice in the next pavilion and is making a terrible mess. There is the thrashing of an ax into something metal and the swearing of swords, bows and the already mentioned ax.

11:00 -12: 00 - Visit to the Western valleys and laying a wreath with the inscription "We remember, Gondor".

12:00 - 13:00 - Lunch in the Golden Hall in Edoras in Rohan. Nobody eats Éowyn's soup. Towards the end of the visit, King Théoden begins to shout something about Gondor, and Éowyn begins to sing. Time to drop out.

13:00 - 15:00 - Visit to the Fangorn Forest and a parade of marching flora. Finally, the wizard Radagast arrives. He gives us a package that smells strangely of mushrooms, winks at us and leaves on his sleigh again.

15:00 - 17:00 - Observation of migrating elephants in Ithilien. Our guide was to be Boromir, a valiant and brave warrior. Unfortunately, he reportedly stayed in arrow acupuncture, so we get the second guide ... Farafil, or something like that. The snack is provided by Sam. Two ears and portions of bandures are served.

17:00 - 18:00 - Quick visit to Minas Tirith. It's getting dark and Steward Denethor is bringing lights. He starts pouring oil on us senselessly and sprinkles tomatoes on us that he can't eat. We prefer to get up and leave. They say we'll come back here again.

18:00 - 20:00 - Birthday party in Hobbiton. Beer is flowing, someone is starting to name all the families of hobbits, there are crackles and fireworks in the sky, everything is nice and beautiful. We light pipes full of spices from South Farthing.

20:00 - 21:00 - Someone unpacks a package from Radagast and we taste its mushrooms. We begin to have strange auditory and visual sensations. Someone shouts "Eagles, eagles are coming", but it's just a dragon, so everything's fine. It occurs to someone that we should sail to Valinor. We get up and go!

21:00 - 23:59 - we leave by ship from the Grey Havens to Valinor. We can't find it, a big storm is coming and the ship is sinking. Fortunately, we have vests and sail on our backs by the sea. We can't sink because Ulmo protects us. At least we think so. The clouds burst and we see Eärendil floating across the sky with a glowing silmaril on his forehead. Everything is beautiful, we look forward to the next day!

[flowerflamestars]

Bound and Blessed

PART ONE  PART TWO PART THREE  PART FOUR  PART FIVE  PART SIX  PART SEVEN  PART EIGHT  PART NINE PART TEN

Under the false fire of will-o-wisp light, the stormy heart of the Archeron estate had never been colder.

  Not the great house built for show and status, or the warded secret spaces the sister’s had carved out. The true beating heart was this: a sloping stone half circle designed by Nesta, mimicking luna phases. Where Elain had planted roses with her own hands, mixed them with everything from fickle jasmine to hardy hollyhock and lethal foxglove.   Where Lucien had bled, until the three of them had a new world.   Inauspicious tonight under feet of snow, features lost under the white, white blanket, the phantom heartbeat of power thrummed beneath Lucien’s feet. Danger, warning, like the living land understood the risk they were taking.   The moonless sky overhead that they’d been waiting for was long shrouded by the storm, gentle snowflakes drifting down.   When the silence broke, it was from the steady beat of mighty wings.   Like winnowing was too easy, like they hadn’t all been living in the same house a short walk away, Rhysand, accompanied by his Shadowsinger and General, slammed down into the snow.   “Dramatic,” Nesta hissed.   Lucien didn’t hold in the sharp edge of his smile. They’d been waiting in the snow for the High Lord to show up for more than half an hour already. Standing in a snowdrift, refusing to shiver, Rhys hadn’t put Nesta in her place if that was his intention.   He’d enraged a woman on the brink of committing murder.   Already leaking a steady trickle of flame into the the air that Nesta would insist she didn’t need if he asked, Lucien stepped closer, bloomed the heat higher, careful not to melt the snow. He was gratified by the infinitesimal further straightening of her spine, radiating strength and comfort.   As though they were ever going to quail, just because the High Lord of the Night Court was a prick.   Rhysand folded black wings and came to a stop, not in front of Nesta, but him, like he was planning to negotiate with Lucien. A stupid prick.   But sharp-honed weapons that they were, both the Illyrian’s were looking at Nesta. Lucien knew damn well what they were seeing, familial pride widening his smile. Silvered fur and velvet drained of color in the dark, throwing back the battlefield haunting green and gold firelight of will-o-wisps who’d congregated around and above her as thought magnetized.   Deep hood up, all that showed was the sharp curve of bones. A deaths head. A woman veiled in menace.   Nesta looked more like a damned faery than any of them.   Elain had told him once human children were taught were the beauty of High Fae was a weapon, beguilement that led to ruin. It was true, if a double edged sword: magic responded to beauty, called upon willpower and grace with favor.   With his usual flare for the dramatic, Rhysand summoned the indestructible contract onto the low stone wall between them. “This was not necessary.”   Nesta didn’t move or speak. Lucien bared his teeth in reply when Rhysand was stupid enough to look at him for an answer.   Met with silence, Rhysand tucked his hands into his pockets. “Do you really think not telling your sister about this is right?”   Nesta pushed back her hood. Crowned in faery gold, each ornament was sharp enough to kill, laced with carefully slow floral poison. An early solstice gift, from Elain and Lucien together. His heart crowed to see her wear it: family, fierce and true.   “Does Feyre have any governmental authority in the Night Court?”   A twist of anger, barely contained: a point to Nesta. Emissary was not a command position. Lucien was sure it paid in the North, the richest court in Prythian. But until Rhysand addressed those crowns he dressed her in and gave away a piece of his absolute power, Feyre had none.   Rhysand wasn’t done. “You could have just asked, for any of this. Do think so little of faeries that we wouldn’t take in children, provide safe port for your ships?” So very stupid. Somewhere along the way, Feyre had taken the clear fact that Nesta and Elain despised Rhysand- a liar, a Lord who’d spent centuries building reputation as nightmare, the second kidnapper of their little sister- and decided they hated faeries.   What mental gymnastics were required to deal with Lucien’s presence in comparison, he couldn’t imagine.   “I am asking,” Nesta ground out, voice colder than the falling snow. And then, tone wholly different and wounding, “Promise kept and bound, beneath the sky.”   An Illyrian proverb. Lucien had seen the stack of books at the corner of her desk: old words for alliance, for binding and bloodshed.   Cassian was staring.   Lucien had to actually blink away the ties of seething gold that spooled between them, bright and violent to only his eyes. It had been years since he’d been able to see them, anything like them- more than a scent or a feeling. Proof of that growing, hungry star beneath his ribs? Or was Nesta- beloved and fearless and theirs- already in the depths?   Point two to Nesta: Rhysand was slipping out of his feigned casual stance, sliding into the dangerous stillness of the High Fae.   “We make promises in ink, in the North,” He tried on last time, purple eyes gleaming inhuman in the dark. “Would you accept that?”   The loyal-hearted Generals’ head snapped toward Rhys like he’d been offered personal affront.    Honest, unguarded-  and wounded. With a low, long sigh, the Shadowsinger rocked a step forward before the whole night could descend into chaos.   “Section three, clause two,” Azriel recited, ignoring his High Lord, “One action performed personally by the Shadowsinger of the Night Court, to be sworn secret until such time it is necessary to the war effort. Do you want me to kill someone?”   For the first time in the long cold night, Nesta didn’t look angry. “No bloodshed of any kind will be required.”   Easy, Azriel inclined his head. “I accept.”   “Az.” In a shudder of dark power, ignoring his High Lord completely, Azriel pressed a fingertip to the paper. Blood smeared, no cut that Lucien had been able to see made feeding the contract.   Nesta inclined her head in return.   Elain had been sure the Illyrians would side with them. Honor, she’d reminded Lucien, while Nesta bled and grumbled, Lucien periodically healing away the loss. Look at the way they respond when we fight with Feyre and Rhysand, they don’t want to be here. Lucien wished she were here to see it. Hours spent on what to include, the contract was every inch her work as much as theirs.   Long lapsed into tired insouciance, Elain had tossed her legs over his lap to talk, unbound curls a cloud against the back of the low chaise she’d talked him into carrying to the library. Hands full of  her heavy silk skirts, as much a pleasing anchor as a reminder to himself not to reach for more, Lucien couldn’t have moved if the world were burning down.   “She’ll be offended by the entire thing,” Elain had mused, leaning back.   “Was she this stupid about Tamlin?” Nesta replied, sprawled on the floor before a low tea table- also carried in by Lucien- bleeding into a copper bowl. Lucien healed her again without being asked.   “No,” He said automatically, before Elain’s disbelieving dark eyes found him. “Yes. Different, but”-   “But Rhysand is her mate,” Nesta interrupted, without looking up. A condemnation, in her voice.   Elain snagged one of his full hands, hooking two fingertips beneath the red ribbon around his wrist. Lucien tried to swallow down his seized heart at the word, focused instead on the feeling of Elain’s pearl bracelet sliding over his skin.   “Feyre is going to be furious,” Elain amended, knuckles against Lucien’s unsteady pulse. “I’ll keep her distracted.”   So rather than out in the snow, the third face of their efforts where she belonged, Elain was entertaining the sister she was still furious with. If he looked away from Rhysand’s scowl, Lucien probably could have found her, light blazing from one high glass walled room of the main house.   Found her heartbeat through the dark.   But first Lucien had to perform the savage magic of his forest home. Because the Archeron sisters had decided promises didn’t matter much to the most powerful High Lord in Prythian.    Instead, they’d built a trap, laid a curse, bound from their bloodline to his.   Their audacity alone was a pride.   Rhysand had picked up the contract and begun reading aloud. “Safe passage and stipend to all orphan wards to the Archeron estate. Legal freehold status to any and all Archeron vassals who choose to seek a home in the Night Court at the advent of war. Legal recognition of House Archeron and all her employees from the Royal Guild of Trade, the Great Bank of the North, and the Court of the High Lord as free entities. Do you think we wouldn’t accept refugees?”   “I think,” Fae and furious, Nesta snapped, “That it will take an incredible amount of magic to winnow several hundred people to safety. Feyre wants Elain and I safe in the North? Then every man, woman, and child who belongs to this land will be offered the same, or we won’t go.”   Horribly, Rhysand was starting to eye her with something closer to intrigued disbelief than rage.   “The last page,” He breathed, “Zero independent intervention into any ongoing military operations under the authority of House Archeron. If there an army hiding in your shipments of cloth and grain, Banfhlaith?”   Like he didn’t notice he was doing it, Cassian took the last two steps toward Nesta’s rigid form. Honor, Elain had said. Fealty, Lucien agreed. He could scent it, burning bright.   “Do you accept or not, High Lord?”   Lucien had the thought that when they got close enough to actually perform the binding Nesta was going to stab Rhysand in the throat, if only for that smirk as she recited his title.   “Why should I?” Rhysand asked silkly, bleeding false charm. “I would give you half this without lifting a finger, no foul magic from Vanserra forcing me.”   Azriel sighed again.   Out of one wide fur lined sleeve, pale hands gilded in the light, Nesta pulled free a filigreed square of paper and held it out. The High dragged it to himself with a gust of frozen night air, the backlash sending ice into Nesta’s face.   Someday soon, one of the sisters was going to stab him, and Lucien was going to be right there breaking bone, High Lord of no.   Rhysand took it, read, and laughed. A favor, Elain had whispered in delight that night Lucien had learned of Velaris. Buried with our father’s treasure. Merchants call them markers- when our great-great-great grandfathers grandfather was bound to the secret city, he was gifted one magic token, a single favor from the hand of the High Lord Rhain. Twelve generations had kept it, and now Nesta would entrap Rhain’s son with his word.   Wild and bloody magic cared for boldness.   Lucien had honestly wondered if Rhysand would try to kill them for even the suggestion, after Amarantha.   Instead, he grimaced in an unwilling amusement. “Very well, Nesta Archeron, first of your name, oldest of your line.” One more huffed, hollow laugh, before Rhysand held out his hand for her take. “But if you do this, we’re allies in the war. No more secrets. And you’re going to tell me where the hell you got a note written by my dead father.”   Nesta pulled a bare blade from the small of her back, and smiled.   “It’s an heirloom,” She said, reaching out to grip his tattooed wrist without a flicker of fear. “The first generation of merchants were favored.”   Rhys grunted as she sliced his palm, far deeper than the spell required. The cut on her own hand was shallow, but bled and bled, thin mortal blood spilling over the curved blade. Not Spring Court make or one of Nesta’s commissions, the keen slice of moonlight in her hand was Illyrian steel, forged of fallen stars. Singing steel, they called it, like it spoke to the Illyrians as the wind and skies themselves did.   Lucien could imagine where she’d gotten it.   They joined bleeding hands over the contract, and Nesta reached for Lucien.   Out of the corner of his eye Lucien caught the half-contained motion as Cassian twitched at the sight of Nesta taking his hand. Tension bled into the air, already thick with blood and promise.   “The oldest of two generations,” Rhysand breathed. “A bloodline curse, Vanserra? Barbaric.”   Trickle down- a broken word would not just kill the the subject of binding, but cascade through their family line wreaking ruin before death took hold.   Not simply murder: an ill-wish, humans called it. A cataclysm.   An Autumn specialty- other court’s High Fae might pretend they weren’t so savage, but the truth was, most of them had lost the art.   Power liked reciprocity, but a curse couldn’t be truly even. Elain and Nesta hadn’t just grabbed for what they wanted: they’d set in a motion a situation that made them powerful in their right, their people safe and needs met, the High Lord backed into a corner at their behest.   It made the binding tighter.   “No moon,” Azriel murmured, shadows wreathed about his shoulders.   The North knew curses too.   Rhysand inclined his head and intoned, “Written of blood.” Stealing the first words would have given him more wiggle room, the prick, if Lucien hadn’t been spinning curses since the cradle.   Fresh blood filled the air as Nesta squeezed his hand in retaliation, dripping down her wrist. “Bound of bone.”   How Rhysand could believe he could take from this bargain, like he could actually intimidate her, Lucien couldn’t imagine. Nesta’s iron grip was enough that blood was ruining her dress sleeve, sticking to her fur cloak.   Power, stifling and raw, filled the garden.   Together, they continued. “We bind our will, beneath the crone.”   Rhysand’s wings snapped out as the curse took hold, the air shimmering to mirage with Lucien’s fire in the air. Blood flowed backward, fresh and red as out of the vein. A tide receding, from the contract up their joined hands to sink beneath skin.   Blood for blood, life for life, a promise bound.   Nesta didn’t flinch. *** Cassian’s joints didn’t unlock until Lucien winnowed Nesta away. Blood on her hands, only standing by sheer force of will, she was glorious. The air itself had sung, with a blade in her hand.   “You ever feel like the Mother herself is fucking with you?” Rhys asked, flexing his healed hand. Knotwork and ink on his palms and wrists that matched Feyre, but now until the promise was kept, bloody red words in Nesta’s precise hand raced beneath the skin of his knuckles.   Because Rhys had apologized, because Cassian needed to ignore that his whole body was helplessly alight, he fell into the ease of laughing back. “Dawn mother or night mother?”   Illyrian gods, not the Mother, the threefold goddess High Fae believed in like she walked the world with them.   Rhys huffed back, but when he looked up from his hand to meet Cassian’s eyes, his face was tired. “Cas, I could smell your blood.”  *** Elain, in the aftermath of fighting with Feyre hadn’t spent the next two days placidly cutting orchids as their guests seemed to assume.   Screened from Night Court eyes and gnashing her teeth- the punishment for treason was death, and Feyre knew it. Death to their entire family, death to every vassal; and Feyre had linked them to the authority of a High Lord of Prythian. The death warrant was signed- the first thing Elain did was sink her hands into soft black soil and pulled free a golden acorn.   Impervious, dirt shed from its gleaming surface onto her palm all at once, leaving gold phantom warm and sun bright.   So small- so terribly important in the course of her life.   It fit in a skirt pocket, presumably only detectable to faeries as a slice of magic, a taste of Lucien’s scent on her. Explainable- so ordinary as to not even be worth mentioning. Ordinary, her thoughts raced on. Lucien was a part of her life. Her’s and Nesta, family. Theirs. Hers- how dare Feyre- two High Lords, two kidnappers, but marrying Lucien was a problem? There were layers and twists to her fury- Feyre thought Elain was incapable of making her own decisions, Rhysand thought they were somehow under his authority because of his not quite relationship with their baby sister- but not a ripple showed as Elain floated through the next three days.   She showed up to breakfast and drank tea with quiet, polite Azriel. Bantered ever so lightly with Cassian, when Nesta wasn’t in the room rendering him deaf and blind to all else.   Learned the foreign body language that seemed to take up half of how they related to one another: Azriel’s disappearing shadows and right wing that practically reached right out to tap Cassian. Those wickedly curved, surely sharp spiked wing-joints over Cassian’s shoulders that jumped with nerves, practically disappeared with tension.   Elain didn’t have Nesta’s enormous childhood fascination with stories of honor and flight to back up what she learned, but for soldiers- they were so clearly soldiers, she didn’t need their titles or scarred hands to tell her the story their constant armament and posture did- neither seemed inclined toward keeping a blank face around her.  Anger, rage, all the while a slow trickle behind her eyes.   People looked at Elain- her much fairer curling hair, her heart shaped face and dimples- and forgot entirely she was as Archeron as Nesta. Her older sister would burn a threat to the ground. Elain was something more subtle, if only in the worlds eyes.   Carefully distilled foxglove in Rhysand’s tea proved as fruitless as Lucien had said it would, but it did make Elain feel better.   Not so much better though, that when choosing the task of keeping Feyre occupied, Elain didn’t have to smile her widest fake charitable ball smile and then give into the vindictive urge to march Feyre across the house to her quarters.   An hour, she estimated, long enough for Nesta and Lucien to throw their net around Rhysand.   Elain could smile for an hour.   It had taken two nights to write the contract. Lucien’s idea, Nesta’s words, Elain’s trap in the form of an heirloom their bastard father had hidden while they starved through winters. Every fail-safe and nuance they could think of covered: citizenship, freehold farmland, safety for their many men at sea.   Flaith Archeron would simply become a lordship in another territory, and thanks to Nesta’s financial machinations, the money and business would stay in the sisters legal grip, even if Lord Archeron reappeared.   On the third night, dragging a tiredness that made her long for Lucien’s warmth beside her, Elain retired early.   She truly was tired- of fake smiling, of the way Rhysand looked at Lucien like he was just waiting for him to bare his throat, of Feyre’s stories about bakeries and piers and art galleries in Velaris- but the moment her door was shut behind her, fiery ward spells scenting the air like love, a steady pulse of adrenaline started in her veins.   Three twists of an acorn stem.   Red silk ribbons in her hair to call enchantment down.   If it all it did was call Lucien, she wouldn’t be upset. But watching Nesta bleed for them- waiting for an apology from Feyre that wouldn’t come- Elain had to try something.   Three breathless recitations of the Lady of Autumn’s name, before the silent, still night bled into Elain’s roaring ears.   Nothing. Just gold that smelled like fire, warm as the summer sun in her palm. Elain waited.   Long enough that she was readying herself to leave again- exhausted but sleeping shores still so very distant- to track down whatever Nesta was doing in her usual insomnia nightly hours or find Lucien, when the scent in the air changed.   Fire, and fire still- but spiced, blooming, a bonfire on a holiday night.   Elain closed her eyes and breathed. Sorcha, Sorcha, Sorcha, queen unbroken. Family, she’d called Elain, left a stolen crown of unimaginable power perched in her hair that rejected it’s own bloodline.   When Elain opened her eyes, a satchel sat on the vanity before her.   Heavy russet velvet, embroidered in red and green. Too delicate for any purpose a human would carry a bag so large for, too fine to be made by anything but faery hands. The fastening buckle was a an oak leaf of solid, shinning gold.   With hands that trembled, Elain pulled free the clasp, and laughed.   The note, on paper so creamy and thick the part of Elain that was Archeron practically wanted to weigh it for grade, was scrawled in a perfect hand. Darling mortal daughter, Sorcha had written, for ease here among the fields of wheat, I thought we might write. Anything in the satchel will be delivered straight to my hand. Elain pressed her hand to her mouth, biting knuckles in an attempt to choke down the slightly hysteric giggle. Wheat- the banner of the Day Court, where Sorcha had ordered they come for any aid.   The Lady of Autumn had gotten out.   It is good to hear you are in the sunshine, Elain replied, I look forward to such weather myself, but it is Northern climes in my immediate future, unfortunately. Storms have come early this year, but our trees are still baring fruit. I wonder if you might advise how to bolster the branches of our oak trees under the onslaught? Reply was immediate, ink shining damply. At the least, mountains provide an excellent refuge from the wind. It is my belief snow will fall thickly in future months, be of mind the harvest must be gathered and sent out before then. I look forward to your eventual arrival- please do wear your hair as it was last we met, was so terribly fetching, and will be perfect for the warmer climes. How and what Sorcha might know of the Archeron’s fell harvest, Elain couldn’t imagine, but she’d heed the warning. Months- they had less than that left safely in their home, barely more to send out that last, fatal round of ships.   She was still thinking about it the next night, as she smiled winsome over dinner and asked Feyre for company.   Which brought her to very properly holding up her skirts to keep up with Feyre’s longer legs as they walked up the grand eastern staircase, a steady stream of questions Feyre clearly wasn’t interested in knowing the answer to standing in for any kind of apology.   As though Elain had actually handpicked every curtain in this house, as though Feyre had ever cared about tapestries.   She wondered what Feyre would say if she told her the truth: they’d picked colors they liked, and ordered in bulk from fabric mills at the discretion of proprietresses to choose the height of fashion. These public spaces were about luxury- the kind that made them blend back in with the gentry- and said nothing about Elain or Nesta’s personal taste.   The rooms Elain led her to at the easternmost rise of the house were something else entirely.   Solid ash wood doors swung open, slivered wood safe out of Feyre’s grip, to usher them into a world of softness.   Bright hand-woven rugs on the floor, practical but still fine pale wooden furniture that called back to the silvery sky colored walls. The plush room before them was a dozen shades of blue and cream, blending seamlessly without being dull; calculated to soothe.   Feyre ran a hand over the back of a royal blue couch, the velvet whooshing softly against her palm. Nothing like the delicate furniture downstairs: squashy, so plush it practically sagged. “This is beautiful.”   Elain swallowed the poison on her tongue. “It’s yours.”   Soundless, Elain sidestepped around where Feyre had frozen, weaving between more soft, practical furniture and past a roaring white marble fireplace Lucien had lit for her earlier. The doors to the left were glass, and when Elain threw them open, Feyre’s breath caught.   Fast as the High Fae she was now, her baby sister sped to the doorway and paused.   Everything Nesta and Elain had carefully chosen gleamed under golden faelight: paint and paper, fabric and thread, easel and drafting table, the glass walls that enclosed the studio crystalline with frost.   “Its…mine?” Feyre asked.   Elain let out a long breath through her nose and made herself look at her sister’s wide blue eyes. “The last time you were here the house wasn’t finished. The other doors lead to a bedroom; it’s blue and white, and of course we can personalize it to your taste if you prefer something else. The doors will have to be replaced."   Feyre’s face twisted, nose scrunching.   She’d said terrible things, endangered them all, but for a second, Feyre looked like exactly who she was: Elain’s still teenaged sister, overwhelmed by emotion she didn’t easily put into words.   “No,” Feyre said, reaching out to touch with two fingers the smooth surface of an entire shelf of paints, “Don’t change anything, it’s perfect. It’s beautiful, Elain.”   Elain nodded with a small smile and absolutely did not think or say, pity we’ll have to leave it forever or face execution. Waiting on the threshold while Feyre explored, exclaiming over color variety and touching each kind of paper Nesta had scoured imports for carefully. Brushes caressed, easel poked at, Feyre eventually stopped on the opposite side of the room from Elain, against that wall of night-dark glass.   “The gardens are bellow, right?”   Elain walked in, placing herself before the shelves. Calmly. Her luck held as Feyre walked away from the window, away from the slice of possible view of their sister out in the snow wielding magic.     “Yes, just like when you were a child. This was a library, then, your bedroom is in exactly the same spot.”   Feyre tilted her head thoughtfully. The motion was wrong to the eye: human gestures, high fae features. None of the keenness that bled from the gesture on other faerie faces, none of the knives edge that Nesta’s face made.   “I wondered,” Feyre admitted. “But I don’t really remember it, and Rhys wanted us all doubled up, for safety.”   Elain had the presences of mind to smile and nod as she led Feyre back out of the rooms and downstairs. Yes, she could imagine exactly the sort of safety Rhysand was providing, sleeping in the same tiny guest room as her sister.   She knew Feyre hadn’t slept there, her first night home. Had missed when Feyre switched rooms. After the first fight? Safety. That ridiculous prick.  “You know,” Elain said, “The wards here are blood bound. You’re as safe anywhere on Archeron land as I am. It’s your home too.”   Feyre made an odd little noncommittal noise in return. “I’ve never seen blood magic before.”   The phrase sounded even more off in her mouth; the difference between Nesta saying Vanserra- with love, with friendship, no matter how sharp she was- and Rhysand saying Vanserra, like Lucien’s name was a curse.   And why would Feyre have ever seen it? The long and deadly traditions of the Autumn Court, Lucien’s mother’s power unstoppable in his veins.  Magic that could rise to mortal hands and lived in the hollows of Prythians land. Why would she- no humans had ever been allowed to live in the Night Court.   Elain raised her chin. Took a deep breath made invisible by the tight strays of her fashionable gown, and gathered the thick fabric in her hands.   “This way,” Her voice, she was proud, came out affable as ever, “There’s hot chocolate in the drawing room, and I made cookies last night. You’d adore our cook, she’s been teaching me how to bake. Do you like snickerdoodles?”   Feyre liked anything with cinnamon and sugar, had since she was a toddler.   A painfully obvious relief on her face, Feyre nodded with a smile.   Elain led her on.   ***   So very many people feared Azriel.   The scars and cold menace, that sheer fact that Shadowsingers were a breed apart, something more magic than being to speak to the darkness and hear it whisper back. But Azriel was also kind. No amount of blood on his hands would ever change that, and nothing would ever change that Cassian was lucky to have him as a brother, no matter who their actual father’s were.   Cassian was lucky now, that Az was on his side.   “Rhys,” Az cut into the growing tension, worse- so much worse to have this fight right here and now, Cassian could still smell Nesta’s blood on Rhy’s hands, Cassian couldn’t breathe- because Cassian would never, ever apologize for what he’d done.   He waited until purple eyes swung away from Cassian. Their dearest friend, their older brother, but also and always, their High Lord.   “Rhys,” Azriel insisted again, terrible, something those shadows whispered to him making his voice cold, “Why is Nesta a problem, but not Elain?”   Cassian was going to rattle out of his skin.   With a twist of his mouth that said he knew damn well he wasn’t completely right, Rhys didn’t answer the question. “You didn’t have to agree like that. She could make you do anything, kill anyone.”   Cassian swallowed. He’d known- he knew- what Nesta had asked. That this would hit Rhysand in all the worst possible by ways after the last fifty years. But also- what choice did she have? There were no humans in the Night Court.   No safe place for them, no laws to protect them. Nothing but the Archeron sisters and Lucien’s power standing between several hundred humans being killed, if not in the war than by the Queens, by royal law that any of the surrounding estates could bring down on their heads at any time.   Nesta did what she had to, to get her people out.   Without harming the Night Court, or the war effort.   Stone-faced, Azriel crossed his arms. The shadows coiled down his jaw, whispered and keened and wept things Cassian couldn’t imagine. More, Cassian realized suddenly, than he knew. Azriel was not just backing up Cassian, not simply trying to stop more conflict.   “Nesta Archeron does not lie.”   Brow crinkling in surprise, Rhys looked between Cassian who knew damned well every unbearably honest, real thing his face was saying, and Azriel, leaking an icy anger into the air that even Cassian couldn’t fully explain.   Rhys said finally, slow, “She let Feyre go into those woods alone every day- she’s the oldest, she should have”-   “Their father should have,” Cassian growled before he’d made the choice to speak. “Are you fucking kidding me? They don’t even- their father technically owns them under human law. Feyre was probably safer in those woods than around mortal men.”   It hit too close to home. Everything here, built from Tamlins money and turned into a prosperous future by insane risk and wild cleverness. Every piece forged- from paying back their father’s debts to the property they owned outright with his granted permission.   So much worse than rising to anger in response, Rhys shook his head. “Cassian.”   “What was I supposed to do, Rhys? Let Feyre’s sister bleed?” Feyre’s sister, like that was what mattered. Cassian loved Feyre- a sister, a friend- but Nesta was every godsgiven sunrise he’d ever seen and they’d destroyed her future. “We put Feyre’s entire family and hundreds of people in danger.”   Cassian had spent the three days it took the moon to fade in the Archeron library. Learning history, utterly foreign laws. Five hundred years ago the Queens were grateful and desperate for the help of the High Lords. Centuries later, enmeshed the in the politics of the continent, they despised the wild magic of Prythian: more powerful and infinitely more dangerous than their homelands.   They were tyrants with magical gifts leftover from the War, and the eldest Archeron sisters had been committing treason to stay alive, safe a thousand miles away.   The punishment for crimes against the crown wasn’t just dolled out to those who committed it, when they had royal blood in their veins.   “Rhysand,” Azriel murmured, glacial. “I know what you’re thinking. Don’t.”   “Feyre just wants them safe, they’re not fighters.” Rhys said, tiredly, too many shadows in his voice to a be a full truth. “She’s going to hate all of us for this,” He waved those blood-red knuckles, words racing, “But I’m not going to ignore that she needs her whole family safe from Hybern’s hunters if we’re going to get through this.”   Her whole family. Azriel beat Cassian to words, voice horror enough he was certain Az knew something he didn’t. “If you let that man near his daughters, I’ll kill him myself.”   Less surprised than he should have been- Rhys knew he was wrong- Rhysand swung his face toward Cassian, like this was a vote, like so many things had been these long years, for all that they were all young in immortal life.   The wave of pain from Nesta that had driven him out of his mind: not normal sorrow, no uneasy resentment toward a mediocre parent. Azriel wouldn’t tell them secrets unless they were pertinent, would keep his dark honor.   Cassian didn’t need it to know Nesta would probably try to eliminate her father herself with half the opportunity; he’d just be one of the several willing hands to aid. Singing steel had sung for her- would she ever let him take her into the skies?  “Why can’t we just leave him in that prison?” He knew damn well they couldn’t. Hybern wanted Feyre alive, it would be laughably easy to use a mortal relative out in the world to draw her from their defenses.   Rhys rubbed a hand over his face.   Around them the wind blew. Snow and ice of a growing blizzard, but more to their ears. A second wave of the storm coming, cold that sang secrets, air that carried the tint of bloody magic, and just for Cassian: that flameless fire that would burn his world.   Rhys heard just enough to fly, for the mountains to call him home again and again. He’d never followed Feyres voice through the air, could never fly blind with solely the currents and his heart to lead him.   Illyrian but not- more, depending on who was speaking- High Fae, but apart. Cassian’s brother in every way that mattered, who he didn’t want to be set against.   They were the Court of Dreams.   But here: fearless Nesta, cunning Elain, and even banished Lucien. Their sort of people- they wanted the same things, a new world, a better world, their people’s survival. Dreamers.   He couldn’t understand how Rhys couldn’t see it, but he also knew it wasn’t a logical response. As though he was focusing all his tempering on giving Feyre room to grow into herself, and there was none left to rein in that Rhys couldn’t actually go on hating her sisters for the lack of an apology Feyre didn’t even want.   Besides the impossible things Cassian himself wanted, let himself think in the night hours when he kept running into her, his very face an embarrassment. Nesta: a generals keen eyes and an Illyrian heart, a bright fragile flame through the dark.   He couldn’t- wouldn’t- choose.   Hadn’t they all been taught the same lessons under starlight, in the gentle voice of the High Lady who was the only mother Cassian had ever known?  Let no one take your wings, let no one take your love.   They will tell you Illyrians are born to die.   You are born for war. Because no victory can be won without a true heart, no forest can flourish without fire. No Illyrian wouldn’t fight to the death for what was theirs, for what they loved and held in promise.   Let no one take it away.   Let the song of the wind guide you. Cassian wanted to know what Az did, but he couldn’t help but be aware that if he did, the Acheron’s father wouldn’t be long in the world.   Azriel’s face said, prison is too kind. Despite having his head up his ass, Rhys was taking note of the look too. “You can’t?”   Az shook his head. He’d done terrible things so that they wouldn’t have to, kept council with the secrets of the world. It was his honor: unless it couldn’t be avoided, unless it was necessary, Azriel wouldn’t tell personal tales.   Rhysand sighed.   “We’ll leave him to rot, but I want eyes on the City of Gods.” Az dipped his head in agreement, but didn’t leave Cassian’s side. “Cas,” Rhys started and stopped, sighing out a billow of white as snow fell in earnest between them. “I’m not saying you’re compromised- just be careful.”   Compromised- it was an effort, to choke down the hurt and temper.   Harder, with the smell of Nesta’s blood on his brother’s skin. The knowledge that he’d left her waiting in the snow-tiny and mortal in the storm- cold as killing mountain frost. Compromised, like Cassian had ever taken a single disloyal breath.   He swallowed. “I’m always careful.” ***   Elain’s estimate was off by only a few minutes.   The clatter of Feyre’s cup crashing against the saucer told her that error of time had spooled in the wrong direction before Elain could look up.   Snow sliding off his wet hair and turning to mist, bleeding red fading to intermix with gold, the sheer feral triumph on Lucien’s bright face froze her in place for moment. Beauty that said deadly, a fanged grin that said conquest, told her: we won.   Wild, her heart galloped in her chest as Elain rose.   Lucien had already made quick, graceful work of laying Nesta down on a chaise; one arm around her shoulder, the other caught in the death grip of Nesta’s bloody hands.   Half risen, Feyre was staring at those rusty smears, at least half a wine dark shade more purpled than mortal blood that Elain herself knew to be viscous and staining. “Nesta, what happened?”   Her older sister ignored the question, swatting away Lucien’s hands as he tried to unbuckle the twin sickle shaped knives belted over her gown. No wound visible beneath all the blood that had run so freely as to ruin her sleeves, but a fresh silvered scar across her palm that flashed magic-made in the candlelight.   She cracked open one bloodshot eye. “Fey, settle something for me. Rhysand’s wings: a ludicrous intimidation tactic or a stupid show of trust?”   Lucien laughed, Feyre’s head swinging toward him with a look of betrayal.   “He’s half-Illyrian,” Feyre replied, like it was nothing.   One arm flung over her parchment pale face, Nesta laughed through cracked lips. “Illyrian? Oh, the crowns. Has he tried to touch your hair little Fey? Breathed in your voice? Cry’thyra, under a boundless sky?”   “Is she drunk?”   Elain shook out her skirt, spreading it a little more than strictly necessary until the flounces half hid the chaise behind her. “Of course not, she’s perfectly fine."   In beat, in time, stepping so close the warmth radiating from his body left goosebumps rising on her skin, Lucien stood up beside her, blocking Nesta off from Feyre entirely. “We had to conduct a small ritual.” Small ritual- Elain couldn’t contain a smile. They’d bound a High Lord of Prythian to their people, cursed the Lord of Nightmares himself in vital, inescapable bonds.   With a thud that even faery grace imbued in her long limbs couldn’t contain, Feyre slid her knee off the couch, rising fully.   Looked between Lucien and Elain- and Elain for just a second, let herself imagine what her younger sister was seeing: his sun-brown face in the depths of winter, riven with scars and gold. A beauty that was savagely fae and as familiar to Elain as her own breath. Elain herself, shoulder brushing his arm, velvet and fashionable enforced silk spooling out from her waist, more comfortable here beside him than she’d been charming Feyre.   Nesta, intoxicated on a force that felt like swallowing stars, was still crooning advice, in and out of the common tongue. “Does he give you braids too? Ask after his gifts, littlest sister. Cry’thyra, vost sha’llan fa thye. Turn your face into the wind.” Pink was gathering, high of Feyre’s cheeks. “She’s magic drunk?” Her voice had gone small.   “Mhmm,” Lucien agreed, reaching behind Elain faerie fast and finally managing to wrestle away Nesta’s daggers, quicker than she could see. “We’ll get some food in her, should pass quickly.”   “I know Azriel is,” Feyre waved a hand toward her face that Elain didn’t want to interpret- scary? Did Feyre really think that any of them had it left in them to be afraid of faeries?- Azriel was quiet and polite, horrifically powerful, but from what Elain could note, both kind and honorable along with it. Even Lucien, who he’d tried to drag into the dark, respected him. “But he’s a very skilled healer? I could send him up?”   He also, unlike Elain or Lucien, would doubtless speak the language Nesta was still murmuring.   It wasn’t something her older sister would want, anymore than she’d want Feyre to see her like this.   Somewhere behind those alien but familiar blue eyes, Feyre seemed to be coming to the same conclusion. “Let me know, if she’s alright?”   Elain reached across the table to squeeze her hand for just a second. “Of course.”   Beneath her touch, the Night Court promises Feyre carried in ink pulsed, quick and angry. An effort, not to fling away her hand at that hostile, intrusive second heartbeat.   It wasn’t until the door was shut behind her that Elain spun to Lucien. “We did it? It worked?”   Full lips and fanged smile, so breathtaking in triumph that Elain had flung her arms around his neck before Lucien could get out more than a few words.    “You were right about the Illyrians and the marker,” He said, sunlit laugh spilling from his mouth. One warm hand wrapped around her wrist, the other looped around her waist as Lucien bent down into her embrace, keeping Elain’s feet from actually leaving the ground.   “Elain,” he laughed.   She could only grin back. Careful- so slow and careful to watch his golden gaze- Elain slid her linked hands beneath the snow-damp collar of his mortal lords greatcoat, pressed her palms to the back of his neck.   Like magic- he was magic, power she’d never stop having questions about, wonder she’d long since stopped trying to hide- Lucien’s head dipped, her thumb sliding down the muscled column of his neck.   He swallowed. Elain could hear the click of his dry throat.   Behind them, less mocking and a hundred times more fatigued, Nesta muttered. “I am right here.”   Elain sighed, and let her hands drift back down, her whole weight against the solid warmth of Lucien’s chest. Turning her head to prop her cheek against him was natural- but surprise enough to Lucien that Elain felt and heard his intake of breath, a second, different triumph lighting her up inside.   Because Nesta was Nesta, despite every pointy thing her raised brows were doing, she grinned back at Elain’s smile.   Her lip split for her trouble.   Lucien’s grimace was loud. “Bastard made us wait in the snow for him. You want a drink, Archeron?”   “So long as it’s not that hot chocolate we’ve been feeding Feyre. The good stuff only, Vanserra."   The good stuff was pulled out of Elain’s embroidery basket, whiskey from the Winter Court and Archeron estate cider that Lucien reached for only after squeezing Elain’s side with silent acknowledgment that left her skin burning.   A full round for all of them- and water, at Lucien’s insistence- later, Nesta got tired of her sticky sleeves. Elain had half unlaced her gown before Lucien hissed in discomfort- Nesta laughing, Vanserra, I know you’re not interested. I’m not stripping- as together the sisters pulled the great velvet mess from Nesta, revealing a full silk undergown and her pale shoulders   So it was at their most comfortable- Lucien and Elain sharing both a couch that barely fit Lucien by himself and a glass of whiskey that Lucien grinned at whenever Elain stole it from his grasp; and Nesta, free from the trappings of rank, still lit up with magic, on her second cider and immensely pleased with herself- that Azriel found them.   Polite enough to knock, and then stay by the door when he entered, soldiers stance at the ready.   “Apologies,” Azriel said, gravel voice hanging barely on the right side of discomfort as he took in the close family circle. “Feyre insisted someone was hurt?”   Lucien, in an act of grace that managed to barely jostle Elain, sprang to his feet.  And vaulted over the couch, for good measure, to land catlike before him.“The blood scared her.”   Dark curls falling in his face, Azriel inclined his head in agreement. “I thought it might be that. But-“   “But Rhysand sent you up here anyway?”   An infinitesimal smile flickered over that coldly handsome face. “We’re familiar with the effect of magic-channeled humans.”   Nesta, now upright and sprawled over several pillows sighed and set down her glass. “I do perfectly well, but you can assuage fears.” Not Feyre’s fears, Elain couldn’t help but notice. Nesta held out a hand, recited something whose soft sibilant words were completely lost on Elain.   Azriel’s dark brows rose by the slightest meter.   Striding across the room, Azriel knelt and took her wrist with extreme delicacy. Before murmuring something equally soft back with a warmth that made Lucien grin. He leaned over the top of the delicate sitting room couch they’d both been squished on to whisper in Elain’s ear.   “I don’t think Feyre is scared.”   She twisted toward his face in reply, lips brushing Lucien’s cheek. Quiet. No matter how quiet they were, Azriel would still hear them. “Notice the knives?”   “Singing steel,” Lucien breathed. “How long has she been learning to speak it?.”   “You’ll find,” She couldn’t resist whispering back, knew that without Feyre or Rhys or a true outsider in the room, Nesta wouldn’t care, “That the Illyrian section of the library has gone missing into private collection.”   Fully ignoring them both, Azriel bowed his head briefly over their joined hands, shadows of the room shifting.   Elain’s observation was screened by the fall of bloody red hair, the sharp shape of Lucien’s jaw. An effort to be close and not think- a hunger not foreign, but never acted upon- Elain wanted to bite that jutted shape and let her teeth learn bone, wanted to swallow down the taste and scent of fire that stayed on her skin even hours after Lucien had last touched her in some casual polite way: a hand on her arm, the lingering temptation that never left.   But not so much a distraction she wasn’t watching her sister.   A weary but given trust- Nesta, who if she could avoid it touched no one but Elain and Lucien; who struggled and hated the rounds of social calling that the gentry required, held the hand of the Shadowsinger, hewn of stone and darkness, and let him use his dark gifts.   If Azriel was surprised by her loosened tongue or knowledge of his language it didn’t show, but Elain would swear the ghost of a smile was lingering under that carefully blank expression.   So quiet Elain barely heard it at all, but enough that Lucien’s grin sprang to life, stubble rasping over her cheek, Nesta breathed. “We’ll speak tomorrow.”   Azriel’s reply must have been all expression, because Nesta nodded.   Against Elain’s skin- this night of magic and conquest heady beyond what seemed possible- Lucien mouthed contract, like he’d heard her thoughts. Perfection.   With a sigh, Azriel rose to his feet. “You’ll be fine by morning, even from the cold.” Rhysand left them waiting in the snow- the Illyrian’s hailed from fearsome mountains, didn’t they? Cold that could kill. Feyre, if she had actually sent him, was not the real reason their guest had shown up.   She’d thought the court was family- if one in fraught disagreement- and didn’t Azriel’s tired of this bullshit eyes confirm it.   Elain leaned away from the harbor of Lucien’s embrace. “Can I offer you a drink, Azriel?”   Small, but amused in a way that was tangible reminder he heard and understood a thousand times more than was said, Azriel smiled back at her. “Only if you don’t mind my taking it to go. I should get back, tell the others Nesta is going to be fine.”   No lie.   She’d barely reached before Lucien was pouring, movement blurred to reach. Nesta might have shed blood stained velvet, but Elain had laughingly managed to pull away Lucien’s coat, leaving a furnace and taut muscle visible through silvered silk beside her.   Azriel accepted the whiskey with a small toast, before stepping backward into darkness and away.   A now blood-free, bright gaze found Elain’s, sharp with happiness. Elain felt the giddiness of victory burst in her chest all over again- a curse, they’d trapped a High Lord of Prythian to protect their people- and found it reflected back in Nestas eyes.   Their sister could think they were helpless, their father could burn in hell, but Elain and Nesta had saved their house.   Flaith Archeron had stood for more than a thousand years. Together, they’d incontrovertibly changed the tide against there being another thousand. They’d live- they’d survive. Nesta rose, sliding past them with the cloud of her bloody gown discarded over one arm.   One battle down, the next coming soon; Elain wondered with a smile if there was a general waiting to wish her sister sleep after this victory.   But first, this victory of her own.   Alone, Elain reached for Lucien, and Lucien reached back.

@breath-of-sindragosa

@flxwer-petals

@ladyvanserra

@illyrianinterrasen

@missanniewhimsy

@tntwme

@ourbooksuniverse

@pitterpatterpot

@thestarwhowishes

@abillionlittlepieces

@my-fan-side

@the-eightofswords

@wonderland–memories

@ourbooksuniverse

@cohen-theeleven

@donnarosemary

@keshavomit   @superspiritfestival  @court-of-fandoms-and-art

[endermtheswordsman]

The hunt for foodstuffs to the feast was now over! Everyone brought in a decent haul meant to bolster the feast further, and all items were fey-touched and thereby larger than their usual counterparts, allowing all the items to constitute a feast to rival even a king's spread.

Clax-

Caught a Marlin, 2 Tuna, and a number of smaller fish.

Valen-

Caught a few large lizards and foraged for a basket of Mushrooms and herbs. Didn't really want to win, just wanted to enjoy his time.

Alyxez-

Hunted mountainous shrubbery for a couple of goats and hardy natural vegetables, a varied amount of natural carrots and potatoes and even some strange grains.

Sereval-

Went hunting for a number of lovely hives she knew of, to get fresh, unrefined honey and fruits from nearby orchards.

Kareem-

Got her hands on a couple of larger deer and a number of trout and watercress.

Arya- Didn't participate due to her old bones not being up to the excitement.

Xavier- Didn't participate as he felt someone should be behind to guard.

Sarabel-

Hunted for a full day in some plains to find pheasants and quail, and a variety of wild growing plants and herbs.

Enderm-

Surprisingly found a standard number of items, including wild potatoes, a handful of small mammals, and a few salmon, but little else.

Gael-

Found a decent number of thick and fragrant roots and herbs to use for seasoning and filling out stews and other foods to be heartier.

Yuki- Had joined in for the simple fun of just having something to do with her big friend, Clax. She caught an immense number of whitebait, and deposited half of it into the fishery for later use and growth.

After a few hours of deliberation though, this year's winner would be Clax, and by extension, Yuki. As the little one had gone along with him, and while they hadn't caught much individually, their combined haul not only seasoned their own items, but also forwarded the progress of the fishery with their smaller fish and fry, and the larger fish would feed the majority of the tribe, without including the other food items for the rest of the tribe and the others that attended!

[boneandfur]

Rosemary Lane [1]

Summary: // Words: 3858 // Rating: Mature (eventual N*FW) // Notes: I couldn't wait any longer to post it... I just couldn't. This is a canon-divergence. I can't say more without spoiling it, but it takes place in 1822 and is also a slight crossover. It has two special MCs from a giveaway I did ages ago, @debramcg1106's Ava and @breaumonts ‘s Lisette are in here as well. // Thanks to @indiacater @lizeboredom and everyone else who has read snippets and listened to me talk about this fic for ages!

••

CHAPTER ONE

1822.

— "I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown,

And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!" —

"My dear — a raw country girl, such as you be,

Cannot quite expect that. You ain't Ruined," said she. ~ The Ruined Maid, Thomas Hardy.

"Welcome back to Edgewater, sir and madam. How was the journey from London?" As Arthur Woods takes Briar's fine, fur lined cloak, she gazes about the great hall in wonder. "It looks much changed above stairs, does it not?" he whispers in a tone so low she must strain to hear it. Briar shoots a glance at Marlcaster, but he gives no indication he has heard them.

It does look different above stairs, and Briar drinks her fill. Despite her position, this is one of the few great houses she has been allowed access to. Most ladies will not allow her past the gate. But, then, most ladies are not her former best friend, risen so high above everyone else now that it does not matter what people whisper about her, The Bastard Duchess, The Natural Daughter, Locusta...

From the high vaulted ceilings of the rotunda, to every candle in the chandelier that sways, laden with wax; everywhere Briar turns there is some new marvel to gape at. Outside the fine, thin glass of the windowpane, she can see the groom leading their carriage away, and the rolling lawns that stretch nearly all the way to the low hills. She traces a finger along the wallpaper, gold vine and green leaves, with iridescent parrots peeking through -- and if Briar closes her eyes, she can imagine herself a bird of paradise in some deep jungle, a proper Cyprian, and not just...

There is a whistle on the air, the snippet of a song, and she strains to hear the music of it. It reminds her of something, a ballad she heard sung, long ago --

(Now if it’s a boy, he’ll fight for the King/And if it’s a girl she’ll wear a gold ring/She’ll wear a gold ring and a dress all aflame/And remember my service in Rosemary Lane.)

-- but Woods closes the window with an abrupt step forward, cutting the song off mid-note.

"Miss Daly?" Mr Woods clears his throat, holding out an arm for her cloak, and Briar steps back, feeling wounded and not quite knowing why.

Meanwhile, the ermine tails drip snow steadily onto the floor, leaving a puddle that would have made the old Briar twitch. She looks down at her hands, soft now, no longer used to honest toil, and gives a start as she feels Marlcaster's fingertips rest for a moment on her lower back, anchoring her to the present.

"Very good, Woods, thank you." But his voice is far away, distracted. She wonders if he is thinking that all this might have been his, after all, it belonged once to his half-brother. But Edmund Marlcaster no longer shares bedroom confidences with Briar Daly, no, if he shares pillow talk with anyone it is certainly not she. He has not touched me since... But she pushes the thought away.

"Oh, Mr Woods, you do not have to bow and scrape to me!" Briar claps her hands together, startling Woods. A deep, rosy blush stains his fair cheek, and she wonders if he still thinks of the girl that kissed him in London, the girl who would have thrown over a noble lover for him if he had but said the word. If... She throws a saucy wink at Marlcaster, hand on one hip, his eyes everywhere but upon her. "What do you think, sir?"

Her former patron straightens his cravat. "Quite so." A ghost of a smile quirks the side of his mouth, but it passes, and Briar thinks, for a long, stricken moment, that perhaps she has imagined it. "Is the company in the library?" At Woods' sudden step forward, Marlcaster holds up a hand. "No, no, I shall show myself upstairs."

"Edmund--" Briar plucks at his sleeve as he turns to mount the stairs, and the look on his face makes her stomach swoop in a dreadful manner. "Mr Marlcaster." She drops her eyes. We must use second names when we are in polite company, Miss Daly, how often must I remind you... "I should like to rest before dinner, of course."

"That is probably for the best." He chucks her under the chin, as though there still remains some affection between them, but the fire that once burned so bright between them is like the ash from the May Day fires, already strewn across a fallow field. "After all, you cannot present yourself to the Duchess with the stink of travel still upon you." Marlcaster seems to have no such scruples. He smells of horseflesh and leather and sweat, and yet he bounds up the first few steps like a young buck, as if he had not complained for half the journey that his old injury was bothering him.

"Mr Marlcaster, sir." Briar digs her nails into her palms, swallowing hard, and he turns around only long enough for her to see the irritation on his face. She knows it is a kind gesture, bringing her to this house party after they are already quit of each other, and yet she cannot help but feel a pang of sadness. "Give the duchess my love."

"Well, you shall see her yourself at dinner, you can give it to her then." Marlcaster shrugs, and then continues up the steps.

Briar wants to run after him, but she holds herself very still, willing her face to remain calm. It would not to do show emotion like one of the lower orders, she must remain perfectly poised, and appear to be a lady.

"Miss Daly?" Mr Woods' gentle tone of concern nearly undoes her on the spot, and when Briar looks up at him, she is sure he can see the wetness on her cheeks. Yet he says nothing, discretely passing her a handkerchief and allowing her to compose herself before he speaks again. "If you wish to rest before dinner, Her Grace has put you in the red room, I believe."

The red room. This is a dig at her reputation, she is sure of it. The old Rosamund was never one for subterfuge -- But as soon as she found out she was the daughter of an Earl, everything began to change…

When she looks back at him, her dark eyes are sparkling, unnaturally bright. "I must ask for a girl to attend me and do my hair before dinner. I should not like to look countryfied in front of the esteemed company tonight."

"Esteemed?" A rosy blush tints his fair cheeks. It seems she is still able to make his voice falter, after all this time, but the knowledge brings her no joy. "Yes. Esteemed." A gentle smile touches his lips. "The duchess pays me to be discreet, as you know, Miss Daly. I'll say no more on the matter. Very well, I shall send a girl, inasmuch as it matters."

"Arthur, wait." At her use of his given name, Woods turns on his heel in enquiry. "Do not." Look at me as if, as if... She hates the plaintive tone that has entered her voice, like a child.

"Do not what?" he looks down at her fingers on his sleeve, as though he will shake her off. But he knows. He must.

"Look at me with such... Never mind." There it is again. That softening in his eyes. As though the past six years have been swept away, and they are standing beside the side of the road in Grovershire again, a boy and a girl, smiling at one another. Before she ever tasted his lips. Before Mr Marlcaster ever took her maidenhead. Before... "I shall go downstairs with you, and conduct the interview myself."

“No, Briar.” The firm refusal wounds her to the quick. “You are…” his mouth works, keeping the words unspoken. “A--”

Strumpet. Trollop. Whore.. Rosamund had screamed it when she found out about Briar and Edmund, and then she had wept inconsolably, as though she were the one whose heart was breaking, as if she had gone to the marriage bed pure as snow.

“I know what I am, Mr Woods,” Briar says, a little stiffly. “But that does not mean I still do not need help with my hair and -- my woman’s things, Mr Woods.”

Woods tugs on his collar. His color is up again, and she marvels that he can yet be a bachelor, that no girl has snapped him up. He is quite the catch for any serving maid. The thought makes her drop her eyes. But he is not for you, Briar Daly. “I know that I am Ruined…” Briar brushes past Woods, and his fingers trail along her arm, one catching just at the spray of lace at her wrist, as though he would stop her. “But you must know I would never corrupt the household.”

As she passes, she thinks she hears him whisper, “It is too late,” -- but perhaps that is only the sound of her heart, knocking against her ribs like a wild bird in a cage.

•••

Long ago, she thought this world a wondrous thing. It was a world within a world: upstairs, lived Rosamund with her long-lost father, grandmother and step-family, and below stairs... The smell of rosemary and roast quail hits her first, and she freezes upon the stair. And I suppose you'll be her lady’s maid, come up from Grovershire? The housekeeper had inspected Briar from head to toe with a sniff. If it were a test, Briar knew she had been found wanting. Yes, I'm Lady Rosamund’s best friend. Shocked, she took a step back as the woman rubbed the material of her sleeve between her fingers and gave a sniff. Uppity little thing, aren't you? Well, we'll have none of that here, Miss. if you think you're too good for the lot of us downstairs... You'd better come along, then. Look sharp. I'm Mrs Fox, she'd thrown over her shoulder. And you're of a size with the cook's helper, you can borrow one of her dresses until we can have one made for you. The kitchen smelled of rosemary and roast venison, and Briar's stomach had growled. There, at the long counter, a skinny black haired girl with a streak of flour on her cheek laughed at something a footman said, flicking flour at him as she rolled out the pastry dough. As Briar stepped through the doorway to the kitchen with Mrs Fox, the girl looked up, and a hush fell over the kitchen.

"Briar Daly?"

Ava goes rigid, staring at Briar from across the room. Her hands are braced on the board, frozen in the act of rolling out pastry dough. All talk in the kitchen ceases as the servants turn to stare at Briar, who is frozen to the spot, suddenly feeling out of place in her fashionable gown.

Ava blows a wisp of dark hair from her face, and hands the roller to the girl next to her, a skinny little pullet of a thing with pale curls like winter sunlight. An eerie hush has fallen over the company, and their faces, once dear and familiar, are passing strange with the weight of the years. Briar cannot move.

This is Briar. She's come from Grovershire with Lady Rosamund, to be her lady’s maid. She’ll borrow your dress and apron. Show her where she’ll sleep, and you may have the afternoon, if Cook doesn't need you.

I'll need her in an hour, Mrs Fox. The cook had shaken her head with a smile, passing Briar a bread heel with drippings. When you come back, you can tell us all about Lady Rosamund!

Yes, ma’m. Ava looked Briar up and down, head cocked to one side like a cat. Come on, then.

After a long moment, Ava dusts her floury hands on her apron and nods to the kitchen maid, and conversation starts up again, but hushed, as the servants try to catch every snippet of her words.

"You shouldn't be here, Briar -- Miss Daly." Ava crosses her arms. Though never a big woman, the skin and bones orphan from the poorhouse has grown into a woman with green, snapping eyes, dark hair framing her face from under a starched mobcap. "And it's Mrs Walker, now."

Briar swallows. She had feared disdain, but her former friend's pity is worse. "So you married him, then? Your blacksmith?"

Ava's expression softens. "Drake? Aye, and we've a snug cottage, and a wee bairn, haven't we now, Mr Woods?"

Briar has not seen Woods come up behind her, and she jumps a little in surprise.

"Aye, Cook, and a right little terror she is, too! Miss ’Melia is the spitting image of her mama," Arthur turns to Briar with a smile, "and never fails to get her way in the kitchens."

"Oh... You have a child, Ava -- Cook?" The words are like broken glass in her mouth, and Briar can feel her heart twist painfully over. If the baby had lived... If I, if he... But she cannot think of the dank shadows of Red Moon Lane without her guts in a tangle.

Ava and Woods share a look. "Briar, what are you doing down here?" Ava's tone says quite plainly what she thinks, and she pulls on Briar's arm, yanking her into the larder, hung with a brace of pheasants and a haunch of venison that gives off a wild, gamy smell. "What is this really about?"

As Briar looks at her former friend, she feels the gulf open and yawn between them, as though they are standing on either side of the fens, calling out to one another in the shifting mists. She does not belong here, that is plain. This is no longer my world. "I would like to hire one of the girls to be my maid for the next few days." Briar twists her plait in her hands. The truth is, she needs to look the part, if she wants to catch the eye.

A new patron.

The thought makes it hard to breathe for a moment, and she wonders what happened to that bold, saucy girl, back in Grovershire, all those years ago.

She grew up.

•••

"Lady Rosamund." Edmund Marlcaster sweeps a bow before her, and the lady sets down her book. She is all rose and gold and lace, the very picture of an English lady (though no well bred English miss ever had such bold eyes, or such an impudent manner). Marlcaster cannot hide the smile that breaks out upon his face when he sees the gold leaf title on the little red spine. Moll Flanders. "By God, I hope you never change."

Rosamund sticks out her tongue, laying a ribbon between the pages and setting her tiny feet on the floor with a great yawn. "Hello to you too, Ned. How was the road?" Rosamund stands to press her lips against his cheek, she smells of violet water and snow, and he wonders, if he tasted her, if she would melt into him like a snowflake, leaving the pattern of her heart stamped upon his, where no one else can see.

"Rosamund." Marlcaster picks up her hand, his lips ghosting across her inner wrist, his eyes never leaving hers. "You have never looked so fine."

"Flatterer." Rosamund taps him on the chest with her fan. "But I agree, to speak of the weather is so dratted dull. I do hope all of the guests make it." She takes a step back, turning her face to the window as she stares out at the swirling flakes.

I do not. The thought gives him pause. "I saw the Prince in Town, he was looking quite well."

Rosamund smirks. "Oh? I suppose he may very well be. I had a letter from him just last week, delivered by Mr Konevi. He speaks of nothing but the pretty little birds he has seen on his travels, and the way the light looks in the high mountains, beyond the citadel." She sighs, resting her chin for a moment on her fist, and then turns back to him, an impish smile playing on her full lips. "Come and warm your feet by the fire, then, and tell me the news of Town."

Rosamund lays a hand on his arm, and he can feel her touch burning him as though they are flesh to flesh, through all the layers of cotton and twill. She gives him a little tug and he feels his boots moving as he trails after her, his body going where she wants it to go, just as his body did her bidding all those years ago, before she ever wed the Duke, before he ever knew she could undo him with just one look, the embers smoldering in those dark, fine eyes.

"I hope you did not start the party without me." Hamid sweeps into the room without so much as a by-your-leave, and Marlcaster feels a spurt of irrational anger, Rosamund's attention already diverted from him.

"Your Highness!" With a cry of delight, Rosamund allows herself to be pulled into the prince's embrace, and the two make air kisses at one another's cheeks, causing a burning chain to wrap around Marlcaster's innards. "Well met!"

"How was the journey? Did you see any more beautiful birds on your travels?" Rosamund gasps in delight as the prince pulls two shimmering feathers from his cloak, and drops to one knee, presenting them with a theatrical flourish. "My word! Oh, Ned, have you ever seen aught so lovely?"

Marlcaster is prevented from answering by the Prince's deep rumble of amusement, and the rope tightens around his neck, threatening to choke him. He can feel heat racing through his veins, and he busies himself with pouring the wine for the assembled company, Mr Woods appearing with a tray and a look of sympathy.

"None so lovely as you, your grace. Is she not the loveliest songbird you have ever seen, Mr Marlcaster?"

Hamid's booming laugh causes Marlcaster's hand to tighten on the wine glass stem for a moment, and he breathes deeply through his nose, sweet woodruff and wild strawberries. The scent of summer. Unbidden, an image springs to his mind, of chasing a forest lass through a dappled greenwood (far before she was ever called Lady), flowers in her hair, drunk on honey mead and moonlight.

"The loveliest," Edmund manages, turning with a careful smile, trying hard not to focus on the rise of her breasts or the gold flecks in her eyes; especially not when she brushes against him, golden hair falling in her face as she holds the feathers up to the pale light, turning them this way and that.

"I shall wear them tonight, at dinner." Rosamund is still absorbed in the iridescent play of colors, and completely misses the look the men share over her head. "Mrs Sinclaire will be beside herself over these. What bird did you say they came from?"

Hamid steps in smoothly, his hand touching Rosamund's shoulder, lingering as he bends his head to hers. "The ibis, Lady Rosamund. It is a sacred bird. The Ancient Egyptians believed that the ibis represented the god of wisdom, Djehuty, who composed every branch of... knowledge." Hamid's hand moves down, to rest just at the curve of her waist.

Rosamund lets out a little breath, eyes widening as she stares up at Hamid. "Oh!" Her cheeks go quite pink, and Marlcaster's composure slips. The glass breaks in his hand, spilling wine all over his riding jacket. "Ned! Oh dear!" A beat, and then Rosamund is at his side. "I shall ring for a servant, wait --"

"No, I am quite all right." Despite himself, Marlcaster feels a rich sense of satisfaction as all her attention is on him, blotting ineffectually at the wine stain spreading over his shirt. "Lady Rosamund, it is nothing to concern yourself with." He lays a finger under her chin, raising it up, and the flash in her dark eyes makes his head swim. "I will bear it until the time comes to dress for dinner."

"Oh, but your poor hand!" She wraps the handkerchief around his hand, pressing her lips together disapprovingly, and knots it. "There. It will suffice, you damnably stubborn man."

Not without a kiss. But he does not say it. After all, they are not alone, and he would not go so far without a sign from her. Yet, she is still staring up at him, waiting for something.

Hamid claps a hand on his shoulder. "Just a scratch, eh, Marlcaster? We men are hardier creatures than fragile womenfolk, Lady Rosamund. But if you feel faint, Mr Marlcaster, perhaps you should have a lie down, and no one here would fault you."

Marlcaster presses his lips together. "It is nothing." Yet it stings, the same way his heart stung that morning in the church, when she wed the Duke and he watched his mother lead her to the bridal chamber, a veil covering her face, pale and resolute as Death.

"...In fact," Hamid continues, a smile on his face that does not quite reach his eyes, "I shall be having a lie-down before dinner as well. Lady Rosamund?"

The lady in question bites her bottom lip, worrying it between her teeth. "Yes, full dinner dress tonight, at nine on the gong."

"I shall await your pleasure, your grace." Hamid bends over her hand, turning it over and pressing a kiss upon her palm, and she looks at Marlcaster from under her lashes, as though in challenge.

When Hamid has gone, Marlcaster nods, turning to leave. "Your grace."

"What, no courtly gesture?" she teases him gently. Her tongue darts out, wetting her lower lip, and he lifts her hand to his mouth, brushing his lips over her knuckles. Her eyes go wide, pupils expanding, and she steps forward. He leans in, lips a mere hairsbreadth away from hers. "Ned." Rosamund fists her hands in his shirt, closing the distance between their bodies. "I have missed you." She looks up at him from under her lashes, and he knows in an instant that he is going to take her on the floor, right here, right now.

He brushes his thumb over her bottom lip, leaning down. "My Rose-of-the-World." Their lips are nearly touching, and when he breathes in her breath, it makes him feel drunk with desire for the woman in front of him, who he once tumbled in the greenwood, before either of them ever knew the price they would pay for youth's passion.

"Marlcaster! A word?" Hamid pokes his head back through the door, and Marlcaster sees Briar standing there beside the prince, and feels the temperature in the room drop by at least twenty degrees, his ardor cooling.

What else can he do, but make a leg? "Adieu, Rosamund."

Rosamund lifts his hand, and presses a kiss upon the bandage, the white cotton dark with his blood, as though it is the damned spot that will never come out. "Until tonight, Ned."

Somehow, from Rosamund's lips, it sounds like a vow.

••• 

tag list: @breaumonts @hopefulmoonobject @choicesarehard @choiceswreckedme @lizeboredom @walkerismychoice @debramcg1106 @ritachacha @gardeningourmet @tmarie82 @enmchoices @darley1101 @blackcatkita @littlecrookedheart @mrswalkers-blog @drakewalkerfantasy @eileendannie @khakie4 @regina-and-happiness @wughhumans @mfackenthal @choiceslife @princess-geek @sawyeroakleyscowboyhat @cora-nova @aspensorcery @naughtydevils @bhavf @indiacater

[elizabethospeaks]

Heart of a Dog - Part 1

My writing skills are severely dusty atm so I’m warming up with a short story about Elizabeth and the Ard Skellig barghest which I drew a few days ago. Pardon my writing cobwebs whilst I get back into the swing of it! <3

“What's your interest in the beast then?” The townswoman gave a phlegmy sniff, wiping her nose on the back of her hand and regarding the outlander before her with barely veiled suspicion.

Elizabeth bore the cool interest with dignity, not allowing her genteel smile to slip even as she watched the placement of the silvery trail from the woman's nose. “It's...academic.” The woman eyed Elizabeth again; her eyes clearly falling to the worn velvet of her waistcoat, the mud splattered up her boots and the back of her skirts. “You don't look like an academic to me. And you don't look like a Witcher either. You look more like you slept under a bridge last night.”

The carefully crafted smile still didn't slip; if anything, it brightened. A hand fluttered up to extract a twig from her tangle of black hair. “I take a very active interest in my work; I'm hands on. And besides that, I am certain we share a common goal. If the beast troubles you good folk; then I shall endeavour to unburden you of it, should it be within my capabilities.”

The islander's expression clearly betrayed her severe lack of faith in her capabilities. But she seemed to struggle internally for but a few moments before she reluctantly coaxed herself to continue.

“If truth be told; The beast doesn't trouble us all too much in the way you might think. Its not hurt a soul.”

Elizabeth felt a jolt clench her heart like a fist for a brief moment, a flutter of excitement. “It doesn't attack?” “No.” “Then why liberate yourself of its presence if it means no harm?” The islander looked vastly uncomfortable. “'Tis an ill omen. Surely even a mainlander should see that. It might no have set tooth and claw to anyone; that doesn't mean it means us no harm. And it's disrupting trade routes – it haunts the main road through. Makes folk uncomfortable to make the trip.” Elizabeth's brow furrowed gently by way of agreement. “Yes. Yes, of course; A phantom hound appearing is a cause for concern...most of the time.”

But her mind was racing and barely keeping track of the conversation. This was even more exciting than she could have anticipated. A benign barghest? Surely not. She had to be missing something vital. Just like she was missing this vital conversation. The islander was looking at her with incredulity. “Yes. Well.” She cleared her throat, removing a crumpled notebook from the pouch hanging from her belt and producing a piece of charcoal from behind her ear, “Where does the apparition typically appear?” She looked at her informer with eager expectancy. The vampire had the distinct feeling that the islander thought so little of her competence she was weighing up the morality of sending her back out of the village alone. It was like water off a duck's back; she was quite used to dim opinions of her from the hardy Skelligans. She was quite happy to let the views stand, if not even directly perpetuate them; let them think she was harmless. Being publicly de-fanged worked in her favour.

“Copse of trees south-east of here. Road goes right through it. Can't miss it.”

The copse as it had been described far surpassed such a quaint description. The woodland was a tangled mass of twisted boles, spiralled branches stretching through the spaces between like shirt sleeves being wrung out by a laundry maid. The shapes were beautiful enough that Elizabeth felt the compulsion to reach out and trace her fingertips over the tormented bark as she passed by. But still. There was something unsettling about the contorted trunks; she eyed hollowed out holes burrowing deep into the hearts of the trees as she passed. It bordered on something unnatural.

She felt the hairs on her arms rise as she passed beneath the heavy canopy rustling benignly above. But the wind that raced so unforgivably over the moorlands past the treeline didn't seem to disturb the sanctum of the trees. The birds did not sing. And within the soil beneath her feet Elizabeth felt a familiar weight – this place had seen tragedy and remembered it still. The memories of whatever had transpired here had left their mark, like a smudge of graphite left on parchment long after the words had been erased.

She glanced upwards at what little patches of grey sky she could see through the leaves. She had some time before nightfall – no self respecting phantom would appear until dusk at the earliest. Finding an opportune spot behind a particularly large tree she settled down between its exposed roots, removed her sketchpad and began scribbling away as she waited for nightfall.

Darkness fell on the isle as soft as gossamer, the last fingers of light from the dying sun fading and releasing their grasp on the sky with grace and dignity. Elizabeth barely noticed with her attention entirely on the pages of parchment in front of her as she documented her surroundings, trying to articulate the heaviness of the woodland she had secreted herself within. It was a morose howl rising in the distance that roused her, prompting her to snap her sketchpad closed sharply. Here the birds had not even sung to put the sun to bed; something was very definitely amiss and she needed to keep her wits about her.

She got to her feet, brushing curls of moss from her skirts and peered around the edge of the tree. The road onward stretched into the creeping dark over the gentle rises and pits of the ground in slow coils like a snake through the grass. Entirely unoccupied and very ordinary. She puffed out her cheeks and exhaled. In these situations patience wasn't her strong suit; her gut told her that tonight had momentous potential and she was eager for the fireworks to start.

The moments passed tortuously. Sea fret rolled in from the nearby coast line, cold and humid as it seeped through the cracks and crevices of the forest undergrowth. The wolves had stopped singing. An owl hooted gloomily above but the vampire didn't react, keeping her eyes fixed on the road with baited breath. Perhaps the islander had thought so little of her that she'd sent her to the wrong place, the oppressive atmosphere around this place just a figment of her own imagination. Just as she started to kick at a tree root and mutter mutinously, a subtle shift in the light caught her attention so suddenly she almost gave herself whiplash.

It followed the path with something a little less than purpose. Rather, the beast headed towards her with what could only be described as a dogged insistence. Its footfalls were slow and heavy and yet it made no sound, trailing over the earth as insubstantial as smoke and emitting its own green luminescence as soft as a firefly. Elizabeth scarcely dared to breathe as she watched its progress, her sharp nails piercing her gloves as she gripped onto the tree tightly. It was alone. But barghests were pack hunters; eyeless and savage, rippling masses of muscle and toxic salivating jaws. This creature bore so little resemblance to one that she found herself enraptured. It was...beautiful, really. A willowy hound with long and lithe limbs moving with a graceful gait no common dog would bother to maintain. Set into its dignified head were eyes burning white hot as coals in the heart of a fire.

Elizabeth knew that in this line of investigation an attunement to her own emotions was paramount. And as she watched the ghostly hound progress through the corridor of trees she felt her chest sink with a great and unfathomable sadness. She could see it in the hunch of the creatures shoulders, how its elegant head hung low in a set unbecoming of its carriage. This was no portent of ill will; though it seemed to know the way, in some capacity this creature was lost.

It stopped in its tracks slowly and raised its head, turning those burning white eyes directly towards her. But nothing in her quailed and she did not flinch. As its soft green glow fell across her skin she felt her consciousness strain towards it, desperate to offer alms.

“Let me help you.” She implored softly as she met its gaze.

It continued to gaze dolefully back at her, its silken ears stirring gently in a wind that seemed to blow in a place other than where they both stood. Then silently turned away, picking its way down an overgrown fox track into the undergrowth.

Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder but did not consider for long. She adjusted her bag on her shoulder and stepped out into the road, tracking the eerie green glow further into the heart of the woods.

[juniperpublishers-agriculture]

Browntop Millet- A Review- Juniper Publishers

Browntop millet (Brachiaria ramosa (L.) Stapf; Panicum ramosum L.) is an introduced annual grass that originated in South-East Asia. It is grown in Africa, Arabia, China and Australia [1]. It was introduced to the United States from India in 1915 [2]. In the US, it is mainly grown in the South-East for hay, pasture and game bird feed. The browntop millet, called korale in Kannada, is specially grown in rainfed tracts of Tumakuru, Chitradurga and Chikkaballapura districts of Karnataka state. The crop is popular in this region in terms of cultivation and consumption. This millet seed is grown in a variety of soils and climates. Like other millets, it is a hardy crop and well suited for dry land.

Description

Browntop millet is an annual warm-season species that grows 1 to 3 ft tall. The smooth stems have pubescent nodes and may stand erect or ascend from a decumbent base. The leaves are 2.2 to 18cm long and 6-18mm wide; both surfaces are smooth. The inflorescence is indeterminate, open, spreading with simple axis and stalked flowers. It has 3-15 inflorescences and white flowers. Seeds are ellipsoid and tan in colour; they mature in approximately 60 days [3].

Uses

Forage/grain: Compared to other warm season forage grasses, browntop millet is relatively low yielding. Its strength is that it is a rapidly maturing grass, often used as a catch crop, cover crop or nurse crop [4]. Browntop millet can accumulate toxic/lethal levels of nitrate and should not be fed to livestock if the plant has been stressed by droughty or cold conditions. There is evidence of the cultivation of browntop millet as a subsistence crop in Neolithic India and it continues to be used as a grain and forage crop in India today [5]. Grains from taller nonshattering varieties are used as a boiled whole grain, porridge or unleavened bread [6].

a. Cover crop: Browntop millet is used to suppress root- knot nematode populations in tomato and pepper crops in the South-East [7]. It is grown as a fast-growing catch crop between commodity crops and is not known to be allelopathic.

b. Critical area planting: Browntop millet is used as a fast growing cover for erosion control. It is used as a nurse crop in the South-East until a perennial grass cover is established. It also has the ability to accumulate significant amounts of lead and zinc in shoot and root tissues making it an important plant for remediation of contaminated soils [8].

c. Wild life: Browntop millet produces large quantities of seeds. These millet seeds are used in food plots for game birds that are highly attracted to the nutritious seed. Browntop millet is one of the few types of millet that can be planted and flooded for ducks or planted in dry areas for deer, quail, dove, turkey and other wild life.

Cultivation

Planting time: Browntop millet can be planted from mid- April until mid August in most locations, though later plantings will result in lower yields.

Seed rate and planting: The seed rate for browntop millet will depend upon both the target species (birds & wild life) and the seedling method. Birds food plots are generally seeded at the rate of approximately 4-5kg per acre when planted in rows and 11-12kg per acre when broadcast. Seed should be covered to a depth of half inches in a firm seed bed [9]. Browntop millet can be used in combination with a variety of agricultural crops or other species planted for wild life. The species commonly planted intercropping with browntop are sunflowers, corn, sorghum, soybean, and peas. This method is ideally suited to larger fields, in which the millet is planted in alternating strips with other crops.

In Karnataka state, farmers popularly/locally called browntop millet as branched or chaduru korale and Round panicle/Dundu korale. Normally branched one has low pests and diseases, where as round panicle browntop millet give higher yields. They use the traditional drillers for sowing the seeds one inch below the top soil. This method is recommended for a better yield. Five kg seeds are required per acre. Seeds get germinate by the fifth day of sowing. Farmers get seven to eight quintal grains per acre and four tractor loads of good quality fodder. They consume grains by making roti or as rice. The crop matures within 60-70 days. The shelf life of seed is about five to six years, while the shelf life of browntop rice is only about 25 to 30 days [10].

Fertilizer

Fertilization with phosphorous and nitrogen can help increase forage productivity; rate of application should be determined by the results of soil tests and /or country recommendations.

Weed management: To control weeds, it is best to plant in a well-tillaged field, weed-free bed with narrow row spacing. Chemical weed control options are limited. It does not regrow well after cutting, so it is a one-cut crop.

Seed processing: The cultivation of browntop is simple but processing is difficult due to the hard outer cover of the seed. As a result, farmers get only 40-50kg of rice from one quintal of browntop/korale seeds. Earlier grinding stones were used to separate the grain from the seed. Today, grinding stones have almost disappeared and korale seeds are processed in the flour mills that process finger millet [10]. The size of korale rice is also very small and separation of stones is difficult. Hence, processing has become a bottleneck for farmers, and efforts are on to design improved processing machines.

To know more about Journal of Agriculture Research- https://juniperpublishers.com/artoaj/index.php

To know more about open access journal publishers click on Juniper publishers  

[the-forest-whispers-my-name]

This plant was also found back on 10/23 on the Somerville Community Path. It is a fairly weathered Helianthus angustifolius, or Swamp Sunflower. I was originally drawn to the perennial plant by how disheveled it looked, but quickly realized and recalled the appearance of the same plant when in bloom a few months ago. In its current form, the long, drooping leaves remain interesting as does the bright red stem. The plant is native to swampy parts of North America outside of Massachusetts.

The Swamp Sunflower can grow from USDA hardiness zones ranging from 5 to 9. It does well in full sun or partial shade. Preferred soil includes clay, loam, or sand with acidic properties. Soil conditions should also have good drainage, be moist, or occasionally wet. 

It is sought after for its colorful and attractive flowers. In nature, it attracts pollinators and can serve as a wildlife food source. Songbirds, ruffled grouse, quail, morning doves, and small mammals eat the seeds of this plant.

Information source: https://plants.ces.ncsu.edu/plants/helianthus-angustifolius/

Found in Somerville MA

ID with smartphone app

[forthedingoes]

A Dingoes Dinner

In the wild, healthy dingoes eat mammals (72%) like possums, bandicoots, rabbits, kangaroos, wallabies; birds (19%) like scrub turkeys, native doves, quails and waterhens; reptiles (2%) like goannas, water dragons and skinks; and 3% other matter, eg. insects, fish, or eggs. ***Jackson, S. (2007). Australian Mammals Biology and captive Management (CSIRO Publishing eBooks). Collingwood : Herndon: CSIRO Publishing Stylus Publishing, LLC [Distributor]. When feeding dingoes in captivity, it is important to replicate a diet they have evolved to eat. They are wonderfully hardy animals in most respects, they aren’t prone to genetic disease or health problems with the exception of digestive upset and pancreatitis.

One of the traits which differentiates dingoes as a unique species apart from dogs is their physical inability to digest starches. With the exception to huskies, all dog breeds have this amylase gene (AMY2B), including pariah dogs of which dingoes were previously thought to be descended from. This inability to process starches and vegetable matter, plus dingoes limited range of native prey being exceptionally low in fat, is why they do not thrive on food intended for dogs. Puppies can tolerate higher amounts of fat than mature animals, but most pancreatic issues go unnoticed until they are chronic in adult dingoes consistently fed dog food or meats with fat content. When taking behavioural considerations to feeding patterns, it should be noted that dingoes will eat considerably more or whatever is in front of them when around other dingoes or dogs, purely out of resource guarding anxiety. They will eat some foods which are bad for them if they are desperate, and most female dingoes will experience a spike in their appetite at whelping season (winter), even if they are desexed. That said, Aura would chew her own leg off before she ate lamb.

(these dingo pups are eating beef and pig fat, boiled rice and pasta and vegetables out of starvation and neglect)

Another aspect to maintaining a healthy dingoes diet is the people living with them and their influence. People can have inaccurate perceptions of what a ‘healthy’ dingo looks like. Dingoes (from 4 months+) are like greyhounds - they are very lean and muscular, but no fat build up anywhere, but especially not over the ribs or chest.  

(Aura at 4 months) People may think they are skinny and feed them inappropriate food to 'help’.. I had a housemate feed Aura pigs ears and she was very sick for over a month, and her weight plummeted worse than ever. Other housemates have been careless with letting food drop on the floor, or left her alone with junk food at eye level. Even though Aura is unlikely to steal food, you shouldn’t tempt fate. There have been times of acute, prolonged stress when Aura has dramatically lost condition despite appropriate feeding, only to gain it right back when we’ve left the toxic environment. 

I order kangaroo meat (10 kg), roo organs (2 kg), and chicken necks (2 kg) online. The meat is far fresher, more economical and intended for Prey Model Raw feeding (which is the method I use to make up the meals). I also buy a whole chicken, chicken hearts and liver, beef heart and tongue from the shops. We also get the odd (whole) rabbit, some deer meat or emu heart. I used to feed green tripe for the good bacteria to aid digestion and immune system, but it’s recently been banned… very annoying. So now I use some powdered probiotics (or coconut yoghurt) and an egg mixed in with the roo mince (one per week).

Aura is 16 kg, which is a good weight, so her food is calculated at 2.5% of that. Each meal is 400 g, made up of 80% meat (320 g), 10% digestible bone (0.40 g), 5% liver (0.20 g) and 5% other organs (0.20 g). Each week, she is given a total of 2.8 kg, though dingoes eat less than dogs and will likely have a fast day or two (if she chooses). The whole chicken is skinned and divided into quarters, and the rest of the meals are made of roo mince, chicken hearts and liver, with big ole chunks of meat, with two chicken necks.

The kangaroo organ meat is cleaned/ drained and I dehydrate the pieces on low heat as training treats, and the liquid is added to one of the meals per week. All the meals are frozen, and fed frozen because Aura much prefers them that way, and it’s even better for dental health to work a bit harder to chew. Dingoes are nocturnal, so I feed Aura at night, after her energy has peaked at dusk and she’s had a good run around. 

[jack-beresford]

Honey Locust; Thorny Locust (Gleditsia triacanthos)

Mature Size - (60-80′ x 60-80′) Occasionally can grow over 120′ tall.

Shape and Form - A medium to large tree with a rounded, spreading crown.

Growth Habit - Fast growth rate.

Leaves - Bipinnately compound leaves typically have many small leaflets. Leaves are 6" to 8" long, bright green and glossy. Late to leaf out in spring. Autumn foliage is a showy, clear yellow. 

Flowers - Inconspicuous, greenish yellow to greenish white flowers appear in racemes in late spring (May-June in St. Louis). 

Fruit/Seeds - Flowers are followed by long, twisted and flattened, dark purplish-brown seedpods (to 18” long) which mature in late summer and persist well into winter. Seedpods contain, in addition to seeds, a sweet gummy substance that gives honey locust its common name. 

Bark - Trunk and branches have stout thorns (to 3” long) that are solitary or three-branched. Dark gray-brown colored bark develops elongated, smooth, plate-like patches separated by furrows. Very attractive and distinct.

Region - USA native. Native from Pennsylvania to Iowa south to Georgia and Texas. Naturalized in other areas within its hardiness range, such as New England.

Hardiness Zones - (3-8)

Habitat/Growing Conditions - Honey Locust is adapted to a variety of soils and climates.  It is common in both bottomlands and uplands, in the open or in open woods. Honeylocust occurs on well-drained sites, upland woodlands and borders, old fields, fencerows, river floodplains, hammocks, rich, moist bottomlands, and rocky hillsides.  It is most commonly found on moist, fertile soils near streams and lakes. Best grown in organically rich, moist, well-drained soils in full sun. Tolerant of a wide range of soils. Also tolerant of wind, high summer heat, drought and saline conditions. Highly tolerant of flooding. Very adaptable.

Plant Community - Spontaneous Urban Growth

Eco-indicator - NA

Other info - See Moraine Honey Locust (Gleditsia triacanthos ‘Moraine’)

The ability of Gleditsia to fix nitrogen is disputed.

Gleditsia triacanthos has been introduced worldwide, and has naturalized in some places to the point of being a harmful invasive. It should also be noted that over-planting of this plant in some urban areas has lead to increases in local pest populations, thus increasing the plants’ susceptibility to pests and disease.

Relatively short-live plant, averages around 100-150 years.

Honey Locust has successfully been used as a wind buffer. 

Honey Locust wood is dense, hard, coarse-grained, strong, stiff, shock-resistant, takes a high polish, and is durable in contact with soil. The wood is used locally for posts, pallets, crates, general construction, furniture, interior finish, turnery, and firewood.  It is useful, but is too scarce to be of economic importance.

Pods are eaten by cattle, goats, white-tailed deer, Virginia opossum, eastern gray squirrel, fox squirrel, rabbits, quail (including northern bobwhite), crows, and starling. White-tailed deer frequently strip and eat the soft bark of young trees in winter; rabbits also consume bark in winter. Livestock and white-tailed deer consume young vegetative growth. Honey Locust is a source of pollen and nectar for honey. 

Honey Locust, along with other species, can be planted for mast production on the margins of plots cleared and revegetated for wildlife. Honey Locust is planted into currently operating pastures and hayfields to provide high-protein mast for livestock (a management system termed browse agroforestry).  Cattle do not digest the seeds and thus do not derive full nutritional benefit from consuming whole pods, but ground pods do provide a high-protein feed for cattle. Sheep do digest the seeds, and therefore obtain more of the available protein when consuming whole pods.  The open canopy of the tree allows good growth of pasture grasses.

Current Nursery Status and Availability - Species plants are generally not sold in commerce today because the thorns and seedpods are considered to be significant liabilities. Instead, cultivars under the catchall Gleditsia triacanthos var. inermis are sold, which feature far fewer or no thorn and/or seedpods. Dirr lists several cultivars of this species in his 6th edition woody plants manual, some of which are listed below.

'Christie' (aka 'Halka’) - This sturdy-trunked form is known for its round-headed crown with less drooping branches. It will reach 40' tall and wide and rarely fruits.

'Impcole' (’Imperial’) - Unusual for its relatively dwarf mature size, this 35' tall tree has a compact spreading habit. It produces few pods and has very fine-textured foliage that turns yellow in fall.

'Moraine' - This selection was the earliest thornless form to be patented (in 1949) and widely introduced on the market. It is fruitless and forms a wide, spreading tree 40' tall and wider. Good pest resistance and yellow fall color ensure this plant's continued popularity.

'Shademaster' - This form is popular for its upright, symmetrical growth habit to 40' tall. It produces some pods and has good, deep green foliage. It also reportedly has very good drought tolerance.

'Skycole' (aka ‘Skyline') - A cold-hardy form with yellow fall color and few fruits, this selection is most notable for its unusual upright growth habit. It forms a broadly pyramidal tree 40' tall and wide. It makes a good street tree and is widely regarded as one of the finest forms available.

'Speczam' (aka ‘Spectrum') - Early spring bright yellow foliage is the main feature of this new form, which purportedly holds its golden hue later into the season than other gold-foliaged forms. The habit is rounded and 35' tall and wide.

'Suncole' (aka ‘Sunburst') - This a very popular tree noted for the new foliage, which emerges with a bright gold hue before fading to green. The plant reaches 35' tall and has an irregular habit with non-symmetrical branching. It is fruitless but supposedly susceptible to a canker disease. Susceptible to a number of insect pests.

http://www.missouribotanicalgarden.org/PlantFinder/PlantFinderDetails.aspx?kempercode=a871

https://www.fs.fed.us/database/feis/plants/tree/gletri/all.html

http://www.hort.uconn.edu/plants/detail.php?pid=194

https://plants.usda.gov/core/profile?symbol=GLTR

Dirr - “Manual of Woody Landscape Plants”

Wessels - “Reading the Forested Landscape”

[fakharshah786]

Diet, to each their own poultryA good poultry at Christmas is the pledge of a successful New Year's Eve. With a delicious turkey, capon or well-cooked guinea fowl, the pleasure of our taste buds remains healthy.      Eating poultry during the holiday season is a well-established tradition: coming from America, turkey, both generous and economical, gradually replaced goose and chicken on New Year's Eve from the 18th century. Poultry have very different characteristics and tastes. Our tips for finding the right one for you.• It is not fatty and rich in vitamin BPoultry appeals to nutritionists, a healthier alternative to meat and cold meats, points out the National Public Health Agency. Just as high in protein, it contains less saturated fat, which increases LDL cholesterol and can block arteries.It also provides less iron which, while it is essential for preventing anemia, should not be consumed in excess because it promotes oxidation phenomena (and therefore the aging of the body). Finally, poultry is a good source of zinc, essential for the immune system, antioxidant selenium and vitamins B12, B6 and B3, which are essential for the proper functioning of neurons.Good to know in case of excess weight or blood cholesterol: the leanest are turkey and guinea fowl (5% fat), three times less fat than goose, duck and capon. Eating them without the skin and cooking them without fat helps to lighten them considerably: in a crust of coarse salt, in a stew-like broth or in the oven covered with baking paper to keep them soft.• How many would you be at the table?The choice of a poultry depends first of all on the number of guests. Some are not on the shelves until the end of the year, especially bred for large tables.Between eight and ten people, prefer poultry that weigh up to 3.5kg: capon, renowned for its fine flesh, goose, soft and with a distinctive flavor, or turkey, dense and with a more neutral taste, suitable if there are young children at the table.For up to six or eight guests, the guinea fowl capon and can (

http://goodhealthtipsideas.blogspot.com/2020/09/diet-to-each-their-own-poultry.html