#scotland is a wild and cold place but i like it here

[galacticjonah]

Welcome, 2024.

Last year I moved to another country, to the coast. Where I live now, there are rainbow clouds on the sky sometimes. The world still has wonder in it.

To a better, kinder, more peaceful, more just year.

[greenerteacups]

Well on the GOT theme now that we're here... you've written before about how the Black family fascinates you. Are there families or houses in the GOT universe that pique your interest and curiosity in that way? What are your head canons about them?

NOW THAT WE'RE HERE... such a tasty question. The for real answer is that I am Starkpilled forever. Ned Stark worst politician of all time they could never make me hate you. Rob Stark you hot dumb bonnie prince charlie clone they could never make me hate you. Catelyn Stark you gorgeous vengeful bitch they could NEVER make me hate you. Jon Arya Sansa Bran and their feral kindergartener baby brother. Theon Greyjoy somehow serving levels of stepbrother never seen before in a family with a literal bastard stepbrother in it. A boring Stark? Never heard of one. All of them are insane deranged crazy intense weirdos who believe that They are the only Normal One in this crazy-ass family. And they all are kind of right but mostly wrong! The Targaryens are the sexy dragonrider house with a million cool names and dynastic squabbles and that would usually be my jam but. BUT. God damn do I love fucking weirdos. God damn do I love some brunette bitches in fur capes.

The more serious answer is that I think the Starks are one of the best families because not only are all of their characters individually developed and rich, but their family as such also has a really clear identity, which in turn informs how each of the members sees themselves. The Starks are often hinted to have a similar magic/spiritual connection to the earth that the Targaryens do, but because it's not as flashy, they aren't recognized as such by anyone. The children's pseudo-psychic bonds with their direwolves are the first kind of creature "magic" that we see in the story, long before Daenerys's dragons or any dragons are introduced, and I think the parallel is intentional. They're one of the oldest dynasties in Westeros. They're far older than any of the Valyrian houses; they've held Winterfell for so long that living memory doesn't even account for the full history of the castle. They built the Wall! They're a family of greenseers and wargs, children with mystical powers of sight and perception! And they're tied into the history of the land. They're mystical and ancient and old and powerful, and their stories all take the shape of myths. Which is such a fucking cool idea for a curse, right? Because like, what if your family curse was that you were destined to be the heroes of the story, every time? No matter what it cost you, what it did to you, what it asked of you? When the world calls, it's you, Stark, against the slings and arrows of fate. And it bequeaths to you the magic gifts that you need to perform that duty, because it is your possession of those gifts that make you the only ones who can. What kind of a tragedy would that be?

The serious and non-textual answer is that the North is to some extent modeled off the Highland clans — that is, a bunch of really proud, distinguished houses that all predate the unification of empire and maintain their distinct identities subsequent to that unification, and live in an ice-cold highland climate with mountains and rivers and lots of mythology and folklore about magical creatures and ghosts that is basically like the highlands and like okay the North is Scotland, okay, if you've never been to Scotland you just need to trust me on this but it's Scotland, it's fantasy Scotland. Which rules. Because Scotland is fucking awesome, firstly. And secondly, I love that Scottish house is the one house that keeps its shit together and hangs on for hundreds of years while all the bitches down south try to kill each other every 50. I love that the North is its own place, and it's still a little wild and mystical and it scares off everyone who's not from it, but the Stark children all know it and love it and so to them that wilderness feels like coming home. That's my pitch for House Stark.

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

Bereavement (Simon "Ghost" Riley)

[MY MASTERLIST]

Rating: M Words: 800-ish words CW: SPOILERS FOR MW3, grief, mentions of death, stealing from the dead Tags: SPOILERS FOR MW3, Ghostxf!OC (but not in this part), Soap MacTavish's family (mentioned), grief, mentions of death, stealing from the dead Summary: Ghost is going to visit Soap's resting place. He has a lot of feelings. a/n: This is part of my fic, but I had so many feelings while writing this that I wanted to share it as a 'standalone'-ish. Also it made me cry. Also I write a lot of angsty grief.

December 20th, 2023.

Loch Torridon, Scotland

57°35'57.3"N 5°43'39.4"W

2348Hours, T-Minus 12 minutes until midnight

Ghost wasn’t a bereaved man. 

He had buried his family and plenty of teammates before. He knew grief, and how to move on; there was no need to dwell on it, relive it, reminisce about it…

But minutes before the one-month anniversary, he, nonetheless, found himself trekking over the uneven terrain toward the cliffs.

If you asked him why he was doing this, he wouldn’t provide an answer. He didn’t have one. He had just gotten in his car and started driving… and eight hours later, here he was.

With only a flashlight to guide him (thanks to his preparedness of always keeping a toolbox in the boot), he moved under cover of night toward the place where they had laid Soap to rest.

Ghost wasn’t a spiritual man.

But something about Soap’s spirit not being honored on the one-month anniversary of his death felt wrong.

Or maybe it was just that Simon didn’t want to be alone in his quarters.

And so he walked.

And walked.

And walked.

The place they had picked for the release of the ashes was one that Johnny’s 3rd older sister had mentioned that he always liked to go to. A couple of klicks south of a bothy, aka a rain shelter for travelers, there was a set of rocks at the edge of a cliff, where Johnny had once carved his initials: JMT, like all teenage boys do.

Pippa MacTavish had told the three men that her baby brother had taken a girl on a date there once, and had gotten his first kiss on that spot. Ghost was almost sure that the young Johnny and his crush had done more than just ‘kiss’ that night. But he kept his mouth shut. Though, on the inside, he did cheer on the youngin.

Ghost wasn’t a sentimental man.

But he had kept a set of Johnny’s dog tags for himself.

The kid might have been a bit of a wild child and a loose cannon, but he took his gear seriously. Or maybe he was just that proud of his military service. Either way, he had multiple sets of dog tags.

Besides the patch indicating his blood type on his vest, he wore a set of metal tags around his neck, kept another in a small pocket in his pack, and another in his childhood bedroom at home.

Ghost had stolen from the dead many times… both enemies and teammates alike. He never felt guilty before, because it was needed: weapons, ammo, FAKs... Sometimes those stolen pieces of gear had kept Ghost alive when a more morally sound man would’ve died.

He hadn’t been stupid enough to take the ones he was wearing on him, those were his family’s to keep. But Ghost had stuck his hand in Soap’s pack while riding on the convoy and pocketed the spares.

And keeping a set of Soap’s dog tags for himself felt wrong.

So he didn’t tell anyone.

Ghost wasn’t a friendly man.

But he had grown fond of Johnny.

Ghost tried to keep people at a distance, but Johnny had an issue with giving people their personal space, it seems. The bloody Scot had crashed through Simon’s barriers and taken his trust by force.

Soap had made his way into Simon’s cold, dead heart like he was breaking and entering… Then proceeded to say “This is nice and cosy, mind if I stay ‘ere a while?” and despite his objections, the kid had just set up shop and stayed perfectly nestled in.

Like an annoying younger brother…

And Simon couldn’t get mad at that.

Ghost kept moving over the grass, his flashlight pointing downward and a bit ahead so he didn’t trip over a rock or something.

If spirits do exist, then Johnny would surely mock him from the afterlife if he tripped on his way to the ‘memorial’.

With that thought in mind, Ghost decided to be even more careful.

Just as he was coming up the hill, however… He spotted it. The dark silhouette of a person sitting over the rocks.

Only Soap’s family and the 1-4-1 knew about this spot…

Maybe it was a family member of Johnny’s...

But he couldn’t help but feel like it was an intruder… And with Makarov still on the loose, he wasn’t taking any chances.

His right hand slowly palmed the handle of his sidearm as his left quickly turned off his flashlight. He went back to blending in with the darkness of the seaside cliffs.

Then, he slowly began to take silent tentative steps through the darkness, hoping that the cold wind would be enough to mask the sounds of his footfalls as he approached.

He was going to find out who this was.

[strangesthirdeye]

ᴍᴇᴀᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1 (sʜᴇʀʟᴏᴄᴋ x ɢʜᴏᴜʟ ғᴇᴍ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ)

Summary: day after day, serial murders began to make a mess around London just after the police from Scotland Yard found human corpses that looked like they had been chopped up and bitten near central park. At first, the police assumed it was a wild animal attack. But, Sherlock has an assumption about his new neighbor.

Warning: gore, murder, blood, mention about chopped body, mention about wild animal attack, cannibalism, suspicious, Dark fic? Basically it's all about murder and blood so read at your own risk.. Sorry if this fic make you uncomfortable. (Y/H) means You Hometown.

As usual, I'm sorry if there are any wrong sentences or typos or grammatical mistakes, please forgive me and again English is not my first language, so I try to improve my language and writing in this way.

Part 2

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You put your luggage on the steps of door 221B after a four-hour cab ride from the airport to get to the flat you bought, which is 221C. You sighed and looked at the area around Baker Street. The rather large and busy area is the main attraction of Baker Street and even more interesting, the door marked 221B is also an attraction for people around London because it is the place where the famous Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes and his partner Doctor Watson live.

You looked at the cafe next to the flat.

'Speedy's Cafe'

From where you stand, you can smell the aroma of coffee and food there. Very delicious if you know the smell. But, you don't really care about the food there. All you care about is the aroma of hot coffee that stings your nostrils. With that smell alone, you started drooling.

You were stopped from your reverie as soon as you remembered your motive for coming there. Yes, you moved to London because of an unfortunate incident that happened in your hometown. So not wanting to get involved with that, you quickly went to London to find a new place to live. Your old work in your home country is left behind.

So, in this way, you can start your new life and forget what happened before. You look at the black wooden point in front of you and notice that the knocker on the door is tilted. You straightened the knocker without thinking. Well, you can be said to have OCD but not too OCD. You only correct the small things and not the big things. Big things are usually left scattered all over the place so you just ignore them.

You started knocking on the door of 221B three times before standing up straight trying to show that you are a woman with manners.

4 seconds later, the door of the flat was opened by an elderly woman with a big smile.

The old woman looked at you kindly. "oh, hello dear.. is there anything I can help you with?" said the elder woman in a soft tone.

Just look at the old woman, you get the impression that she carries a warm and welcoming aura like a mother. An aura that you yourself have never experienced or felt before. So, you immediately relaxed your nervousness and returned the old woman's smile.

"You are Mrs. Hudson, aren't you? I asked you for an offer through the website you made regarding flat 221C. So I came here for that flat." you replied fumbling with your black jacket.

Mrs. Hudson was silent for a moment maybe trying to remember that before she chuckled lightly and looked at you with the same happy expression on her face.

"oh, you're the one who emailed me last week, aren't you? Y/n L/n is your name, isn't it?" Mrs. Hudson extended her small wrinkled hand towards you to shake your hand.

You immediately turned around and shook hands with Mrs. Hudson while nodding your head a few times with a smile still on your face.

"Just call me Y/n. Ma'am" you replied and broke the handshake.

Mrs Hudson nodded her head. "then you call me Mrs Hudson, dear. Come in, it's a bit chilly outside so you must be cold now. Come in" Mrs Hudson invited you and moved aside to let you in.

You nodded and bent your body slightly to reach the handle of your luggage before walking into the flat. Before you step inside, you smell the unpleasant odor around Baker Street.

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•

"It's not big but it's quite comfortable for you to live in." said Mrs Hudson while opening the curtains on the window of flat 221C to let the sunlight in.

You shook your head as you looked around your new flat. The wallpaper looked like it had been re-pasted, while the windows were clean and dust-free. Most surprisingly, the electronic items there work well and there is also a sofa that looks like no one has touched it even though it has been abandoned for a long time. Mrs Hudson must always clean this flat in the hope that someone will live in it. Well, luckily you are the one who lives in that flat.

"Oh, I'm not the type to complain. As long as this place is comfortable, it's enough for me. After all, I like the atmosphere of this flat. It's quite calm and cozy here compared to my old flat in my home country" you said while caressing the wallpaper wall with your fingers you

Mrs Hudson chuckled. "oh thank goodness there are people who want to live in this flat. It's been a while since this flat was inhabited. The last person who lived in this flat was probably 4 years ago. After that, no one lived in this flat. So it's quite good that you like this flat" explained Mrs Hudson as she walked towards the kitchen. Maybe she want to organize all the messy things.

You nodded slightly. It's good that you live in this flat, otherwise you'll have to find another flat. After all, renting this flat is not expensive at all so it really fits your budget.

"By the way, dear. If I ask you this question, is it okay? If you don't answer, it's okay, I understand," said Mrs. Hudson from the kitchen.

"umm yeah, just ask.. I'll answer" you replied and started sitting on the couch in the living room.

"Is it okay if you live next door to people? Because the neighbors in the flat below can be a bit annoying and noisy sometimes, but that's only if there's time. Sometimes the people in the flat below will play the violin indefinitely. So I'm worried if it just bothers you," said Mrs Hudson.

"oh, it's okay.. I'm not bothered at all. I'm used to noise and commotion so I don't mind" you said optimistically.

Mrs Hudson nodded her head and walked into the living room and sat next to you. Her body is turned towards you as she gently pats your hand.

"well, I'm just warning you because Sherlock and John sometimes argue with each other or it's just Sherlock being Sherlock. So the atmosphere in this house is a bit noisy all the time" said Mrs Hudson with her cherished tone.

"well i suppose that's what happens if you live next door to Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson" you replied jokingly then chuckled.

Mrs Hudson chuckled then shook her head and started to stand. Her hands patted her shirt and pants. Maybe to remove wrinkles or dust. Then, Mrs. Hudson looked at you.

"well, I think I should go now.. I want to finish my abandoned laundry. Perhaps, after I finish the work at home we can continue chatting. oh, it's been a long time since I chatted with a girl." said Mrs Hudson happily. Her smile never left her face.

"Oh, that's fine. But, I need to get my things out first.. maybe next time we can continue chatting. Just give me time to get comfortable in the new place" you replied and stood up to escort Mrs Hudson out.

"that's not a problem, dear. I hope you can get used to the new place. I understand how you feel about the new place. Maybe you're used to the atmosphere in your old flat" said Mrs Hudson.

"yeah, well.. I don't want to bother you anymore so I think I should take out my things and settle in"

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It's been 4 hours that you packed and arranged some of your belongings in the new flat. Everything went smoothly and quietly without any commotion from the flat below. It means that Sherlock and Doctor Watson haven't come home yet so that's why the atmosphere in the three-story flat is quite quiet.

While you were busy arranging the books of novels on the bookshelf you had installed, a knock on the door outside your flat made you stop what you were doing. You then stared at the door of the flat for a long time before taking a deep breath. Immediately, the smell of jasmine and bakery passes through your nasal cavity. But, there was also a faint smell of plastic and meat coming through your nose making you immediately stand up from kneeling on the floor and walk quickly towards the door. Your stomach rumbling means that it needs to be filled with food.

You reached for the doorknob of your flat and opened it. immediately the smell got stronger.

"Oh, Y/n. Sorry to bother you but I found this box in front of the door and I thought it was yours because it has your name on the side of the box that's why I'm here. Don't worry, I didn't open this box for your privacy." Mrs. Hudson said warmly.

You looked at Mrs Hudson's hand which was still holding the white polystyrene box in her hand. And what Mrs Hudson said is right because there was a note with your name on the side of the big polystyrene box.

Without hesitation you took the large polystyrene box from the older woman's hand and walked into the flat and placed the box on the table. Mrs Hudson is still standing in front of your flat door. You looked at Mrs Hudson.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson for giving me this box. I hope I didn't bother you with such a trivial thing." you look down a little.

Mrs Hudson waved her hand slowly while chuckling a little. "Don't worry, you didn't bother me either. I happened to have some errands before I saw the box in front of the door. You might have overlooked it." Mrs. Hudson dismissed.

You scratch your neck at the same time your hunger is fighting inside you waiting for the time to devour. "umm.. should I return the favor? Maybe tea? or something?"

Miss Hudson shook her head. "There's no need to return the favor, as long as you pay the rent, that's good enough"

You nodded your head in understanding as you stared the polystyrene box for a long time.

Mrs Hudson looked at you worriedly. "is everything ok, dear? You look a little pale.. Do you need some medicine? I have medicine that can be given to you" Mrs Hudson approached you.

You shook your head a few times as if waking up from a daydream. "oh no, I'm fine.. I'm just a little tired with all this. There's just a few more things I need to organize and tidy. Overall, everything's fine."

Mrs Hudson nodded in understanding. "if you insist. But if you need anything, just shout my name and I will help you. There's no need to be shy." Mrs Hudson then left your flat.

You only caught a glimpse of Mrs Hudson leaving before you quickly closed the flat door and locked it. Then you quickly went to the table and greedily opened the polystyrene box. After the box was opened, you inhaled the smell of the meat deeply while closing your eyes. Appreciate the delicious smell that hovers in your nasal cavity.

You slowly opened your eyes which now changed color from your original eye color.

The eyes that were previously E/c now change color to black and red making your face look different than before. The face that is full of psychopathic and hungry begins to appear as soon as your eyes look at the contents of the polystyrene box. Yes, it's definitely meat that's in plastic and frozen, but it's not just any kind of meat.

This meat is far from beef or pork nor chicken or goat. Only Ghouls like you eat this unique meat. Slowly you reach the plastic that has the arm cut off and frozen. The plastic was torn greedily by you then with initial hunger you smelled the arm with pleasure and relief before you opened your mouth wide and bit the arm wildly.

꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚

"What do we have now, Lestrade?" asked Sherlock as he walked beside Lestrade. Next to Sherlock John was trying to catch up with the two of them with his short legs.

"Edward Montague, 29 years old. Worked as a cashier in a grocery store around here. His body was found by an old woman while she was walking her dog. Cause of death.. probably a wild animal attack looking at his bite marks." explained Lestrade while lifting the safety tape up before ducking in followed by Sherlock and John behind.

"but?" Sherlock interrupted.

Lestrade stopped and looked at Sherlock with tired eyes. "but I don't think it's the result of a wild animal bite"

"so what's your guess?" Sherlock walked past Lestrade and saw the man's corpse that looked like it had been torn apart and bitten voraciously.

The corpse's right hand was missing while his leg was torn off and almost severed while the side of his stomach was torn apart and had a large bite mark.

John stopped himself from throwing up when he saw the state of the body. The pungent smell of blood made John almost throw up before he backed away from the scene. Although John had fought and seen blood when he was fighting in Afghanistan, but seeing this thing that was far from what he saw made him uneasy and nauseated.

Who is so cruel to do that? What did this man do to die in this condition? Oh, whoever does this is indeed the heart of a beast and a devil.

"This is the third one for this week.. Surely our murderer is getting bored" said Sherlock and knelt in front of the corpse and examined the corpse with his magnifying glass.

Lestrade who was standing near Sherlock looked at the corpse with pity even though his face showed a feeling of pity for the fate of the corpse, the blood and the current situation was not intense making him nauseous or horrible because he was used to facing such cases. That is normal as a Detective Inspector.

John who was still standing near the two of them began to approach Lestrade. His eyes were still looking at the corpse even though he was trying to hold back his nausea. "Looking at the bite mark, I don't think it was the work of a wild animal. Those bites look neat and tidy compared to wild animals that tend to bite the meat violently and messy"

Lestrade looked at John. "so you're saying this is a human act?"

John shrugged his shoulders. "maybe"

"So what you're trying to say is that this killer we're tracking is a cannibal?" Lestrade looked at John in disbelief.

John stared at the corpse for a long time. "not just any cannibal. But a Ghoul. You know.. People in Tokyo have dealt with this Ghoul. They eat humans and live like humans, hell looks just like humans. You can be mistaken between a human and a Ghoul because this Ghoul is a beast that smart and agile. They're psychopaths and murderers."

Lestrade looked at John nervously as his right hand tugged the collar of his shirt slightly to let air in. "Where did you get this information, John?"

"one of the commenters on my blog told me about this on my blog after I updated my blog about this case. They said that Ghouls are not only in Tokyo but all over the world. But they said that this Ghoul is just a myth. Most likely not there are many ghouls now but they are still there and dangerous"

Sherlock got up from his knees and looked at John with a firm face. "don't believe that nonsense, John. Ghouls don't exist"

John looked at Sherlock who was now walking towards the security tape and immediately followed Sherlock. Lestrade remained silent. Maybe thinking about what John said. And Lestrade was sure, even Sherlock himself did not know the cause of death for the third of the three victims for now. For now, Scotland Yard is only assuming that this is a case of wild animal attack.

꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚

"think about it, Sherlock. Surely some of the people we know are secretly ghouls. Ghouls can live among humans, act like humans and look like humans, what's different is their way of eating." John quickened his pace trying to keep up with Sherlock's pace.

Sherlock glanced at John and then his gaze was directed straight ahead. "Like you said, it's a myth. They don't exist and if they existed a long time ago we would both be their dinner if someone we know is secretly a Ghoul. You don't have to believe what you read in the comments. It's full of useless things"

John shook his head. " No. Listen here, Sherlock. Our murderer is out there still walking free and they can do the same thing as the three victims no matter where they are. Remember the first time we faced this case? Like Lestrade said the three victims were killed in the middle of the night and discovered by the public in the morning. Don't you find it strange? Ghouls come out at night to look for food just like wild animals and ordinary killers usually kill people whenever they want."

Sherlock stopped walking and looked at John with narrowed eyes. "The killer can plan the time and when they wants to start their work. All of this can happen if the killer really plans to start their killing work late at night. Seriously, John? How long have we been doing this job? Surely you know which one thing is true and not. Cannibals I can accept but Ghouls?" Sherlock walked back leaving John who still believed in such things.

John then looked at the figure of Sherlock who was continuing the journey without waiting for him or without looking at John. John sighed heavily. He still believes that his assumption is true which is why he asserts such a thing to Sherlock. He had a dubious feeling about this horrible case because if it was a wild animal attack, what animal would attack its victim so neatly? The bite of the wild animal is not the same as the bite mark on each victim's body. It looks like a human but has sharp teeth marks. Not to mention if a wild animal gets its prey, the animal will surely drag its prey to another place. But in this case, the corpse was found as if it had been left in a hurry. Only the splattered blood decorated the place where the body was found. Even some of the victim's organs and limbs disappeared without a trace.

But seeing Sherlock's reaction to his assumption made John think twice. Ghoul is just a myth and if it exists it will definitely raise questions for the people around it. In fact, this case is the same as in Tokyo a few years ago. Only it's in London. Returning to the comment on his blog, Ghouls are mostly in Japan because that is the place where Ghouls were 'born' and this is also quite rare if some Ghouls intend to move to other places other than Japan.

But, it could also be because Ghouls are indeed like humans, only their way of eating and diet is different from humans, causing them to have certain advantages and high stamina to survive compared to humans. And this makes them more dangerous. They have a sharp sense of smell and even sharp hearing makes them alert to the area and change of situation well. They are also able to extend their claws and their teeth become sharp, making them able to tear or grab their prey.

Not to mention, their eyes can change color and their vision is the same as an eagle's, making them able to identify their prey and prey from far and near. Stamina is strong and high causing them to move nimbly and quickly not to mention their quite extraordinary strength. And there is another advantage of them but it was not mentioned on the internet when John did research about Ghoul the day after the comment was on his blog. Bless whoever commented on that on his blog.

Not long after, John decided to change his course to another place to think after what he and Sherlock argued. He needed time and fresh air to refresh himself on that matter otherwise his mind would become cluttered with what he and Sherlock had argued about earlier. So, with the right foot, John made his way to a quieter and less busy place.

꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚

It was a long day, every day was a long day for Sherlock who is still thinking about the serial murder case. Sherlock who decided to continue his journey without John decided to take a cab to Baker Street.

After he got into the cab, Sherlock stared out the cab window. Thinking about the assumption that John had made a moment ago. Ghouls. Heh, who still believes in the existence of human-eating creatures? Surely only people like John believe in such mythical things. All those are just words that people make up. The Ghoul is now gone, in fact it has been quite a while since the case regarding this Ghoul is gone. Who the fuk still believes in the existence of Ghoul? Cannibal Sherlock can accept but Ghoul?

Sherlock closed his eyes as he sighed heavily. With that, Sherlock enters the Mind Palace where all the evidence and useful information is stored.

Things are getting worse. All three bodies were found by the public, making it an unsettling sight for them. What's more, the police work became more and more noisy about it and Lestrade became worried about this case because the three victims were found two days apart. Anyone can be the target of this serial killer and it doesn't matter gender or old and young people. This causes people who live near the scene to be afraid and cautious to go out at night. They fear they will be the next victim.

Sherlock's eyes widened as soon as he entered his mind. Where he is now in his flat 221B in Baker Street. A place that is the main place in his mind if he wants to think. Sherlock looked at the investigation board behind him. All the red threads and photos of the victims and evidence are all written on the investigation board. All the red strings are connected into a line that has a connection with each picture.

Every picture there becomes a key pillar in the case and some evidence is definitely a clue about the serial killer. Sherlock's fingers caressed each picture as if he was reading each picture through his fingers though he was thinking about the way the serial killer committed the murders. Yes, serial killers and not wild animal attacks. Sherlock managed to make the assumption on the first day they found the first body that this was a case of murder and not a case of a wild animal attack because as John said when he was at the scene not long ago, the way the bites and tears are very neat and clean is far different from a wild animal attack.

Plus the bite mark is also approximately the size of a human mouth, only it is quite large and torn as if it was pulled and torn in a hurry.

But there is something. Something he knew but couldn't catch up. It is definitely not Moriarty seeing that he is dead for good and not Eurus seeing that for now Eurus is in the recovery center. But it is something that he is not sure about and only he can unravel it.

Sherlock jerked from his Mind Palace when the cab break was suddenly pressed causing the cab to jerk. Sherlock was breathing heavily in the back as if he was holding his breath underwater for a long time. The cab driver looked at Sherlock from the rearview mirror.

"Baker Street, sir" said the cab driver.

Sherlock nodded and took out his credit card and slid his credit card on the credit card pay stand. The cab door opened and Sherlock got out of the cab. His eyes looked at door 221B in front of him. Sherlock walked towards the black wooden door but stopped when he saw the knocker on the door straightened. Sherlock frowned.

'Strange..' Sherlock thought curiously. 'it's either Mycroft or a client with OCD.. better clients than Mycroft'

Sherlock tilted back the door knocker and took out the door key and inserted the key into the door knob. The doorknob was turned and Sherlock quickly stepped inside. Sherlock's eyes looked towards the stairs leading to his flat and the flat above. The sound of classical music from upstairs made Sherlock frown curiously. Although the classical music sounds faint, but it is clearly heard in this quiet three-story flat. Meaning, the new neighbor that Mrs Hudson told him had already moved into the empty flat.

Sherlock slowly took off his trenchcoat and blue scarf then he hung the two items on the hanger next to the door. His eyes were still looking at the stairs leading to the upper flat.

Sherlock then arranged his steps to go upstairs but before he could climb the stairs, the door to Mrs Hudson's flat opened. Mrs Hudson sighed heavily as she lifted a large plastic garbage bag in her hand. She still didn't notice the glimpse of Sherlock at the end of the stairs who was still standing with his right foot on the stairs.

Mrs Hudson then with all the energy she had, she tried to lift the garbage plastic bag with a groan. Sherlock, who had been looking at Mrs Hudson with a blank expression on his face, immediately walked towards Mrs Hudson.

"Here, let me lift it up" Sherlock said in a deep voice. His right hand was stretched towards the garbage plastic bag.

Mrs Hudson looked at Sherlock in surprise. "oh, Sherlock. It's okay, I can lift it up"

"I don't think you can lift it. Seeing you struggle to lift it is enough for you to need help. So, let me help" Sherlock then took the plastic garbage bag from Mrs Hudson's hands and lifted it as if it weighed nothing. Although many people think that Sherlock is rude and cold, it does not mean that he is not a gentleman and respects the elderly. Hell, he once helped Mrs. Hudson get flour from the tall cabinet just to make Sherlock's favourite cookies. So, that's because Mrs. Hudson treats Sherlock like her own son and Sherlock treats Mrs. Hudson like his own mother.

Mrs Hudson just smiled genuinely at Sherlock. "oh, what a gentleman Sherlock you are"

"Not quite gentlemen, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock replied and walked towards the back of the flat they lived in.

"well, have you noticed our new neighbor? She just arrived and moved here last afternoon. Turns out she is very sweet and polite." Mrs Hudson told Sherlock in a motherly voice

"yes, I notice that." Sherlock murmured and put the trash bag into the big black trash can.

"How about you introduce yourself to her? Maybe you two can get along well. Perhaps John will be delighted with this new neighbor seeing John always welcomes new people" Mrs Hudson suggested.

Sherlock looked at Mrs Hudson long and walked past her. "I'm sure John can introduce himself and me to her."

"But you can't do that. You need to get along with new people, especially your new neighbor. She's sweet, Sherlock. I'm pretty sure you and her can be good friends." Mrs. Hudson walked behind Sherlock. "Anyway, where's John? Aren't you guys always stuck with each other?" Mrs. Hudson added.

"we're not always stuck with each other, Mrs Hudson. John probably take fresh air. He'll know to come back. Besides, I think I pass your suggestions. She's likely not wanting to be friends with a rude man like me." Sherlock.

"Sherlock, you are not always rude. I know you are a gentle young man even though many people think otherwise. Why don't you just try to be friendly with her? Get to know her and socialize with her?" Mrs Hudson advised.

Sherlock ignored her and suddenly he began to take a deep sniff in the air. His nose suddenly caught a rather strange smell from the flat. Something iron mixed with vanilla scented upstairs. Sherlock stopped.

"That's a strange smell for perfume, isn't it?" Sherlock turned his gaze towards Mrs Hudson.

"Every female has their own perfume taste, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson replied.

Sherlock knew this kind of smell but still it couldn't be the smell of blood. Vanilla? probably the new neighbor likes that smell but, iron smell? This is weird. Surely there are no pipes in the flat that are already rusty. His experiment also did not involve blood. So why is there a familiar smell to him?

"Is our new neighbor someone who works in the medical field?" Sherlock stared at Mrs Hudson.

Mrs Hudson looked at Sherlock questioningly. "I'm not sure, dear. She's a bit mysterious, you know. I barely know her. So I respect her privacy" Mrs Hudson then got an idea. "Why don't you just do what I suggested earlier, hmm? Introducing yourself to her and get to know her if you want to know what she did throughout her life.  I'm sure you can get to know each other without me having to crack information from her."

"like i said, Mrs Hudson. I pass those suggestions from you. Let John do that" Sherlock went upstairs towards his own flat.

He opened his flat door with a burst as usual. Still thinking how come the door is not torn from the frame with how many he is bursting through that door. Sherlock stopped his movement and looked at the set of stairs leading to the flat above which is the flat occupied by his new mysterious neighbor.

The smell of metallic from there was quite strong, making Sherlock's mind pounding with questions. What is going on up there? The new neighbor is a woman like Mrs Hudson said. So who is she really?

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"You're late" Sherlock muttered, eyes closed as his palmed hands under his chin. Mind palace obviously.

John huffed as he undressed his black jacket and threw it behind his chair before sitting on his chair facing Sherlock.

"Well, I just came back from the bar actually. Need something strong to relieve stress" John signed while massaging his temples.

Sherlock hummed then opened his eyes and observed John. "Have you heard about our new neighbor upstairs?"

John glanced at Sherlock with furrowed eyebrows. "New neighbor? Upstairs? 221C? They've already moved?"

"Ms. Hudson suggested us to introduce ourselves to her" Sherlock spread his arms over the arm rest of his chair and unconsciously his fingers tapping the arm rest.

"A woman? Mrs Hudson suggested us to introduce ourselves to her?" John furrowed his eyebrows.

"She suggested to me but I want you to go." Sherlock replied flatly.

"Why not you? Mrs Hudson suggested to you first. I mean, I can go but why not you go, seeing as it was you who Mrs Hudson suggested first" John replied.

"I rather not" Sherlock muttered, avoiding eye contact with John.

"Sherlock, at least if you go, our new neighbor will feel welcome with us as her new neighbor seeing that she's the only woman besides Mrs Hudson who is willing to move here" John spoke.

"well, why isn't she the one who introduces herself? She's the new neighbor, of course she's the one who should greet us first" Sherlock protested.

John glared at Sherlock for a moment. Although his face looks calm but his eyes are a bit angry with Sherlock's behaviour. John sighed heavily and got up from his chair and walked out. Sherlock raised his eyebrows in confusion.

"where are you going?" Sherlock asked, confused.

"Upstairs, Introducing myself to our new neighbor since you decided to be a frog under the shell. You don't want to meet outsiders nor do you want to know about what's going on in the outside world" John said as he went upstairs ignoring Sherlock calling his name.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and quickly got up from his seat, rushing behind John towards the upstairs.

The metallic smell is gone only the vanilla. Weird. Sherlock frowned.

John reached the new neighbor's flat door and stood in front of the flat door. He glanced at Sherlock briefly before knocking on the door three times.

A sound of someone rushing could be heard from inside the flat.

"Coming!" a feminine voice shouted from inside the flat before the door was opened wide by a woman the same age as Sherlock dressed in a gray jumper and black pants.

You looked at John and Sherlock with an unrecognized look on your face. "yes?"

"Hi, I'm John Watson-"

"Doctor" Sherlock interrupted.

"And this is my flatmate Sherlock Holmes. We are your neighbors downstairs. Good to see a new face in this flat. It's been a long time since people moved here to stay in this old flat" John said with a warm smile.

You smile. "hi, I'm Y/n L/n. Just call me Y/n. I'm your new neighbor"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Trying to read anything from you.

'same age'

'metallic smell is strong here'

'cracks in reddish nails, nail polish? looks like dry liquid, blood? Injured during cleaning?'

'slightly stooped standing posture, lack of self-confidence'

'lack of sleep, eye bags'

'Vanilla, perfume'

"come in, I can make some tea for a chat, yeah?" You invited them and turned to the side to let them in.

John and Sherlock entered your flat. The flat door was closed by you when they entered your flat. They both looked around your messy flat with boxes and items that had just been unpacked.

You shyly looked around as you noticed the state your new home is.

"err, sorry about the mess.. I just took the items out of the box.. so sorry about all this mess" you scratched your neck awkwardly.

John waved his hand as if he didn't care about the mess there as he already dealt with that a long time ago.

"You should see our flat" John chuckled.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at that. John and his charming cannot be separated. Sherlock walked around your flat curiously. John who is ripe with Sherlock's behavior just let him hang around your flat as long as he didn't cause any trouble. You warily glanced at him.

"So uh.. Where did you come from?" John began to start a conversation.

"oh from Y/H...I moved here on business that I need to avoid there" you replied, the corner of your eye still watching Sherlock's movement.

"boyfriend?" John continued.

"Ex-friends" you replied.

John nodded in understanding and decided not to ask that personal question again. He looked around your boxes. Some have not yet been opened, some have been opened and the items inside are mostly books, black discs and various types of drawing tools.

"Are you a painter?" John asked referring to your drawing board.

"It can be said.. I make masks actually.. For events" you said, half lied half not. Although, covered identities to hunt people is an event too, right?

John raised his eyebrows impressed. "You're the Mask Maker? That's the first I've heard" John grinned.

"thanks, most people don't know that is also a job for living" you said, smiling sweetly.

Sherlock stopped his movement when he found some interesting things in your box. He took that thing and inspected it. It's your mask. Your hunting mask.

"Strange pattern and shape.. What events do you always do?" Sherlock showed you your mask which is a black veil and two horns above the veils.

It may be simple but it is quite useful to eat and hide your whole face even though it is only made of black cloth.

"It's usually for Halloween or a dance party like a Masquerade ball. Mostly from Japan who always ask for this kind of shape for their masks" you lied smoothly even Sherlock seems to be buying with your deception.

He could read you but he can't read the whole other details about you. It's like you are Irene Adler where he cannot deduce anything from you even small details. You hide it quite carefully. Now this is quite intriguing.

You smacked your forehead lightly before chuckling. "oh, silly me.. I forgot to make tea for you two. I should go and make tea for you, okay?"

"oh it's okay, we won't be long"

"black two sugar" Sherlock and John said in unison.

You stopped and pressed your lips into a thin line. Not knowing how to respond.

"well, I should heat the water then.. Uh.. please, please sit down" you offered them before moving to the kitchen.

Sherlock and John take a seat on your couch. John glared at Sherlock.

"You shouldn't have said that, it was disrespectful" John said slowly.

"She's the one who offered, I'm just saying" Sherlock replied simply but his eyes were still on your mask box.

"yes but you shouldn't have said something like that. It's disrespectful" John said lowly, not wanting you to hear his argument with Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, annoyed by what John said. Meanwhile you are in the kitchen standing at the kitchen counter with both hands holding the electric jug of hot water and pouring it into the teapot after you put the tea bags. You heard what they were arguing in the living room with your sensitive ears. You found it amusing with John who's yapping endlessly with Sherlock's respectful and disrespectful attitude. For you, you don't care about it because you know that they are guests and they have the right to tell what they want and don't want. As long as it's not something that goes beyond the limit.

After making the tea, you brought the tray into the living room and placed the tray containing the teapot and the 2 cups on the table in front of John and Sherlock. You grinned while pouring tea into the two cups.

"so, uh.. what are you two doing? It's not fair that you come here to welcome and get to know me. I also want to get to know and welcome you too" you said while handing the cup of tea to John.

John took the tea from you and grinned. "Uh, well. That's right. Well, I'm a Doctor. Like Sherlock said before. I work at a hospital near here permanently and well at one time I was a blogger." John explained.

"Doctor and Blogger? That's pretty impressive" you raised one eyebrow.

"yeah, but it's a bit of a hassle too." John scratched the back of his neck while chuckling lightly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"So you are a blogger, what kind of topic do you always do? And where can I read it?" you smile

"I usually make topics about cases that Sherlock and I solved, actually. And you can read it online. My personal blog Doctor John H Watson "John replied, smiled.

"cases?" you turned your gaze on Sherlock. "Are you a Detective?"

"I’m a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job" Sherlock said coldly.

"Consulting Detective? Is it the same as a private detective?" You cocked your head to the side slightly.

John smirked at what you said. His mind played with the memory of when he met Sherlock a few years ago. The exact same questions were told to him by you.

"No, it means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me." Sherlock explained.

You nodded understanding and decided to change the question. "so, you haven't solved any cases now or are you in the phase to solve cases?" you looked at John and Sherlock.

"We are trying to investigate this new case. If you know, it is already in the news." John said while sipping tea.

"A new case? What case?" You looked at John curiously.

"The police said it was a case of wild animal attack." John said, clearing his throat as he put the tea cup back on the table.  "I'm surprised this case isn't as exciting as the previous case.. Well at least not yet"

"I just moved here so I miss a lot of things that happen here but seriously, wild animal attack? In London?" You frowned.

"There are many impossible things that can happen out there. Especially in London. But the police are still investigating that. We are trying to solve it, seeing that Sherlock probably has another theory about this attack" John remarked.

"You have your own theory? About that?" You stared at John intently.

"well.. " John cleared his throat. Eyes glanced at Sherlock before returning to you. "My theory is that, it's not just any wild animal attacks but it's a case of Ghouls"

You sweat dropped at that. Ghouls. As if you can't get away with that. Even if you have moved abroad, it does not mean that other Ghouls are not abroad. Wherever there are Ghouls because they have now increased throughout the years. Breeding or experiment.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at that. "oh, seriously John. You're not going to let this Ghouls thing go, aren't you?"

"Think about it again Sherlock. Cannibals won't attack and eat their victims directly. They prefer to kidnap them and eat them. Wild animals won't make neat bites like that." John defended.

"So uh.. Ghoul?" you try to naturalize the tone of your voice.

"yes, Ghoul. As you know I posted about this case in my blog and then one of the readers who read my blog commented their theories about Ghoul. So everything that has to do with this case is the same as the theories they told me" John paused. "You don't know what Ghoul is, don't you?" He added.

"not really.. Uh, I only heard rumors about them. So I barely know about their things" you lied through your teeth. Hoping that none of them sensed your lie.

John nodded in understanding while Sherlock looked at you suspiciously.

"You seem tense" Sherlock muttered. John side eyed him as if to tell him 'don't start'.

"well, when you mention something like that.. The one behind these attacks must still be out there, right? So it's not safe to walk alone to work or anywhere. They or it will probably make me the next victim if I'm off guard" you mumbled, looking at your lap. Fingers fidgeting with each other pretending that you are anxious.

Sherlock nodded, for now he just let it slide. He has nothing to accuse you about these attacks, although he himself doesn't know why he feels this case has anything to do with you. He just can't put his finger on it. Who are you.. really. So far he only knows that you moved to London because your ex friend in your hometown and you are a mask maker. But something inside him told him that you are more than that.

"What kind of customers do you always make a mask for?" Sherlock asked, attempting to change the topic.

"For the rich. Sometimes there are middle class. But mostly first class. They pay handsomely for the mask I make. Though, money is not my problem." You replied, genuinely. "Are you interrogating me?" you cocked your head slightly.

"what makes you say that?" Sherlock frowned.

"You asked me questions that only the police ask. Although, it sounds like the police, but are you interrogating me?" the beginning of your narrowed eyes.

"No.. I'm merely just asking you a simple question because I'm interested in what you're doing" Sherlock replied smoothly.

"Most people don't find what I do interesting" you shrugged.

"I'm not most people. And I'm genuinely interested in what you're doing. I find it intriguing" Sherlock replied.

John observing the conversation of the two of you silently, sipping his tea. He wants to know where this conversation is going but he is afraid that this conversation will take a turn that it shouldn't, seeing that Sherlock seems to be onto something.

"right, if you said so. What other things do you want to know about my job then?" You crossed your legs. Eyes focusing on Sherlock.

"Well, you're good at sketching. Do you perhaps know about human anatomy?" Sherlock stared at you intently.

"A little bit, though I only sketched faces for mask design. Why?" you raised your eyebrow at him.

"Just want to warn you who are neighbors with me, you will pass through some unpleasant smells like the smell of something sizzling or smoke because I usually do experiments at undetermined times" Sherlock warned.

"and that includes?" you stared at him.

"human body parts" Sherlock said simply.

"That doesn't explain why you asked me if I know human anatomy" you narrowed your eyes.

"Perhaps I need your help for an experiment" Sherlock muttered.

You were silent for a moment. Heart beats fast at this. Does he know what you are? or perhaps he doesn't know but he wants to find out about you. Is this about the mysterious attacks they are both working on?

"I'm only a mask maker, Sherlock" You said.

"then why is there a smell of blood here?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes at you.

"sorry?"

"the smell of blood here. It is very strong. Although I know the smell of blood when I smell one due to me being working on many cases involving blood. So why, the smell of blood here is strong?" Sherlock said, suspiciously.

"Sherlock, I think this is already-" John tried to cut off the tension.

"Are you talking about the meat that I took out of the freezer to cook? Yeah, the smell of the meat's blood is very unpleasant, isn't it? Maybe after you two go back to your flat, I'll wash it for dinner" you said, boldly. "Honestly, Sherlock. Are you accusing me for being the one behind the attacks that I barely know?" now you displeased with what Sherlock accused. How dare he accuse you of something you didn't do. Yes, you are a ghoul but you don't attack people at will. You always take human flesh at the morgue or if someone wants to attempt suicide who willingly becomes your food. Never had you ever attack people if you are hungry. You can control your hunger well.

Sherlock blinked his eyes at you. He lost all the words he said. John glared at him, dissatisfied with what Sherlock did earlier. Accusing someone who just moved to this country and barely knows about the case. Now this is out of control.

You gave Sherlock a death stare before shifting your gaze to John. "I think it would be good if you both return to your flat. I don't want to continue this unpleasant conversation anymore. I have other things to do" you uttered idly.

"uh, yes. Of course. So sorry about him." John apologized, giving you a reassuring smile before he dragged Sherlock out of your flat.

Sherlock seems unfazed that he himself was dragged out of your flat by John, only after you closed the door of your flat with force Sherlock seems out of his mind. He sucked his breath and looked at your flat door.

"right, what was that?" John stared at him with his dangerously calm face.

"I'm trying to prove my point" Sherlock turned his gaze on his flatmate.

"what point? hmm? The point that you accuse her for being the one behind this attack? Are you accusing her for being a cannibal who kept the body parts of the corpse that we are trying to solve?" John hissed, eyes showing rage even though his face was calm.

Sherlock seemed to lose all the words he wanted to throw at John. His mind is racing with the thought that he couldn't place something about you. He seemed to want to prove his point that you have about this case but he doesn't know what it is.

John massaged his nose in frustration. "Look, we should welcome our new neighbor and build a good relationship with her. Not accuse her of what she didn't do. That woman is too good, she's not mad at us even though she should be mad at us because of you. She barely knows about any of these, for God's sake!" John lowered his voice. He turned his back toward Sherlock as he took a deep breath trying to calm himself before he continued.

John leaned forward slightly as if he wanted Sherlock to hear his words clearly while pressing his thumb and index finger together.

"Listen, I don't want to tell you this again -"

"-the don't"

"-Because you're the type who doesn't understand the language with all the warnings I give-"

"-I understand the language well-"

"-then understand what I'm saying!" John released a heavy breath. "Just stop this.. Stop accusing someone if you yourself have no evidence to accuse someone. She didn't do anything wrong since she moved here. She wants to start a new life here, not for you to destroy her new life. Just because you are frustrated that there's no evidence yet doesn't mean you can turn in someone who is innocent to do such unforgivable things"

Sherlock stared at him absently. He doesn't know what to say as he knows what John said is right. He shouldn't accuse someone for being the one who did this cruel crime. But knowing Sherlock, he probably has another way to prove his point.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[mixotrophics]

Supermarkets and intl farming corporations are evil I think: international trade, refrigeration, and the race for the bottom

nowadays we have refrigeration, freezing, and fast-moving vehicles with these technologies installed. This means that it's now possible to move perishable goods over longer distances.

Up front, seems pretty cool. You can get mangoes in Norway and saltwater fish in deeply-landlocked places. There have been benefits to some people too. Primarily this is with fisheries for desirable catches with a restricted geographic range and no real farms. For example, Nephrops norvegicus is a crustacean that lives in cold water. It is known as scampi† or langousteen when sold as food . As a shellfish, it spoils incredibly quickly, and so is primarily sold in two forms: frozen, and live (to be killed immediately before cooking). Neither of these options would be possible to sell to far-away locations without modern tech, and french desire for high-quality nephrops was the main thing keeping many individual crustacean fishers in Scotland afloat financially (until Brexit happened, and customs slowed down trade enough that live nephrops weren't able to be sold to france, so the fishers had to sell frozen ones for less profit and it's been very not good and pushed a lot of people into poverty , Brexit, babey )

but the Big Thing here is that a lot of foods are not geographically restricted in a way we can't overcome right now. A lot of things can be just fine living somewhere else, but just can't swim across the ocean to get there, etc. Quinoa farms in england, olives in california, cacao in africa, potatoes almost ubiquitous. So when something can be grown wherever and technology means we can ship perishables around the planet no-prob , big supermarkets can now choose where they get their goods from a wide range of options.

And where do they pick? They pick to buy from the cheapest places; the places where environmental + workplace safety regulations don't impose more costs, where the workers are underpaid or enslaved and their wages don't mess with their boss's bottom line. The way a country can attract a big company (and its money) is by crushing unions, allowing slavery, and so on. If a government enforces environmental regulations or minimum wage etc, then the big company moves its operations to a different country. This is the race to the bottom, where countries gain jobs by disenfranchising their people. Sometimes, "structural adjustment programs" and the like are used by companies to say: Hey, financially-struggling country, we'll pay you a bunch of money in exchange for some land & for implementing laws that reduce workers' rights.

& in countries with better workers rights and environmental protections, jobs evaporate into thin air as supermarkets by goods elsewhere.

Who benefits? only the higher-ups in these companies, buying goods at the lowest possible cost, and then selling them at a huge profit margin in countries where the living costs are different. Buy one chocolate bar in exchange for the money a cacao-picker may earn in a day of backbreaking labor.

-

I live in a less-populated country where low-density urban centers are surrounded by farms.

On the bus ride to the hospital i saw fields of oilseeds, edible brassicas, strawberries, potatoes ... sheep and cow pastures ... forest-banks grown lush from the high-latitude midnight sun, full of wild edibles.

In town center there is one store that sells local goods, only meat.

I go to the store and the produce is sourced from despotic regimes and countries implicated in human rights abuses and forced labor. fresh vegetables cost money people don't have. health issues from insufficient nutrition are chronic and frequent. the supermarket CEOs have multiple mansions.

-

the Brazilian city of Belo Horizonte established ABasteCer markets, land in prime (town central) locations where proprietors could bid to run the market; certain important foods such as fresh vegetables would be sold at a fixed, lower price, while buying the goods from farmers for a higher price, while others would be sold as normal. While the fixed-price foods didn't have a profit margin, the proprietors didn't have to worry about rent , & the unfixed foods provided enough of a wage for them.

Local farmers got paid more, exploitation elsewhere avoided. Lower prices meant poor people could buy important foods, nutrient deficiency dropped.

i wonder how much fighting it would take for such a thing to be established elsewhere in the world . Shall we?

-

† note that if its Cheap then they're probably lying and selling you intensively-farmed Litopeneaus prawns ... these are implicated in ecological problems such as mangrove destruction.

-

World Hunger: 10 Myths. Frances Moore Lappé and Joseph Collins, 2015.

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

I happen to like Celtic music a lot too (though not very familiar with the Canadian side apart from Stan Rogers) - have you heard of Lankum? They're an Irish group that have strange and devastatingly beautiful takes on trad songs. If you don't know them and want to check them out, "The Wild Rover" and "Cold Old Fire" are good starting places

This is really lovely, thank you! The name Lankum was familiar to me, and when I searched them in my music collection I found that I had couple of their songs, one-offs that they'd contributed to various Celtic compilation albums I've picked up over the years. But I don't actually know them, I've listened to both songs you recommended and enjoyed them, but particularly the latter:

Can't stop listening to this one, I'm going to check out more by this band but not for a bit because I'm only interested in listening to this song right now.

For someone who grew up on Celtic music, I know surprisingly few bands that are actually based in Celtic countries. I almost said I know few bands that are from Celtic countries, but that's not true. I'm into plenty of bands made up of people from Scotland and/or Ireland, but mainly people who immigrated from there to Canada and started their music career here. Though the bulk of my Celtic music collection is by people who were born in Canada, descended from Celtic immigrants, but who grew up in parts of Canada where that musical tradition is very strong and have carried it on. Specifically the East Coast of Canada. Which is the bit closest to CelticLand.

Basically, as a broad, massive oversimplifcation, the Canadian East Coast province of Nova Scotia is full of descendants of Scottish immigrants, and Newfoundland is full of Irish people, and they came over here ages ago with their music, and it was a community that was culturally insulated, in many ways, enough so they kept a lot of their traditions, long enough to develop particularly Nova Scotian and Newfie strains of traditional music, and that's what I grew up listening to a lot. Particularly this island off the coast of Nova Scotia called Cape Breton, which is an incredible place where kids grow up learning fiddle in music class and step dancing in gym class and Gaelic in language class, and fucking all of them grow up to be folk musicians, it genuinely amazing what a large percentage of my music collection comes from that one island with a population of under 100,000 people.

I know a few musicians who are actually based in the UK. The one I know best is Runrig, and I only got into them because their lead singer used to be Bruce Guthro, a brilliant folk musician from Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. I've been a big fan of Bruce Guthro since I was about 10, and I was about 17 when I decided to check out the Scottish band that I vaguely knew he fronted for some reason, and I quickly learned that Runrig was, in fact, way too big and famous and long-running a band for it to make sense that they got fronted by a relatively small-time Canadian guy for years. But I guess they could recognize incredible talent when they saw it, and they were absolutely right to, everyone should have. Everyone. I saw him live probably fifteen times in fifteen years (way more if you count seeing him more than once on the same weekend because I'd follow him around the folk festival) and it wasn't nearly enough. He did all kinds of stuff with Runrig and so many Canadian folk musicians, one of those guys who was always credited in the acknowledgements on other people's album jackets, always setting up songwriter's circle events and going all over the folk festival circuit and keeping everything alive, but he only ever actually made seven solo albums, which wasn't nearly enough. I might be getting slightly sentimental because Bruce Guthro died late last year, there were tributes to him from the folk music community all across Canada and it was utterly heartbreaking.

Anyway, to be less sappy, Runrig is great, I also got really into the Scottish band Skerryvore after I saw them at a Canadian folk festival about ten years ago. I like Julie Fowlis a lot, if ever want to hear Gaelic lyrics sung by someone who actually speaks the language fluently (I have a lot of Gaelic lyrics in my music collection, but almost all of it is sung by Canadian Anglophones who learned it in Cape Breton language classes). I've got the entire discographies of The Pogues and The Dubliners, obviously. The big ones. I've got an album by Christy Moore that I love and always think I should get more of those. I'm trying to think of other actual Irish or Scottish musicians I have in my collection, and there must be more than that, but I'm not coming up with a lot. A bit of Dougie MacLean, obviously.

A few months ago I saw Bobby Watt live and he was amazing, and he's from Scotland. But he moved to Canada when he was 20, and he's now about 70. David Francey immigrated to Canada from Scotland when he was young, and he's one of my absolute favourites. He an interesting case because you can hear his very thick Scottish accent in his early albums, and it's not as strong in later ones. While Bobby Watt still sounds more Scottish than Frankie Boyle when he talks, which he has to be doing on purpose, it's been 50 years. I'm actually going to see David Francey live tomorrow, I'm going to a proper folk festival for the first time since pre-COVID (I've been to live music a bunch since then, but not a specific folk festival) and he's playing in the afternoon. Geoff Kelly from Spirit of the West was actually born in Scotland - I think the other members of the band were born in Canada to Scottish immigrants - and of course I have Spirit of the West's discography plus Geoff Kelly's solo album where he does nothing but play the Celtic flute for ten songs. It's great studying music.

I'm aware that there are Celtic places besides Scotland and Ireland, by the way. And that Scotland and Ireland are not monoliths when it comes to their musical culture. I'm oversimplifying a lot here. When I saw Bobby Watt, it was a local venue's monthly Celtic night, and Bobby stuck to the remit really well, introducing each song by explaining which bit of Scotland or Ireland or Wales it came from, and at one point apologizing for being politically contentious at a Celtic night by playing a Cornish song when not everyone agrees that Cornwall is Celtic. I can sort of recognize what different types of music you get in different regions across the ocean (a lot more Gaelic lyrics in the Hebrides than mainland Scotland, I know that much), but to be honest, I'm much better at understanding the differences in different types of Celtic music based on what part of Canada they're from, than what part of the actual Celtic countries they're from.

Honestly, I got a lot of my main music taste from folk festivals I attended in Canada, or from my father, who got most of his music taste from folk festivals he's attended in Canada both before and after I was born. So most of it's Canadian. Which I realize is weird when I say I'm into Celtic music, and then I don't actually know all that much music from Celtic countries.

Oysterband. I've been a massive fan of Oysterband since I saw them play the Stan Rogers Folk Festival in Nova Scotia, Canada in 2002, when I was 11 years old, and I absolutely fell in love with them. I think they have some Celtic members? I'm not sure, they might all be from England. But they play that type of music and they're from across the ocean.

Anyway, I have gone wildly away from the original message I was sent, for replying with a whole bunch of stuff you did not ask for. I really did enjoy those two songs you recommended, I will check out more of them. The harmonies in particular were lovely. I really love a nice harmony.

On that subject, I've now got all sentimental about Bruce Guthro so I'm going to end this post with a video of him performing lead vocals with Runrig in Scotland, years ago. One of my favourite songs of theirs.

Edit: I'd posted this but then remembered that you mentioned Stan Rogers, in that original message that I've now got far away from responding to. Here's a song that Bruce Guthro wrote in Stan Rogers' memory, from one of his all-too-few solo albums, it's really lovely:

I saw Stan's brother Garnet Rogers perform a few months ago, at the same local venue where I saw Bobby Watt, and he did a quick mention of Bruce Guthro and how much he did for folk music too. Sorry that this post is all over the place. I have too many things to say about Canadian folk music. But I should probably know more about actual Celtic music.

[the-busy-ghost]

Sorbus, the Service tree (of which there are four sorts) is rais'd of the Chequers or Berries, which being ripe (that is) rotten, about September, may be sown, like Beech-mast: It is reported that the Sower never sees the fruit of his labour; either for that it bears only being very old, or that Men are commonly so before they think of planting Trees: But this is an egregious mistake; for these come very soon to be Trees, and being planted young, thrive exceedingly; I have likewise planted them as big as my arm successfully: The best way is therefore to propagate them of Suckers or Sets; they delight in reasonable good ground, rather inclining to cold, then over hot; for in places which are too dry they never bear kindly. The Torminalis is the kind most frequent with us; for those of the narrower and lesse indented Leaf, is not so common in England as in France, bearing a sort of Berry of the Pear shape, and is there call'd the Cormier; this Tree may be grafted with itself, or on the White-thorn, and Quince. The Timber is useful for the Joyner, for the Engraver of Wood-Bows, Pulleys, Skrews, Mill Spindles and other Goads to drive with, etc. Pistol, and Gun-stocks, and for most that the Wild-tree serves; and being of a very delicate Grain, for the Turner, and divers curiosities, and looks delicately, and is almost everlasting, being rub'd over with Oyl of Linseed, well boyl'd and may be made to counterfeit Ebony, or almost any Indian Wood, colour'd according to Art: Also it is taken to Build with, yielding Beams of considerable substance: the shade is beautiful for Walks, and the Fruit not unpleasant, especially the second kind, of which with new Wine and Honey, they make a Condilum of admirable effect to corroborate the Stomach; and the Fruit alone is good in Dysenteria and Lasks. The water distill'd from the Stalks of the Flowers and Leaves on M.B. and twice Rectified upon fresh matter, is incomparable for Consumptive and Tabed Bodies, taking an Ounce daily at several times: Likewise it cures the Green-sicknesse in Virgins, and is prevalent in all Fluxes; distill'd warm into the Ears it abates the pain: the Wood or Bark contus'd and applied to any green Wound, heals it; and the Powder thereof drank in Oyl Olive, consolidates inward Ruptures: Lastly the Salt of the Wood taken in decoction of Althaea to three Grains, is an incomparable Remedy to break and expel Gravel. The Service gives the Husbandman an early presage of the approching Spring, by extending his adorned Buds for a peculiar entertainment, and dares peep out in the severest Winters.

John Evelyn in the second edition of his "Sylva, or A Discourse of Forest-Trees and the Propagation of Timber in His Majesty's Dominions" (1670), discussing various sorbus or 'service' trees.

Here Evelyn largely seems to be discussing Sorbus Torminalis, also called Wild Service Tree or Chequer/Checker Tree (or Elsbeere in Germany). He explicitly compares this with the 'Cormier', i.e. Cormus Domestica. I don't know enough about herbalism or botany to be entirely sure that his comments couldn't equally apply to other sorbus trees like the rowan (or mountain ash, sorbus aucuparia) or the whitebeam (sorbus aria) which are much more common up here in Scotland, but as far as I can see, this passage doesn't really consider the rowan so much as the wild service tree.

The fruits of the wild service tree were also called chequers or checkers and used to be sold frequently in fruit markets in the south. The tree may also be the source of many pub and farm names (Chequers Inn, etc.) though this should not be overstated and not all Chequers names can be connected with the tree: for example, the name of the famous Chequers in Buckinghamshire, currently the country residence of the Prime Minister, could equally be derived from an early owner who had a connection with the English Exchequer.

I'll try and explain a couple of the unfamiliar terms I can understand below, though this is only a quick post and I don't have time to dive into medical history right this second. Obviously I would not recommend trying 17th century remedies at home anyway.

Torminalis = 'Sorbus Torminalis' or wild service tree.

Cormier = 'Cormus Domestica' or service tree.

White-thorn = hawthorn

Gravel = kidney stones

[gust-jar-simulator]

I have written too many posts referencing goth Vio and not enough posts actually describing goth Vio. I should fix this.

I need everyone to know that Red is really supportive the entire time, drags Blue into it, and Blue and Vio 100% do the lesbians-doing-their-makeup straddle pose thing at least once. Blue is the best at eyeliner and he is personally offended if one of his counterparts has uneven wings when he is Right There and could have just done it in the first place.

Eyeliner is not a common makeup practice in Hyrule, it is extremely Gerudo, so we’re off to a great start actually. While the mines we know about in-game are mostly connected to Mt. Crenel, volcanoes in general, etc, given the blatant Egyptian references with the Gerudo (pyramids) as well as the general theme of making them Pretty Ladies, they deserve to have makeup and the mineral resources for it.

(I have vague thoughts about the Goddess of the Sands as a kind of Hathor/Sekhmet figure, but that’s irrelevant here)

I tend to base a lot of fashion and culture ideas in the Minish Cap era on Scotland/Ireland/Wales, though I think the climate in that version of Hyrule is a lot warmer considering the proximity of Mt. Crenel and the Desert of Doubt, so maybe a bit more like Galicia in Spain? I’m getting sidetracked.

When I think about dressing Vio, I tend to automatically fall back on archers and archery garb throughout history. Archers were an insane tactical advantage, particularly on horseback, so pants would be my go-to. Heeled boots were also useful to give you an advantage when standing in the stirrups, actually. Overall the boys seem to hoof it everywhere, pardon the pun, but in places like France heels were adopted so nobles could be a little taller than everyone else. In Ancient Greece they were used to denote the most important actors on a stage.

I’m getting sidetracked again. Point is, Vio in heels would be fun, but to be honest I could see Legend wearing them more often. Sometimes Time. And Twilight. That’s what cowboy boots are, you know.

Back on topic, Vio has the advantage of being able to make his own jewelry. Drawing wire in particular takes a kind of focus Blue may or may not have, and that’s not even getting into the detail work. Plus, as evidenced by BOTW, it’s good for enchantments. Considering Vio’s fanon fixation on dark magic, I could definitely see him experimenting with earrings that shield you from sunlight, or light magic in general, for whenever he finally resurrects his boyfriend. Vio quickly starts becoming extremely pale after that because he keeps forgetting to take the earrings off (they’re dark and cold and feel a little familiar, he doesn’t want to).

In that same vein of thought, I am genuinely not sure if whatever his body is made of can take tattoos, or how it would work when they recombine, but if you’re going to research necromancy you might as well tattoo ancient and ominous runes on yourself the same way you inscribe them into jewelry. Why augment items when you can augment yourself? They’d have to be carefully chosen and very carefully done, mathematically precise, but Vio’s up to the research necessary to make his own body into a conduit for dark magic. Considering the major sources of darkness in LOZ are the Gerudo and the Sheikah (and the Twili who might be both), the aesthetic is probably unmatched too.

I definitely think he’s got a little ruler tattooed on his finger specifically to make sure he gets his summoning circles right.

Depending on how you want to write the rules of necromancy his clothes could go a few ways, but I’ve been rolling around the Egyptian idea of no materials from the dead. No leather boots, for example, because you don’t want to offend the spirits by bringing the unclean presence of death before them, etc. If we want to get really wild with it, I would love to play with the idea of Vio doing some magic experiments buck naked just to remove that variable altogether. There are a few reasons to do something like that- respectfully showing you’re of lower status than whatever you’re summoning, an attempt to be more in tune with the nature around you, so on. There is some comedy potential for Green walking into the basement, seeing Vio naked and covered in runes, and walking right back out.

While the Era of Light probably doesn’t have a convenient goth scene or even a decently moody bar, I feel like I would be doing a disservice to the subculture if I didn’t mention music. Music is a massive part of the Legend of Zelda experience, and an argument could be made that raw magic- and the ancient language of the gods themselves- might be music. In English, the words incant and enchant both have their roots in the Latin incantare, “to sing”. In Skyward Sword, Fi sings, and both of the sword spirits seem to dance to channel magic. Don’t get me started on Ocarina of Time.

As such, no decent aspiring necromancer worth their salt could neglect the possibility that an understanding of music, particularly funerary songs and the like, might help in resurrecting a dead boyfriend. If there is a spiritual aspect to burial, surely there is an equal and opposite spiritual aspect to unburial. Given how I tend to utilize Gaelic mythology when I think about Minish Cap, there’s topics like the banshee caoine to consider. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Gerudo had professional mourners. Vio is 100% experimenting with the technical side of writing music for ritual purposes and simultaneously writing little heartfelt pieces to go with the grief-filled love poems in the back of his journal that no one gets to read.

That’s all I have for now, but there will be more.

[run-aled]

RED VALLEY: WHILE YOU WERE HYPERSLEEPING‘Part Two’

[transcript]

SCENE 1

GORDON IN THE RECORDS ROOM.

GORDON: Gordon Porlock...Red Valley Superintendent. Ugh. I found a thesaurus. I'm going to go through every bloodysynonym until I find one I like. And then… well, I don't know, maybe they'll make me a badge.

HE SORTS THROUGH SOME PAPERS AND CASSETTE CASES ON HIS DESK.

GORDON: Day 8 at Red Valley. Back in the Records Room for the next instalment of The Warren Files. Got my new best friend, Mrs Blue Sky. Hey Blue Sky.

BLUE SKY: Hey there Gordon.

GORDON: She can say my name now. It's actually a bit more advanced than I gave it credit for. Down here where they've actually ever spent any money she can turn the lights on and off, adjust the air conditioning, you know things like that. Anyway, she's teaching me great facts about the neighbourhood. Well Scotland I mean. Hey Blue Sky.

BLUE SKY: Hey there Gordon.

GORDON: Tell me a new fact about Scotland.

BLUE SKY: Did you know Scotland is home to the tallest hedge in the world?

GORDON: I did not.

BLUE SKY: It's over 1700 feet long and 100 feet high and you can find it on the A93 Perth-Blairgowrie road. Would you like me to send an image I've found to your desktop?

GORDON: I would like that, yes.

A SHORT PAUSE, AND A LITTLE BLIP. GORDON CLICKS HIS KEYBOARD.

GORDON: That is a very tall hedge. Thanks, Blue Sky.

BLUE SKY: You're welcome, Gordon.

GORDON: You see the discourse is top notch. So, I've lined up a few recordings from the Warren box, and digitised them in what looks to be chronological order. You may recall Warren's first recording was not very illuminating so let's see what we can find today!

HE PRESSES A KEY ON THE KEYBOARD. A COMPUTERISED PLAYBACK BLEEP.

WARREN: Hello again. So… um, my first journal entry was too short. 3 minutes a night minimum is what they want apparently, sorry about that. Er… it’s just a bit weird. Er… it’s hard not to sound like a bellend. Umm… Probably shouldn't swear either. I’m umming a lot. Right, well.

WARREN BEEPS THROUGH THE SETTINGS ON HIS WATCH.

WARREN: Stopwatch. 3 minutes. I mean I must be halfway there already. Go.

BEEP.

WARREN: So, uh. We are supposed to use our names. I'm Warren. I'm Warren Godby. Umm… Stop umming… We arrived yesterday. It's... I mean it’s not quite what I imagined. I mean not in a bad way, not in a bad way at all, it's, it’s, uh. I mean it's amazing, we're out in the wilderness, we’re by this huge mountain, it’s called Beinn Bagg, it's wild, it’s isolated, and yeah, yeah. It's it’s dark and cold, but I love, I love dark and cold, I'm pale and ginger, this is my happy place.

BEAT.

WARREN: So, I saw the farmhouse as the van pulled in. We don’t go in there, do we? That's just for the staff, I think. It looks… It looks lovely, very rustic. We've had the short tour, of all the necessaries. It's, it’s quite, uh, retro, is that the word? The base I mean. Getting a definite kind of John Carpenter meets like… Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy kind of thing. It’s very cool, it’s very in, very in.

GORDON HITS THE KEYBOARD, PLAYBACK STOPS WITH A BLOOP.

GORDON: Oh my god! That's exactly what I said!

THERES NO ONE TO HIGH FIVE.

GORDON: Blue Sky! That's exactly what I said about-

BLUE SKY: Hello!

GORDON: That's exactly what I said about this place.

BLUE SKY: I'm sorry, I don't know that one.

GORDON: The John Carpenter Tinker Tailor thing. Forget it.

BLUE SKY: John Carpenter is an American filmmaker.

GORDON: Okay. I know.

BLUE SKY: His middle name is Howard. He is most famou

GORDON: Don't worry about it. Jesus.

HE RESTARTS THE PLAYBACK.

WARREN: Anyway… I really did just want to take this opportunity to thank Overhead for this...opportunity...um, it's a real privilege to be to be part of an exciting piece of scientific research. I guess we'll all learn a lot more about what's actually involved er… now that we're here, and erm… you know everyone seems really nice, I think I think it says a lot that you would give people, people like me… achance. I know that I deserved to be where I was. And a lot of people would never...will never be able to look past that. I won't let you down. That's got to be 3 minutes.

ABRUPT CUT.

GORDON'S POSITIVE TONE HAS BEEN KNOCKED SOMEWHAT AS HE THINKS ABOUT WARREN'S WORDS.

GORDON: Well, that's a bit more like it. Well, that sounds like Warren, doesn't it? Kind of… I mean… I guess… I wouldn't really know. I've only known Warren for a few weeks. And before that he was living a kind of… well fakelife. And before that he was in hypersleep which he doesn’t even remember. And before that he was in prison, like all the other people in this cohort, for doing...I have no idea.

BEAT AWKWARDLY:

GORDON: Hey Blue Sky, save project.

BLUE SKY: Project saved.

BEAT.

GORDON ABRUPTLY GETS UP AND LEAVES HIS DESK, STRIDING AWAY AND OUT OF THE ROOM, THE DOOR CLOSING BEHIND HIM.

BLUE SKY: Would you like me to play the next recording?

BEAT.

IN THE SAME IDENTICAL INTONATION:

BLUE SKY: Would you like me to play the next recor-

CUT TO:GORDON IS SAT INSIDE THE GOLDEN BULLET. THE PATTER OF SNOW ON THE WINDOW. HE TURNS THE WIPERS ON.

GORDON: God, it’s cold. Why is it always colder inside a car than outside? Or does it just feel like that cos you're sitting still? It's umm… snowing. Here at Red Valley. And I realised I hadn't even checked in on the Golden Bullet once since I got here. She's just been sat, all alone, in the wind and rain and I looked out of the window and saw the snow and thought shit, I better move the car and now I’m… Well now, I'm sat in the car and now I'm like what the hell are you doing? Why not just start the car and get the hell out of here? There's no one stopping you. You are in the middle of a science fiction nightmare, your only friend is not only cryonically frozen and clinically dead but you've just remembered he's apparently a violent criminal who for all you know is Jack the fucking Ripper, and maybe when he wakes up he'll have forgotten you both have fond memories of Bucky O'Hare and Demolition Man and maybe, maybe he'll chase you round this fucking cathedral of evil like Michael Myers. And somehow, you've ended up responsible for him, and you have no idea how to even keep yourself alive let alone babysit a potential maniac. You can just leave whenever you want. Why are you still here?

BEAT.

HE STARTS THE ENGINE ON THE SECOND ATTEMPT. REVS IT A LITTLE.

GORDON: It’s because you've got nowhere to go, you pillock. No one to help you. No friends, no family, no money, no home. All you've got is your job. And your job is here… You're the Red Valley... What was it? Concierge? Gordon Porlock, Red Valley Concierge? No, that's bollocks.

GORDON CUTS THE ENGINE, AND SIGHS. PAUSE FOR A MOMENT. IN THE QUIET, ANOTHER NOISE - ANOTHER CAR ENGINE?

GORDON: What is -

HE OPENS THE DOOR, CRUNCHES OUT INTO THE SNOW A FEW STEPS. THE ENGINE IS STILL RUNNING.

GORDON: Where's that coming from?

SUDDENLY THE ENGINE REVS, A VEHICLE IS PUT INTO REVERSE IN THE DISTANCE, AND IS GONE. GORDON TALKS TO THE WIND,

GORDON: Well… that's umm...that's just what I need. Creepy distant vehicle noises in the middle of nowhere. Another item balanced on the saddle of my anxiety Buckaroo!

END.

[the-darkness-does-not-bargain]

maple, cider, cinnamon, quilt, moonlit, cocoa. using magic to send that to you telepathically with a great big thindering voice lowkey like one of those cliche deity voices, just for the dramatics of it all

Nice 👌. One time in college I was sitting in the campus townhouse I was rooming in, and the power went out from a storm. Then, from speakers no one had ever noticed before, an automated storm warning played throughout the whole house. It was wild, really thought God was talking to me for a second.

Anyways.

Maple answered here!

Cider: Food from childhood: I used to hate tomatoes. I liked all the things you could make from tomatoes, but not the actual fruit until just recently. I think it's because the ones I tried as a child were just not good, no flavor, and I couldn't handle the texture at the time. Really happy that I like them now though!

Cinnamon: Time period. I think I'd like to live in pre-Viking, pre-Anglo Saxon Ireland, Scotland, or Wales. The Isles, ya know. There's so much interesting pre-Christian culture there, and I love to be immersed in it. I'm sure I wouldn't live long though 😅

Quilt: Coffee preference. Usually two creams and one sweetener. I like it hot and cold, and I do like the occasional flavor added too, like mocha or peppermint. Actually, I just tried some vanilla moonshine recently, and now I wanted to make a bootlegger's latte with it.

Moonlit: Neat or messy. I wouldn’t say I'm messy, but I am cluttered. As long as I know where everything is, I don't need it all to go into specific places, and since I live alone, there's no one I need to organize for. So my stuff is scattered about, but it works for me.

Cocoa: Hair. I actually like my hair pretty well as it is, but if I were to change it, I might make red. A nice, rich auburn, and I might get a sidecut. Pair that with the facial piercings I would get if I wasn't a wimp, and my dream wardrobe, I think I'd look pretty damn good 😎

[bike42]

Tuesday September 26, 2023

I was awake before six, so I got up and did a full yoga session before breakfast - felt great after eating so much yesterday! We had a nice breakfast and time to spare before Route Rap at 9am this morning.

Thirty minute shuttle to Portloe, was a tiny fishing village, but now a bit taken over but vacation rentals. Conservation laws preserve the character of the village. Mike, the professor/historian joined us again for the day - his family descended from here since the 1500s.

Most of the land we walked through today is part of the National Trust - land acquired by donations. It’s a charity/ non-profit. Many aristocrats after WWII couldn’t afford their estates, so they were often donated, and they’d be allowed to live in a wing. While some land is used for grazing, it’s mostly kept wild with access for hiking. Cale had told us this morning that much of the land is also designated as AOAB - Area of Outstanding Beauty, which puts restrictions on how land can be utilized (one third of Cornwall falls into that category).

It was great to have Mike along to talk about the history of the area. He recommended a book called “White Gold” - telling the story of a million people taken from these shores by Barbary pirates. What I hadn’t ever learned or considered, is that Cornwall has Gaelic ties much like Ireland and Scotland and is closely affiliated with the Brittany region of France, across the English Channel but closer than London! Like Scotland, there is a nationalist movement that seeks greater autonomy within the UK. Also like what we saw in Ireland and Scotland, the original language, Cornish in this case, had all but died but a revival is taking place and it now appears on road signs and is being taught in schools.

We hiked to a point called Nairs Head - during WWII, they built a fake city in order to lure the Germans into bombing there versus a real city. This area was heavily bombed before the Blitz, over 100 attacks here 1939-1940. Now the site of a 1950’s Cold War bunker, with an amazing view of the huge harbor.

The morning was a 4+ mile hike to Carne Beach where Joel had a table set up with snack, local ales and ciders for sampling. The day turned sunny, and actually HOT for the first time in weeks for us. I was hiking in a sleeveless shirt! The guides had talked about swimming at lunch, so I had packed my suit and towel in my pack. I went behind a rock to change, Jeff decided to swim in his boxers. We went out into the cold water with Mike, Perry and Cale. It was probably to coldest water I’d ever dove into, but super refreshing too. The waves were really awesome, the kind we like to dive into. But just a few dives and we were out of there! Mike does a cold water swim every day, so he stayed in longer.

We dried off, sampled some cider, changed our clothes and walked up to a restaurant above the beach for an awesome lunch, outside on the patio enjoying the day. Jeff and I sat with Mike and enjoyed swapping stories. He was very curious about what “work culture” and benefits are like in the US compared to the UK. He said Europeans look at the Britons as working too hard, and the Britons think of the US as working too hard. Interesting.

We walked another 3.5 miles down the coast, a smaller group of 8 as others opted to shuttle back after lunch. Beautiful scenery, with ups and downs. Once the trail brought us to a beautiful beach where no one was around - amazing!

As we approached Portscathos, there was a Coast Guard shack that has been converted to CoastWatch - manned by volunteers every day, mainly looking for wildlife. We also came upon the “Hidden Hut,” a cute bar / cafe over a secluded beach, which we learned had been a great outdoor hang out for many during COVID.

We ended in Portscathos at an adorable pub - Plume of Feathers, and had a round of Gin and Tonics before our 20 minute shuttle back to St Mawes.

Port = harbor

Scatho = boat

I soaked in the tub for a bit, then we dressed warm for our Seafood BBQ on the patio overlooking the harbor. Gorgeous evening, with the moon rising. Food was bleh, but ambiance was over the top.

Sounds like the remnants of another hurricane are about to hit bringing rain and high winds to our trip once again, so our leaders are scrambling to ensure we can do a safe hike tomorrow … we’ll probably stay off the cliffs!

[potter-imagines]

Library Confessions (George Weasley)

Summary:  george fluff?? maybe like some sort of best friends to lovers kinda deal?

Notes: I've been wanting to write George for a while so I was excited to make this !! hope you enjoy x

Pairing: George Weasley x Reader

Warnings: None, just fluff

Word Count: 5.3k

It was a flurry and cold winter day, the kind of day when every breath stings the lungs and every exhale chills the lips. The frigid air, the slippery ground and the sheet of white covering the once green grass. All signs winter was here and cold times were ahead. Even in the highlands of Scotland, the winters were ferosus and unforgiving. Seeing as it was your seventh, and final, year at Hogwarts, most would assume you’d have adapted to the cold by now, but that wasn’t the case. Although as much as you despised the freezing temperature, the pulsating tick of your headache preferred the cold over the thunderous noise back inside.

The Gryffindor common room was too rambunctious- wild, uncontrolled for your desires tonight. It was Friday and tomorrow was the highly anticipated day trip to Hogsmeade. Students were understandable thrilled and you would have loved to join in, but the throbbing pain and stress of school on your shoulders masked your fun. The migraines were brought on by school, but also the idea that you would not get to join your friends tomorrow.

Your feet carried you further from the common room, the rowdy noise fading with every step. If the weight of homework wasn’t so heavy on your shoulders, the party would’ve been in your plans. You tried to stay as long as you could but after about twenty minutes, and three Weasley fireworks being set off, you decided a breath of fresh air sounded delightful.

Your best friends, Fred and George Weasley, were the cause of this chaos. They were fully sober yet drunk off the energy of the room. When you had left, Fred and Lee were orchestrating a tournament of pumpkin juice pong, and George was sitting on the scarlet couch talking to Harry, Ron and Hermione. His eyes darted to you every few seconds. Sometimes he would hold the gaze, or send you a wink, but most of the times he snapped his head back to the golden trio, pretending his attention was elsewhere.

It made your heart thump against the bones of your chest. You were sure if he had been sitting beside you he’d surely hear it, loud and clear. A deep pink blush spread across your cheeks at the thought of George. You had been close friends with the twins since you stepped foot on the Hogwarts Express and sat in the same cabinet as them. Through the years, the bond grew stronger yet developed differently with each twin. Fred was like an annoying, overbearing, proactive big brother and George, well, the affection you felt for George was not in a brotherly way. 

Since your third year, you started noticing subtle things about him. Like how he arched his eyebrows when he spoke, or when he’d bite his lip when taking notes. He also had a tendency to eat his dessert first, if you got him laughing enough he’d accidentally let out a tiny snort and he always stood to your left when you walked to class together. When winter came, George was always shedding his clothes in order to keep you warm. Fred would complain that you knew it was snowing, therefore it’s your fault for being cold, but never George. Not to say that Fred is cruel, he can be a gentleman when he chooses but your relationship was more sibling bickering and competition. But George had always been a bit, sweeter than Fred.

Most wrote the twins off as one person but the differences between the twins was written out in neon signs, in your eyes. Maybe it was because you were closer to the twins than most, besides Lee. They were both your best friends, but they treated you in polar opposite ways. If Fred ever tried to cuddle you in his bed, you were sure you’d ‘Stupefy’ him into oblivion. When George did it, you could hardly croak a breath with all the rockets exploding in your heart.

The fragrance of frosted pine and butterscotch wafted through the nipping air as you approached the north entrance of the castle. Winter was finally here. The beauty of Hogwarts shined most bright during this time of the year. Snow crunched under the weight of your foot while you trudged through the courtyard taking advantage of the short cut. With the overwhelming school work piling by the second, slipping into the library didn’t seem like such a bad idea. You had two papers, a research project for Magical Creatures, and an exam in Potions. Not to mention you were expected to memorize and perfect a list of disarming and protection spells before Defense Against the Dark Arts by Tuesday.

Lost in your own stress, you hardly noticed your feet carrying you into the large doors of the library. The lighting was low and the attendance was even dimmer. A few Hufflepuffs and a handful of Ravenclaws were scattered around the room. Madam Pince nodded her head at your arrival then returned to her work behind the main desk.

Sliding into an empty table, you started to situate yourself. A stack of parchment was already waiting next to a clean quill and glass container of ink. It wasn’t hard to find the necessary textbooks and you returned back to your seat rather quickly.

A good twenty minutes had passed before your ears perked up at the sound of Madam Pince scolding a student. You didn’t have a clean view of her desk but you assumed a group had gotten too loud for her liking. Turning back to your book you faced away from the main entrance of the library. Eyes scanning the textbook, a new presence creeping up behind you went unnoticed. As you flipped to the next page in the advanced potions book, a grasp clamped down on either shoulder and a pair of lips hovered dangerously close to your ear. The unexpected warmth created a jolt on energy through your body. You practically flung out of your chair in surprise, whipping around to face your attacker. The initial glare and scowl soon washed away as your eyes met a familiar pair of warm, chocolate orbs.

George Weasley had a devilish grin, proudly basking in your shock. Not giving you a second to refuse his arrival, George pulled the wooden chair besides you out and sat in it. Throwing his arm across your shoulder, he smiled innocently at you.

“And what might you be doing in here on this eventful Friday evening, hm?”

Still reeling in shock, you placed your hand over your heart in hopes to calm down from the scare. Wildly glaring up at George, you yelled in a hush tone,

“George! You nearly gave me a heart attack- what’re you doing here?” You smacked his chest with a thud, though George remained unphased. His eyes squinted down at you while he shot back,

“Pretty sure I asked you first, love.” He said smugly. A large maroon and gold sweater adorned his frame, paired with dark washed jeans. You could smell the signature scent of pine and cinnamon that wafted wherever he followed. Folding your book on the table top, you glared playfully at the ginger.

“What else is there to do in a library besides studying?” The smart reply caused a twinkle in George’s eyes. You could practically see the gears turning as his witty side took control. His fingers tightened around the blades of your shoulder, dragging you a tad closer to him.

“Plenty of things-” An instant smack came as you knocked his side once more. George chuckled at your reaction, clearly amused by the flusterness taking over your features. Motioning towards the stack of parchment and mountain high pile of lengthy textbooks, you shook your head.

“I’ve got a lot of work due this coming week, so figured I’d get a head start.”

“Ah, you weren’t enjoying the party.” He declared knowingly. George typically never left your side during house parties. The anxiousness and suffocation of the noise that crept into your veins was always capped by the feeling of his arm around your shoulder protectively. Although tonight, George ran to the Golden Trio the moment the function began, leaving you alone in the corner with Dean and Seamus. You were friends with the boys but George was the only one who could make you feel relaxed and him being busy, escaping the party seemed like the best option.

Leaning into your chair, a heavy sigh fell from your parted lips at the recollection of tonight. “Not really I suppose. I don’t know… not in the partying mood tonight.” You admitted softly. George’s face furrowed immediately, concerned painting his features boldly. The dim lighting of the library all but hid the gleam of worry in his eyes.

“What’s got you stressed, darling?”

Scoffing at the question you picked up your book and started flipping through the pages again. For starters, you couldn’t decide where was the best place to start when it came to all your worries. There was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named who returned last school year, the fact that the twins were planning on leaving early to open their shop (which they asked you to help run once you finished with school), home stress, school work, your feelings for George, trying to figure out your plans for after Hogwarts, and so much more. The weight of the world was crashing down on you and for the first time, you felt like allowing it to crumble you.

“You mean besides the school work I’m drowning in and the ever looming fear of being murdered by the Dark Lord himself? Eh, not much.” The sarcastic reply was all too familiar to George. Having spent the last seven years glued to your side, he started to pick up on your antics. Like your constant need to use sarcasm to hide your genuine fears. He studied you for a moment, searching for any hint on what really had you worked up.

Reaching his hand out, George plucked the potions book from your hands and started surveying it. He tilted the book upside down, pretending to read the text. Scrunching his brows, the fiery twin feigned comprehension of the material, a small ‘oohh’ and ‘hm’ falling from his lips as he did so. His silly antics caused you to giggle as he threw the book back to the table.

“Why’re you doing homework on a Friday night, anyhow? You’ve got all tomorrow morning and all day Sunday for that!”

“Technically have all day tomorrow as well-” George stopped you short as he cut into the conversation stubbornly.

“No, we’re all going to Hogsmeade and I already claimed your spot next to me at The Three Broomsticks!” He resembled a pouty child as he huffed besides you. Flipping the page of your textbook, your mouth bunched in the corner, guilt entering your bloodstream.

“I’m really sorry, Georgie. If my grades slip any further- my mum’ll have my head on a stick! Besides, I didn’t figure it would be that big of a deal, everyone else is going so I’m sure my absence will not be noticed.” Your laugh was meant to cover the tang of honest hurt, although you hoped it would slip past him. Of course, George noticed everything when it came to you and seeing you down was definitely not something he felt okay with ignoring.

“But I’ll notice- just like I did tonight.” He added with a point of the finger. It was true, George always seemed to notice when you were missing. He also always seemed to know where you were when you did sneak away.

“Thanks…” Trailing off, you glanced over to George. The honey like orbs were already examining your features. You assumed he must’ve picked up on the sadness dripping through your pores because the next thing you knew, George was offering up his entire Saturday.

“You want me to stay back with you?” Your head snapped in his direction immediately. With a bugged stare, you shook your head feverishly.

“What- no! You and Fred practically countdown the days until we get to go to Hogsmeade. I know how bad you wanna go, don’t skip out ‘cause of me.”

“We do have another trip next month so I can just wait to go until then. I’m sure Hogsmeade will still be flourishing by then. C’mon, you know you want me to stay back. You’ll bore yourself to death without me around!”

“You’d just be staying back because you feel bad-” George interrupted you, face reading bewilderment at your accusation.

“No, I’d be staying back because I want to. Y/n, when have I ever hung out with someone I don't want to be around- besides Percy seeing as I’m obligated to share a home with him. I want to spend time with you, that’s why I look forward to Hogsmeade trips. Get to spend time with you outside of the castle. So if you’re not there, I’m just gonna be miserable, love. Which means, I better just stay back with you.” A mischievous smirk rose to his lips as he finished his spiel, crossing his arms across his chest. The material of his sweater bunched around his fold and you admired Molly’s handiwork. Pressing your finger into his chest, you gave George a playful shove. He reached out for the table top to sturdy himself as he chuckled. Batting your lashes you teasingly cooed,

“Sounds like someone can’t get enough of me.” Not missing a beat, George rested his elbow on the tabletop. His chin was planted in his palm as he leered dreamily.

“Thought we already established that.” He winked over to you. Lifting up your heavy book, you sheltered your blushing cheeks behind the pages. Your forehead pressed deeply into the pages as you folded the covers around your heated face.

“You joke too much.” Mumbling into the book, you were taken aback when a hand abruptly snatched the book from your fingertips. You watched as the book went above your head, then settled in George’s hand. He snapped the cover shut between his hands, an echoing ‘snap’ invading the library. The peppermint lingering on his breath smacked against your lips. George ran his finger over the title page, then tossed it to the side. As the book slammed on the counter, he turned his head back to you.

“Never about my feelings towards you, though.” He stated seriously. Your brows pulled together in a stern line.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Your furrowed gaze rested heavily upon him.

“I just… really like spending time with you. Like just the two of us.” As he finished speaking, you watched cautiously as George’s hand sneaked over to land on top of yours. His palm was warm on top of yours. After a few seconds, he flipped your hand over so it was set inside his. That comfort feeling bursted in your chest under the weight of his eyes. It was funny how the simplest of actions from him could cause a firework extravaganza in your chest. The tension in your throat was increasing.

“I do, too, Georgie. You’re very sweet.” You smiled awkwardly, the bashfulness overcoming every cell in your body. When Fred complimented you or was too kind, it made you suspicious. Usually he buttered you up before a prank, so you never fully trusted his words but George? George was too gentle to ever set you up or put you in harms way.

“Y/n… there was actually something I’ve been meaning to ask you- well something I was gonna ask you tomorrow but seeing as you’re not going, might as well as you now.” The mumble was a notch above audible. You watched on as he fumbled with his hands, twiddling his thumbs nervously. His anxiousness was contagious as you soon felt uneasy as well. Your mind raced in worry as you wondered what was clouding his mind. As if it was second nature, your hand moved out in reaction to his worrisome state to snake his hand into your own. Softening your piercing stare, you squeezed his hand tightly.

“What’s wrong, George?”

His attention was shifted to your locked hands. It wasn’t the first time you held his hand, although it was the first time you were knocked off balance by the wave of electricity streaming down your spine from the touch. Based on his reaction, you figured George felt it too.

“Uh, would you ever want to, like, go on a date? I um, I’ve really liked you for quite some time now and I keep trying to ask you but I get nervous cause… I just needed to tell you myself before Fred does it for me.”

“Tell me now if this is a prank, George Weasley.” The sternness in your voice was something George only heard on occasion. He knew not to joke when it came to your heart so he was taken aback by your words, though understood why. You saw the confusion stirring in his brain before he settled your worries.

“It’s not a prank, love, I swear on my life. I would never lie about my feelings, that I can promise.”

“Tomorrow?” You looked up, eyes peeking over to your side. George had hardly moved and stared blankly at you. It was if his brain had hit a wall and was lagging in processing. The candle on the table flickered, orange and red shadows flashing across his face. Even in the shadows the razor sharp edges of his jaw and cheekbones popped.

“Huh?” He croaked.

Catching a Weasley twin off guard was not a common thing and George appeared baffled. Hands folded in your lap, you could feel the small shake to his grasp. In an odd way, you felt a surge of confidence knowing you had the power to make George blush. Tightening your hand around his own, you roamed the pad of your thumb across his knuckles.

“Could we go on a date tomorrow? After I finished at least two of my papers- could we go on a date then?” It was hard to shake the electric shock tingling through your bones. Never before had you basked in eyes as beautiful as his. His eyes reminded you of a pool of whiskey and shades of chestnut. When the light flashed, a honey, caramel tint soaked his orbs. Simply calling them ‘brown’ eyes did no justice.

Your voice brought a large smile to George’s lips like he won the lottery. The glistening gleam brighten the dim corner of the library. You could feel your breathing become inconsistent once again at the sight. Nodding his head, you watched with a smile as his sandy, ginger hair danced in tune.

“Yeah, yeah of course. Does uh, does that mean you like me too?”

Leaning back in your seat, you started to think back on all your years at Hogwarts. There wasn’t an exact moment you fell for him- it didn’t happen all at once. It was born as a crush, your heart leaping at the sight of the handsome boy your first year. When you started hanging out with the twins, you immediately grew close with them by the third week. Since then, you only got closer with the twins although it was undeniable that there was always a more intense gravitational pull you felt towards George. Not that Fred hadn’t pointed out the obvious connection between his twin and you numerous times. He enjoyed harassing George and yourself a bit too much.

Shrugging your shoulder in uncertainty, you admitted,

“Honestly it’s been so long I can’t remember when I first started liking you. I mean I’ve had a crush on you since first year and… I’ve always found you to be the funniest, most handsome guy I’ve ever met.” You paused your word vomit to take in George’s expression for a sign. Glancing up, you noticed he was far closer to you than he was before. The tip of his nose faintly brushing against your own. Your eyes enlarged in seconds at the lack of space between you two. “What’re you doing?”

A gulp echoed through George. His teeth dug into the skin of his bottom lip, tugging at the skin in an attempt to calm his nerves. You viewed in curiosity as his eyes darted from your lips, to your eyes, then to the floor, then back to your lips again. Your suspicions were confirmed as George locked his peer into your own. His face read seriousness as he asked you gravely,

“Are you going to slap me if I kiss you? I’ve seen you knock the daylights out of Fred for trying to. Mum says you need to take a girl out before you kiss ‘em for real so I wanna do it somewhat right. Y’know, be a gentleman and such.” 

Your cheeks flared red instantly, eyes planted to the floor. George had always been sweet but you never expected him to be this sweet. There was nothing more in the world that you desired than finally getting to kiss George Weasley, but it was an incredible kind of him to take your own feelings into thought before acting. You pressed your lips together tightly, exceeding all your effort into suppressing the bashful smile threatening to breakthrough. It took everything inside to contain your excitement and nerves at his proposal.

George broke your messy train of thought as the sensation of his hand against your skin registered. His slim fingers brushed a strand of hair back behind your ear, then wrapped around the side of your cheek. Like two magnets matching up, you melted into his touch. Finally drawing your gaze back up, you placed the palm of your hand against George’s chest, grasping a light fist of his sweater for stability. The height difference wasn’t immense, but enough that you needed some sort of control to keep on your feet.

“How proper of you, Mr. Weasley. Yes, I would really like that.”

Leaning into his hand, you met George’s gaze as you slowly moved towards each other. Meeting in the middle, you were nearly knocked off your feet by the force of his embrace. Your lips connected like a perfectly mapped constellation. His kiss was warm and fulfilling, yet constantly left you wanting more. It was undeniable he had practice before, his lips moved far too calm for this to be his first.

You practically melted in his arms, kissing him softly. Your lips danced for a moment until you steadied your hand on his cheek, holding his face. You needed that sense of control, wanted to feel the hold you had under George. Taking the first leap, you dragged your wet tongue along the smoothness of his bottom lip. A tiny, almost inaudible groan fell from his mouth. You deepended the embrace momentarily, then pulled away to press one lasting kiss to his puckered lips. George giggled in reaction, a cherry red blush painting his cheeks.

“You’re adorable.” George ‘booped’ the tip of your nose when he finished speaking. You laughed at his action then extending your finger, you placed a similar tap to his nose and teased him,

“Stop talking about yourself, George.” Although before you could fully retreat your hand, George’s own wrapped around your fingers. In one swift motion he lifted your hand to his face, then pressed his lips to the back of your hand. As he raised his head, his arm was quick to wrap around your shoulder, jerking your chair towards George as a result. His fingers clutched your upper arm loving. 

That smug smile was plastered across his face again, pleasantly pleased with the peach glow tinting your cheeks. Feeling the heat rising you dove to cover your cheeks in the sleeves of his sweater. George accepted your full embrace, arms moving to circle your body entirely. Suddenly a light bulb popped in his mind as he released his grip slightly to glance down at you.

“Maybe if I help you with some of your paper tonight, we’ll have more time for our date tomorrow!” The excitement in his voice was by far the sweetest sound you’d heard. You smiled back at him and nodded in agreement.

“Sure but I do the writing- I don’t trust you enough for that. Your handwriting resembles that of a child.” You laughed at your own jab while George gave you a deadpan look, clearly unable to form a comeback. He’d say so himself that his print was what the Muggles would call ‘chicken scratch’, a phrase you taught George. When George first learned to write with a quill and ink, he had a tendency to smear the ink a smudge as he scribbled away faster than the speed of light. Molly would scold George as the side of his hand would be stained a deep black shade and his paper was hardly legible.

“Rude but, understandable.” George commented. It was sweet of him, but you couldn’t help but wonder if he truly wanted to spend his Friday night stuck in the library. Raising your eyebrow to the boy, you gave him a questionable look.

“Wait, don’t you have a party you should be getting back to?” Arm still enclosed around your frame, George gave you a squeeze. A mischievous smirk now covered his lips as he confessed the truth. 

“What do you mean? I only threw that party with Fred so I could spend the night around you- maybe impress you with my wicked dance moves.”

Giving him a pointed look, your chest erupted with a fit of giggles. A memory popped into your mind of the first time you got the chance to view a drunk George Weasley putting on a ‘show’ for you. Sober George was a decent dancer but drunk George was on a different level of skill. The liquid courage had left George regretting a lot of nights and quite a bit of scenarios that came as a result. 

Although dancing drunk with you was never a regret of his. Especially when the two of you went to the Yule Ball together as ‘friends’. Mummers followed your every move as you waltzed with George, students gossiping about George and yourself. Not that you paid attention to anyone but George- there wasn’t a chance given to! You didn’t spend a single second resting on your feet as George had you dancing until the band was packing up. He spun, twisted, lifted, and twirling you all night long. When a slow song finally came on, the prankster king put his gentleman side on full display. It was by far one of the best nights of your life, one you still had yet to stop daydreaming over. Poking his side, you smirked teasingly at the boy.

“Georgie, darling, I’ve seen them before. You’d have a better chance sending yourself to the infirmary than impressing me with your ‘moves’. I haven’t forgotten the Yule Ball last year. My head was spinning for a month!” You laughed together at the reminiscence. George was just as mesmerized by the night as you, maybe a tad more so. For those few hours of pure bliss, George had never felt more complete. Seeing you all dressed up and glowing from head to toe- the image was captured in his mind forever. He never understood the term ‘speechless’ until he saw you walking down the stairs in search of him. He replayed that moment over and over again for a year now. Rubbing your shoulders lovingly, George leaned his head on top of yours.

“Aw, c’mon! You loved it! Twirling around like a beautiful ballerina in your dress. You looked breathtaking- everyone was staring at you. Can’t blame them, I couldn’t keep my eyes off you either.” His words made your insides feel fuzzy, kinda like the sleeve of his sweater. That of which your fingers were absentmindedly petting. George smiled down at the quirk, he loved every antic of yours.

Shaking your head, you pulled the book back that George had discarded. After all, you still had a stack of unwritten essays to get working on. You popped open the top of the ink container. George unraveled his arm from your shoulder to wrap lightly around your waist.

“Stop making me blush.” Crimson flooded your s/c cheeks, far too flustered to meet George’s eyes. That confidence from early had flown away just as sudden as it came. A sprout of warmth came as George’s finger pressed against the side of your jaw, turning your face. Sweetly, and silently, he requested your gaze to which you obliged.

“But you look so beautiful when you do, darling. Now stop distracting me- we have a paper to write, in case you’ve forgotten, love.” His lips darted forward and soon enough, his enticing lips kissed your reddening cheeks. George smirked teasingly, reaching the feathered quill out to brush against your nose. You lightly smacked it away, giggling at him as you did.

“You’re the one distracting me-” The squeal was silenced by George as he pretended to ignore your words as he continued to tease you. Pressing his finger against your lips, George purred,

“Hush, we’ve got work to do so I can take you out tomorrow, love.”

“Fine but don’t forget Georgie, I’m doing the writing.” Narrowing your playful glare, you spoke sternly. It was a sort of game you played- going back and forth with one another. Although finally that teasing crossed the line of flirting to something real. In a way, it almost felt fake. Like all those years of waiting hadn’t really paid off, you were just asleep in your dorm room, dreaming this all up.

The touch of George’s arm leaving your waist cold was enough to question; however the radiating sensation of his hand slipping into yours was confirmation it was real. The chaste kiss he left on the back on your hand still buzzed. Despite the lack of lighting, every handsome feature was distinct from his blazing locks to the scatter of freckles dotting his face. Giving you a sly wink George flirted,

“Ah, I love a woman who takes control.”

For the next hour and a half, far in the corner, behind rows of bookshelves and torches to light to way, George and yourself attempted to write your essay. The first hour consisted of stolen kisses, stolen looks, and George constantly stealing your book from your hands. He made it nearly impossible to the point you threatened to cancel your study date, which shaped him up immediately. 

The last half and hour George read to you different pages from your stack of books until you got a good jump on the paper. You were feeling hopeful until Madam Pince had announced the library would be closing for the night. In a matter of seconds, George’s hand was clamped around your wrist, attempting to drag you out. You managed to scoop your school supplies together and tuck them away in your bag before allowing him to escort you back to the common room. You just hoped your study date tomorrow would consist of some actual study. If not, it’s a good thing you have all of Sunday.

[sanctificetur]

t1. francis & alayne.

as francis wakes up in the midnight hour, he decided to go shopping. yet first, he went over to the window near his bed to look outside, slender fingers grasping into the light brown curtains shivering in a veiled version of outside.

it’s already light, and the stars ran away with the night.

with it blocking out most of the sunlight. he sees a whole mountainous congestion of buildings below and above, which depresses him a little, while also being in awe that he was in a place where he could travel with ease in his independence. as he continues savouring the wondrous sight with his eyes closed in bliss, the light glows a little deeper yellow behind his eyes. and he opens.

what does he see in the sky? as he lifts his eyes up? and surrounding buildings? white fluffy cloud shapes in blue sky. as he peers closer to the window, the distant sun suddenly pierces his eyes -- red starting to mix in with his subconscious darkening light the whites around the black-blue pupil ; and sunny memory sudden inflects on his conscious.

and he has to lower his eyes briefly from the sudden burst of light. better not look too close, he thinks. just at a distance at my own time and pace. flying into and rising with the sun... above & below cloud sections ; giant cloud shapes surrounding mini drfiting apart cloud tufts shaped like a silver fish. what other shapes of memory does the vision of looking outside reminds me of ... white feathers.

he dresses and walks into the shopping centre, the two part doors sliding open for him as he nears. he was taking a break from his musical studies, as he was feeling quite stressed. the reason he was going here was to browse for new clothes. which clothes. he ponders. he had been feeling confusion on new styles, as he taps his chin thoughtfully while looking at his giant clothes walk in closet. he eventually decides on a black ribbed turtleneck, to protect himself from the slightly chilly atmosphere in terms of a little wind as it was only eighteen degrees sunny and a bit windy ; but not needing to don his faux fur lined tan coat of beautiful flirtation.

as he walks in, a neon orange and black sign glowing on edges jumps at corner of his eye, and he shields eyes momentarily from sudden visual. he had been feeling a spiking onslaught of strange visions of...something. a tree bare branched in the forest... he shakes his head, disliking the accompanying hole pattern surrounding the sign, ‘Stark’s stock’. He thinks, not very nicely, who would choose this colour scheme? i could do so much better... is the world out to get me? poking holes in my subconscious much? like a madman, i sing my laurels... yet what are the true laurels of my soul?

he was the prodigal son, the son his mother catherine loved above all else. he was a prince, future king of France... What?! he shakes his head, that was crazy!! he wasn’t that special… Yet then he thinks again with honouring his right brain — and the memory continues —- Mother had said he had a wild imagination, in a fond tone, patting his gold massy curls with crowned green leaves … when he was a child.

And now, the duties were even more enforced as he was growing into his own person, he was to be sovereign king over this country of France. They weren’t going to be around forever. And France was fickle, enemies everywhere — Scotland was invading — and his duty to protect ; but he had no marriage prospects as of yet? Catherine says, “training to be king and finding a girl to wed and have heirs is paramount into securing a strong future”. But, she says, of course, “you can continue your creative hobbies -- as long as you’re happy.” only on the side ; just for fun…

as he steps in and searches, alayne is arranging stuff on white metal shelving ; the cold metal burns — I’m burning for you — through her dark pink purple sweater : buffed enough to withhold a plethora of items. she is in the stationery aisle, until francis asks her, “hello, ma’am. May I find the glassware section?”

Francis then tosses the gold ribbon in haste into the colouring book stack, “I have to get to my violin lesson to practice the song Sleep Sugar ; it’s nearly two pm ” soft edged exclamation ; the top cover representing a mosaic colourful parrot.

Alayne’s pants depict an infinity symbol on black and white tarot carded window ; none of them facing inside ; yet the infinity symbol? and she wears a ruffled blouse, with a purple flower necklace with M trinket in centre.

Francis and Alayne go to a cafe for lunch. They go to a window seat, the green wild vines ensnaring the window, and a sunflower patterned curtain shivers from the hot breathy fight between the two patrons before them. it involved what meal to order at first. 

Francis rolls his eyes, his light feathered lashes dancing around his eyes,

 “if you’re a bird, I’m a bird. but we are also strange birds.”

 “I do not eat like a bird!” Alayne says in annoyed tone, in response to Francis teasing her.

 They eventually compromise in meal, sparking an initiation of better days to come. She raises her hand to order food, rather steadfast in her gesture ; although still shaking a little from when… he rescued her from drowning in sea in past life… wait, where did that thought come from?? they technically only knew each other for a short time…

Half an hour later … a waitress wearing the name-tag: Athena bustles up to their table, and places a large coloured flower decorated plate : two fluffy clouds of rice bowls for each ; stir fry of scrambled eggs, green veg, light pink salmon… they thanked her, and in the moment of picking up and delving in with their individual chopsticks, with a big public spoon on the dish plate ( to spoon from dish at their own time and pace ; not fall ill from the other’s saliva — heliobacter.

they continue with their conversation, while eating, as well as just admiring the beauty of the world in their surroundings… Separate posts for new scenarios, they say, looking down at the triskelion medallion…

[hisakata-resutomoshibi]

Ever visible was their burgundy suffering- a splash of hell fire paint coating him from shoulder to waist, garish accents splayed along his sleeves and to his delicate wrists. Accompanying it had been screams the like to bring wild rabbits to mind, though the sounds came not from their furred throats but the hollowed out lungs of the damned. And truly damned they were to be meeting such a vision in the night, for there was nothing to take lightly in the face of an avenging angel. 

Silvio loosened his grip and the mans body slipped the rest of the way to the ground with a practiced sort of thump. He had still been breathing when Silvio had broken his arm and surely was still; Matteo would not like it were he to kill more than necessary. Glancing up, his gaze once more fixed on the apparition some twenty feet from him, glowing red in the light thrown from the street lamps; weak and muted, it guttered occasionally, merely gas lights to combat the heavy London fog, but it was enough. Across his face, sharp angles brought into ever starker relief from the semi darkness, lay a bone deep sort of shuttered agony. 

Grimacing, Silvio aimed a solid kick at the ribs at his feet- just for good measure- and then crossed his arms, debating whether to approach Matteo or not. It could always be fifty-fifty when dealing with him in these situations. As much as he might look the warrior- splattered as he was so, the knife he stubbornly preferred still gripped tightly in his fist- he was not. He was soft and blurred at the edges, a watercolor painting bleeding into its surroundings and leaving behind life in bright tones where none had been. But now, as he was, he was a dark thing, a changeling in any light, grey on the surface and dark waters below, unpredictable and foreign. It left a strange sort of upended feeling in Silvio’s chest to see him like this, like the one he had been chasing for so many centuries had suddenly turned to him, smiling and within reach, only to disappear into thin air. There was not even the sense of anything left behind in the space his body occupied, as though his very soul, burdened with more lives than it would withstand, had finally eroded away leaving only a corn husk doll in its place. 

It made him uneasy- not a simple task to accomplish any more- to think that he could reach out, wrap long fingers around that dear wrist, and get no response. Cold and creeping, like a creature from the marsh, fetid and stinking of futility, it was a stark reminder- of fragility and fate, of luck and chance, a forever truth that he could not escape no matter where he went or how closely he clung. He was good at escape, capable of fleeing a scene, an encounter, a life, with no regard, no remorse, no effort; but here it seemed, as with all things concerning Matteo, his choices were immaterial and mattered not, he was in the eye of the storm, a ramshackle entity that existed now only to revolve around another.

“I’m fine with it,” Silvio muttered, stepping over the unconscious man at his feet and toward where Matteo still stood, staring down at the blood soaking through his cotton shirt. “But I wish he’d get a grip.” Pausing for only a moment, he threw out a hand, tapping soft fingers to the back of Matteo’s. “Hey,” he said flatly. “Come on, we have to get out of here. I don’t know about you, but I do not want another thirty eight hour sit in with those assholes down at Scotland Yard. I don’t know how many more family crisis’ I can invent to excuse us.” 

As he spoke, a pale emotion fluttered across Matteo’s stagnant face, leaving brushstrokes of warmth behind, and finally he blinked, looking up, dazed and unaware, even as he wiped and holstered the knife with practiced ease. 

“Silvio.” He said the name like a prayer, the syllables dripping from his lips like dew on petals, falling crisp somewhere in the middle air between earth and sky.

[adventuresofalgy]

The sky was covered with masses of dull grey clouds, and the wind, although not quite as cold as it had been, was wild and strong enough to be decidedly unpleasant. However, even on an overcast day the light was a great deal brighter than it had been just a few weeks ago, and the days were getting a great deal longer; all the birds were beginning to grow restless, and Algy was no exception - he wanted to be up and doing. The air had that infuriating feeling of spring-when-it-is-not-yet-spring, which Algy’s friends in warmer climes may perhaps never experience, but which, in the wild west Highlands of Scotland, occurs towards the end of every winter and can persist in the most frustrating manner for a considerable time.

Algy hopped up and down impatiently, watching the clouds push each other across the sky in the hope that the sun would break through… but it did not. Then he fluttered backwards and forwards, around and around, to and fro, inspecting first this, and then that, and then another likely spot around his assistant’s garden, in the hope that he could find a place that was tolerably warm... but he did not.

So, reflecting that after all it was still only February and conditions could be a very much worse, he shrugged his fluffy shoulders, fetched a battered compendium of poetry, and settled down on the mossy ground in the most sheltered spot he could find, which at least offered the comfort of a luxurious curtain of ivy to screen him and provide a cushion for his back. Turning the pages of his book, he read with some feeling:

Gone were but the Winter, Come were but the Spring, I would go to a covert Where the birds sing; Where in the whitethorn Singeth a thrush, And a robin sings In the holly-bush. Full of fresh scents Are the budding boughs Arching high over A cool green house: Full of sweet scents, And whispering air Which sayeth softly: "We spread no snare; "Here dwell in safety, Here dwell alone, With a clear stream And a mossy stone. "Here the sun shineth Most shadily; Here is heard an echo Of the far sea, Though far off it be.”

Algy is thrilled to see that spring has already reached some of his friends in the northern hemisphere, and he has heard exciting reports of flowers, bees, and even early butterflies! But he knows that many other friends are still surrounded by snow and the monochromatic world of winter, far bleaker than his own wee corner of the northern lands. So he sends lots of extra fluffy hugs to all those cold and snow-bound friends, and hopes that their winter too will be gone very soon now xo

[Algy is quoting the poem Spring Quiet by the 19th century English Pre-Raphaelite poet Christina Rossetti.]

[chibinightowl]

A cold moonlight shone through the flimsy curtains of Tim’s room at the bed and breakfast his old housekeeper, Mrs. Mac, now ran in the wilds of Scotland. He tossed and turned in his sleep, twisting the sheets around his legs even as a cold sweat beaded his brow and dampened his bangs.

With a start, he bolted upright, eyes wild as he gasped for breath.

It was the same dream again. The same one that had haunted him since the first night he arrived. 

Tim looked to the window to make sure it was still latched. He’d learned his lesson about keeping it open at night, even just a crack. 

“Go away,” he hissed.

A deep, rumbling laugh could be heard from outside, though Tim suspected he was the only one to actually hear it.

“I mean it.”

“Ye’ve come back to me at long last and I mean to see ye in the flesh once more. To hold ye. To love ye.”

Tim shuddered and tossed aside his rumpled blankets, stalking over to the window to glare out into the night. Of all the places he could have gone to take a desperately needed vacation, he had to pick a B&B that included a ghost who was desperate to get into his pants. 

In the neatly manicured garden below, a mist was rising, slowly coalescing into the form of a man. His name was Jason, or so Tim had learned from his dreams.  

He glared down at him. “I told you, I am not the person you’re waiting for. Go haunt someone else.”

This was apparently the wrong thing to say as the ghost disappeared from the garden only to reappear just outside the window. He was handsome, Tim would grant him that. Chiseled, rugged, pick an adjective. There was very little color to him, but his eyes...somehow, Tim knew they were a brilliant green that matched the grass below.

And that scared him more than he cared to admit.

“Five hunnerd years I’ve waited,” Jason spoke with his rolling brogue. “Please. Let me in.”

Tim glanced up at the iron horseshoe nailed over the window that had appeared sometime during his second day here, courtesy of Mrs. Mac. How she knew about his unearthly visitor, he wasn’t sure, but she’d always been insightful. Matching ones had surreptitiously been nailed to the other three walls of his room.

“No,” he said, forcefully. “It’s bad enough you’re haunting my dreams. I won’t let you in here when I’m awake.”

The ghost’s eyes flashed and he lost his form momentarily before solidifying again. “I’ve showed ye what we were, what I need so we can become that again.”

“No,” Tim repeated. His dreams--they were filled with blood and death. A face that matched his, standing on a hilltop looking out over a battlefield. At his feet knelt a leashed man whose arms were covered in blood. No, not a man. A demon in human form. Both of them, fighting and fucking with equal vigor. 

That could not be him. It couldn’t be. 

The horseshoe glowed red as Jason pressed against the glass. “Timothy,” he pleaded. “Just one drop.”

Tim backed away from the window, wishing the room had thicker curtains. “You’re not getting a single drop of my blood. Whatever you are, whatever you claim that I was, I am not that person now. I save people, not destroy them.”

Jason pounded impotently against the window and Tim swore the pane shuddered under the impact. “Ye can’t avoid me forever. I know who ye are now. I can follow ye, wherever ye go.”

“I’d like to see you try and cross an ocean,” Tim challenged with a smirk. “You’re bound here. When I leave, I’m not taking anything with me.”

The ghost’s lips peeled back into a grin that revealed far too many teeth. “We’ll just have to wait and see about that.”