#shame these are being auctioned off when they should be in a MUSEUM

[linseedling]

Kieran Culkin "Roman Roy" Funeral Speech Cards from Season 4, Episode 9: "Church and State"

[redgumshoe]

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This tragic tale is a story of Vile’s Bonnie and Clyde.

A couple of bandits who thought they could steal the world—a girl who isn't afraid of dying and a boy who’s always by her side.

The roles are reversed, but it's the familiarity of Bonnie and Clyde, A couple of criminals, and their glamorized crime spree across the united states of America. This story is not for the weak-minded, as real true life crimes of Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow inspire this.

June 9th, 2023: 6:34 am

Laverna smiled as she watched Devlin sleeping on the king-sized hotel bed. They were in Las Vegas, Nevada. Her long hair was dangling over her face as she watched him. The two troublemakers were on summer vacation.

Their fake IDs sat on their nightstand under the aliases of Bon Park and Chestnut Burrows—a newlywed couple spending their honeymoon in the city of sin.

Yesterday, they spent all day at the mob museum, a highly educational experience for the pair. Laverna had a habit of checking out any museums on the topic of crime, prisons, spies, and death. Devlin found quite a few of the displays on chemical warfare fascinating, as his medium is mad science. He’s the type of guy who should be working with the OSS, CIA, and FBI on how to tranquilize their targets without barbaric measures,

Laverna kisses Devlin's cheek. His unshaven stubble rubbed against her soft skin.

“Wake up, chestnut,” she commanded before playfully nibbling on his ear.

He laughed as this brought him out of his deep slumber. “Good morning, Bon Bon.” He answered as his eyes opened in the sun-filled room. He yawned as he rolled over with a bad idea in mind.

He pinned Laverna to the bed. Her tiny wrists perfectly fit in his moderately sized hands

He held her hands above her head as he observed her beauty.

“It’s time for your medication. Then we can get breakfast. Do you want room service or to go eat out?” He explained as he eagerly watched Laverna’s smug reaction to being restrained first thing in the morning.

“I hate my medication. Let’s go out today,” The dark-minded thief sarcastically answered as Devlin climbed out of bed to fetch the medical bag.

After a few hours and one pesky injection later;

Laverna and Devlin were exploring the city. Hand in hand, they walked as they eagerly eavesdropped on every conversation.

“Al Capone’s bulletproof car was so cool.” A man excitedly said to his wife

“It’s a shame Bonnie and Clyde’s car didn't have a chance..” Replied the wife as they hurried down the street.

Laverna’s eyes lit up as she overheard the names of Bonnie and Clyde. She was working on her collection of stolen goods, and the death car would be the most treasured piece in her wicked little collection of death and torture devices throughout history.

Devin Crooks watched Laverna’s eyes light up with hellish delight. This facial expression doesn't scare him at all. “I know that look. You found a sweet treat you won't leave without.” whispered devlin into Laverna’s ear.

They spent the next few hours hunting down that piece of American history. Finally, they found it was not in the casino, that it was listed when they searched online. It was on another casino floor; Laverna imagined her car called black magic, locked up on display in a casino if she died. Her name goes down in history. The concept of casinos owning infamous late criminals’ cars confused Laverna. Was her mother’s car on display in a museum? Laverna shook that messed-up idea out of her head. She wasn’t a Saylor anymore; she was a Heist, A subdivision of the sandiego legacy.

Laverna tilted her head sideways; She imagined the pain of being shot by a firing squad. Her body shivered as she bit her red-painted lip. Another part of her mind was formulating a plan to take this car home. It had no engine; It looked like something you bought off a police department auction lot. Now, she thought about it; The poor thing was bought from the police in Louisiana, and it could certainly use a loving touch.

Devlin found himself observing a blue western shirt; The shirt was ripped up; as the last person to wear it was Clyde Barrow. Devlin noticed the shirt size was the same as the one on his back. Devlin looked down at his button-up shirt; it was surreal. It was the same color as Clyde's last taste in fashion.

His hands tugged down at the hem of the woven fabric as he faced deja vu. A feeling of nausea filled his stomach as the implications were evident. He wouldn't admit it to Laverna; his gut screamed not to steal that car.

Unlike Laverna, He didn't believe in ghosts, sixth sense, and fortune telling. Yet, he promised to start thinking about it; If history repeats itself.

Laverna felt the opposite; She felt this was an outrage, despicable and horrific to make a cheesy tourist attraction out of the short lives.

She wanted to make the world pay for its crimes against the young lovers. She stomped her right foot angrily.

She would bring the legend of Bonnie and Clyde back to life.

She wanted to paint these states red as her plan was finalized.

Yet, stealing a car like this in a busy casino will not be an accessible fleet

Laverna and Devlin felt quite cocky after stealing Bonnie and Clyde's death car from the buffalo bill hotel in Las Vegas, Nevada.

Laverna spent her time fitting the old car with a new engine. “Let’s bring this legend back to life.” She chuckled as she slipped under the hood of the v8 Ford, littered with bullet holes.

Devlin was happy to help the pintsized lawbreaker in her mechanical work.

Laverna didn’t care that she was ruining the car’s price of five million dollars. It was her belonging now, and she felt like the Underworld was smiling.

Devlin, on the other hand, was feeling a bit concerned as he could swear he could hear the phantom sounds of gunshots as Laverna wired up the car.

They were hiding out in Arcadia, Louisiana, USA, approximately 11.8 miles away from the town of Gibsland, where Bonnie and Clyde met their demise.

The one thing Devlin knew about Laverna; she wasn’t afraid of anything. The same dangerous, reckless, and criminal behavior that Bonnie and Clyde were infamous for.

He was the more stable of vile’s criminal lovebirds. His job was to keep Laverna alive and away from her many enemies who had a vendetta against her. He was considered her bodyguard despite only being five foot 6 inches tall. He was strong and displayed a sense of self-preservation that Laverna merely lacked on her own.

The press excitedly labeled Laverna and Devlin, the 21st-century Bonnie and Clyde. It thrilled Laverna to death, and for Devlin, it was a mediocre reaction.

And for Carmen Sandiego, it was as if three black crows hung on the telephone line outside the window she sat in front of as she read the newspaper detailing the infamous car’s disappearance made by her determined pupil. It was a bad omen; she could feel the hairs stand up on the back of her neck.

Laverna climbed out from under the hood. She was confident that she would be driving this thing for a ride very soon. A genuine smile tugged on her face as she wiped her grease-stained hands on the front of her black vest. “Well, does Devlin desire to ride this bad boy back to our hideout?” She asked, although she wasn’t expecting him to disagree.

“It's past midnight; Let's head out in the early daylight. We don't want to cause a stir after dark. We might find a couple of bandits who won't appreciate us.” A worried devlin explained calmly, not to anger his beloved.

She rolled her green eyes at his unusually cowardly response to her command disguised as a polite request to ride the car through Gibsland and out through Shreveport, Louisiana, and return home to their underground bunker in the Ozark mountain countryside in northwestern Arkansas

“We don't have time to wait like that; the police are already on our tails since we stole this car three days ago. We will land behind bars if we change the schedule I have created for us.”

“That’s a fourteen-hour drive. We gotta pedal to the medal.” She continued as she stepped behind the wheel. She sat in the place where another famous criminal died. Her hands were on the steering wheel of the eighty-nine-year-old getaway car.

“We should have waited eleven years. “. Devlin explained as he climbed into the passenger seat.

“So it will be exactly a hundred years and 12 days after their massacre?” Laverna gruffly said as she turned the makeshift key in the Initiation.

The replica engine bought from an acquaintance of Carmen Sandiego hummed to life.

Laverna could care less about the dirt, oil, and nearly century-old blood stains she was sitting in.

Devlin felt shivers down his spine as he closed the passenger side door.

It was June 12, 2023, at 12:58 am, as they set off onto Louisiana's roads; this was the state Laverna grew up in. Devlin noticed one thing; the car had no seatbelts as Ford started the addition of seatbelts in 1955 which is twenty years after this car’s manufacturing date. The inquisitive Devlin Crooks loved historical facts; however, at the moment, He’s stuck riding down dark country roads in a shattered car with holes that made a slice of Swiss cheese jealous. It's just that with Laverna, the daredevil behind the wheel, having no seatbelts is like being thrown around in the dryer on the fastest spin cycle. His redhead banged on the back of the seat as she skillfully Maneuvered In and out of obstacles.

His knuckles grabbed onto the leather seat beneath him as they drove into the night.

“Laverna, slow down.” He commanded as a deer jumped in front of their car.

Laverna skillfully skidded the car around the deer. “Ya know, We aren’t doing Bonnie and Clyde a favor by going slow, “ She answered as she looked in the rearview mirror.

Laverna turned her night vision contacts on, which allowed her to see perfectly in the dark.

Devlin couldn’t see a thing; Laverna’s night vision contacts gave her perfect vision allowing her to blaze down the road in Clyde Barrow’s signature style.

The hours went by quickly; Eventually; they arrived at Gibsland exhausted from nearly forty-eight hours without sleep

Laverna backed the car into a wide area of the woods for an hour or two of sleep.

The time was 4:01 am as Laverna rested her head in her partner in the crime’s lap. He kissed her forehead as the coyotes howled and the crickets chirped under the light of the waning crescent moon.

Devlin could barely make out the moon’s shape behind the tall trees they hid behind.

“A waning crescent moon, Laverna taught me that means ending.” He said as he watched the four-foot-eleven bandit sleep peacefully in his lap.

He decided to rest, too; The worst-case scenario in his position was not to protect Laverna from harm.

He set the alarm on his gray smartwatch for 6 am, and the couple dozed off briefly.

It was a disturbed sleep; they lived out of the car like its previous occupants. The sounds of their breathing filled the vehicle.

Laverna's snores comfort Devlin as he sleeps lightly; He knew Laverna wouldn't listen about what she dubbed his well-trained overprotective nature. His left hand was wrapped around her chest as they slept.

Her knees were pulled up in a defensive position. The girl whimpers from her nightmares. Devlin hugged her a little tighter as they rested.

She stirred a little as her leather boots kicked the seat

His hand rubs her side to soothe her as they sleep.

Beep, beep. The alarm went off, causing Devlin to stretch his arms and legs.

It was a bit startling; for a moment, he had forgotten he was in this situation with Laverna. He shook her awake. She rubbed her eyes as she adjusted to her surroundings.

She looked at Devlin and smiled. “Good morning, sugar.” She said, allowing the southern accent she usually disguised to come out for a rare moment

It wasn’t a typical Southern accent; it seemed mixed with several other accents.

“Morning, Vern,” Devlin said before stealing a kiss from Laverna.

Laverna closed her eyes and allowed herself to get carried away.

She didn’t want to break the kiss, yet it was time to get back on the road. However, it would be wise for them to waste their limited time.

Devlin tried to stall Laverna; he yanked her tie, causing her to fall off the seat into the floorboard.

She quickly recovered to her position and restarted the engine. She backed out of the woods and onto Highway 154, unaware her brother and the maniacal association of underhanded evil-doers, aka the mauve, were setting up their fun.

They wore vintage detective outfits and hid among the shrubbery and bushes. The six men held loaded automatic rifles and eagerly awaited Laverna's arrival.

It’s unknown who tipped Charles off; perhaps he knew his twin sister better than she knew herself.

Maybe; the knowledge of history repeating itself brought out the gang to end the spree of a cocky eighteen-year-old girl who enjoyed the Adrenaline high from her life of crime.

Her twin brother didn't care that another person would be annihilated in this firing squad. He loved the smell of gunpowder and the smoke his pistol. More than he cared about protecting innocent bystanders.

He was already licking his lips in anticipation; the girl survived his last assassin attempt. How can she survive what the legendary Bonnie and Clyde couldn’t? Only a true goddess of thieves will escape this vendetta.

Laverna smiled softly as the sun rose overhead. Her eyes adjusted to the natural light as she slipped a peppermint into her mouth.

It wasn’t long until the car rolled into the area.

A shot went off, alerting Laverna to the danger.

She tried to exit the car only to find the doors wouldn’t open; This caused her to panic.

Her brother walked over and pointed an automatic rifle in her face. There was a sinister look on his face as he yelled at his men to fire.

It wasn’t long, yet it felt like forever as the bullets burned through Devlin and Laverna’s flesh.

The silence as Laverna and Devlin fade out of consciousness.

Time of death: June 12th 2023 6:34 am

The fog rolled in and the car vanished.

A poem was left

The trails end by bonnie parker

‘Someday they will go down together

They will bury them side by side

For a few, it was grief

For the law, a relief

But it’s death for Bonnie and Clyde ‘

It was signed with the initials c.s

(( p.s they didn't actually die))

[translations-by-aiimee]

Dig a Grave to Dig Out a Ghost - Chapter 17

Original Title: 挖坟挖出鬼

Genres: Drama, Horror, Mystery, Supernatural, Yaoi

This translation is based on multiple MTLs and my own limited knowledge of Chinese characters. If I have made any egregious mistakes, please let me know.

Chapter Index

Chapter 17 - Provocative

All the lights in the auditorium dimmed, and the large powerpoint projection on the screen let out a bright glow. If audience had been excited about Tang Yin's painting, then they were ecstatic with the next item, or maybe they were just in shock. The image on the screen was a Song Dynasty Ge-ware bamboo incense burner. The whole piece was coated in a light green glaze. The iconic Ge-ware-style sharp cracks and dark lines stretched over the body of the burner. Its slim shape was truly elegant.

PSP guy's eyes subconsciously lit up, and his slumped posture suddenly straightened. This was a very pricey item. If it was genuine, a seven-figure auction price would be a generous estimate.

Lin Yan couldn't help getting excited, but Xiao Yu seemed completely uninterested. He put his fingers on the top of his back and snuck them underneath his collar. He stroked his collarbone with cold fingertips and leaned over and hugged him. He kissed the side of his face unscrupulously. Lin Yan couldn't pull his hand away. He felt so anxious and angry, quietly thinking about what the two thousand people in the audience would think. He begged that no one in the audience could see the ghost behind him. If anyone could see him. . . even jumping into the Yellow River couldn't wash off his shame.

He wasn't sure why, but the intimacy of this clingy ghost happening now wasn't as disgusting as it was when the events started. Lin Yan blushed. He knew that this ghost’s temper, and that whenever he resisted, the torment would never end. However, the constant comfort could always calm him down. As the saying goes, "Whosoever understands current events is a great man." Lin Yan grabbed Xiao Yu's hand and tugged gently.

The cold hand touched his face, then dropped back to his shoulder and squeezed it lightly.

Professor File Folder pushed up his glasses. He took out a safe from under the desk, twisted the combination lock, and took out the bamboo incense burner that was in the photo with both hands and placed it on the mahogany desk frame. A white spotlight shone down on it, and you could hear a pin drop in the auditorium. The silence audience cast their gaze onto the piece on the desk. The fine light green porcelain was covered in sharp cracks, and the shape of it was simple but not amateur. The white light covered all corners of the burner, giving the eye-catching piece a frosty aura.

This was the charm of antiques. Life goes on. Time passes. The people have long since died but the artifacts will forever remain. They are passed down through generations of people with money holding strong and unmoved throughout the years.

This was definitely the final piece, Lin Yan thought. The professor motioned him and the PSP guy to come up and take a closer look. Lin Yan tilted the incense burner and looked closely at the bottom. Experts look at porcelain and examine the exposed portions before estimating its age. If there wasn't any issues, then the authenticity of the piece could be determined almost immediately. However, when the precious incense burner was turned over, Lin Yan couldn't help but let out a gasp. PSP guy was also taken aback. After pondering, his expression eventually revealed what he was thinking.

PSP guy's reaction convinced Lin Yan that today was definitely going to be a tie. Just as he was about to put the incense burner back, the glazed pattern suddenly caught his attention. Something seemed off, Lin Yan hesitated. He picked up the incense burner to check it again and frowned.

"Why are you so slow every time? Do you need someone to do it for you?" After the PSP man finished writing the answer, he took out a stick of gum and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing indifferently while looking at Lin Yan.

Lin Yan didn't bother paying attention to him. He was able to determine the age at a glance, and there was no problem with the glaze color and the crack patterns. This thing was almost a perfect fake of Song Dynasty Ge-ware. . . But it was being handled by the professor personally. . . It was almost impossible to make a guess.

"... What do you think?" Lin Yan asked for Xiao Yu's opinion softly. Xiao Yu didn't say anything, but the expression in his eyes seemed encouraging. He wasn't sure why, but being watched by those eyes, Lin Yan suddenly had a little bit of confidence in his guess and even changed what he was originally going to answer. Xiao Yu held his wrist and nodded very lightly.

So be it, Lin Yan thought.

"Students, please reveal your answers." The red jacket skirt girl announced.

The two whiteboards turned around at the same time. Each had the same answer again: fake.

Professor File Folder nodded approvingly, and said: "It looks like we have a playoff today. Both are correct. This is indeed a fake." He turned to face the PSP guy. "I won't explain it this time. Instead, this classmate will explain."

The PSP man took the mic, and the sound of chewing gum echoed through the loudspeaker. Lin Yan cringed. PSP guy didn't care at all, and said casually, "In the Ming Dynasty Chenghua period, there were lots of imitations of Song Dynasty kiln porcelains. It's in good condition and valued at 3 to 5 million yuan."

Lin Yan's brow furrowed even more.

Professor Folder was very satisfied. He doesn't even care about the bs that the PSP guy just spewed. He nodded and smiled: "That's right, these students can make these conclusions in such a short amount of time. They have good eyes. They both have a future in this field."

After speaking, he clapped his hands together, turned to the audience and said with vigour: "This is indeed not a Song Ge-ware incense burner, but a Ming imitation. There are very few imitations of Ge-ware works made during the Chenghua period of the Ming Dynasty left. This is only a representation of the Palace Museum, which has extremely high historical value. It's said that this school has excellent students. I didn't believe it before I saw it today. It was worth the trip, haha, definitely worth it."

"I have decided to make a special case for these two, and give each of them a prize."

Lin Yan looked at Xiao Yu hesitantly. The latter pushed his shoulders forward, as if urging him on. Lin Yan gritted his teeth, turned his head and said to the PSP man: "No, you're wrong."

The sound of chewing gum suddenly stopped, and the PSP guy stared at him. "Excuse me?"

Lin Yan took mic from the host and stuttered: "This-this is indeed an imitation, no one is arguing that, but it's modern. Even with the exquisite craftsmanship, it probably wouldn't sell for more than a 200 yuan decoration piece."

As soon as he fell silent, the audience was in an uproar, and some even leaned on the back of the chairs in front of them as if they were ashamed. The PSP guy snorted to express his disdain, and squinted at Lin Yan. "You're kidding, right? You can't see the obvious Ming Chenghua Ge-ware piece. I've been studying this for so many years." After that, he switched off his PSP and curled his lips: "It's time to go back class and educate yourself."

If it weren’t for Lin Yan’s calm composure, he would've rushed over and punched him. His anger of being humiliated in public made him clench his fists, but Xiao Yu must've known what he was thinking and held his shoulders with both hands to prevent him from acting on it.

There was a sneer across the auditorium. Someone called out for him to get off the stage. Lin Yan's heartbeat quickened. The building energy of the audience made him a little panicked. He looked at Professor File Folder like he wanted confirmation.

File Folder was embarrassed. To be honest, he personally identified this bamboo incense burner before it went into the Palace Museum exhibit. There was no debate about its authenticity. The purpose of bringing it to these events was not to re-appraise it, but only to serve as a typical example to teach students about the identification and collection of Ming imitations.

"It seems that this classmate is not very good at porcelain appreciation. Let me explain. When judging the age of porcelain artifacts, we must first look at the appearance of its base. This one has obvious characteristics of Ming Ge-ware, but it's an imitation of Song porcelain. Such things are called antiques in modern times, but at the time they were made, they were fakes. . ." File Folder gestured at Lin Yan that he could leave the stage. The corner of his mouth lifted, showing why young people should really take care of their skin.

Lin Yan was at a loss. He squeezed the armrest of the chair. He was so overwhelmed by File Folder's reputation as a leading porcelain expert that he didn't dare speak up. In all fairness, he didn't belong with a group of talented professionals. This time, he just happened to see a small contradiction and blatantly tried to argue with an expert. Lin Yan glanced at the darkened audience under the stage, and his stomach rolled.

A chill covered the back of his hand, another hand wrapping around his own. Xiao Yu stood beside him and tilted his head to look at him. There was no aggression, his eyes calm and serious. As if there was a steady stream of energy coming from the cold palms, Lin Yan felt funny. There were more than 2,000 pairs of eyes, yet only one ghost could see the truth. There were more than 2,000 living people, yet only one ghost was willing to listen to what he had to say. Xiao Yu's lips touched Lin Yan's cheek very lightly, motioning him to look at the incense burner in the center of the stage, and gently shook his head.

Under the dazzling spotlight, the fine porcelain's green glaze sparkled, and the cracked patterns were delicate and elegant. It was really beautiful. Lin Yan thought: The imitation was preserved because of its beauty, but the reality was left in the dark because of its cruel truth, turning into a coffin with decomposing bones.

"Go." Xiao Yu pressed his knees and said with great effort, ". . . Trust me."

Lin Yan took a deep breath, looked at Xiao Yu and nodded.

There was really only one way he could prove that this was really a modern fake. He walked around behind the square table and strode towards the piece on the stage. Before anyone had a chance to react, Lin Yan picked up the incense burner and smashed it on the ground without a second thought. There was a crisp sound. The million-dollar-priced treasure was broken into dozens of pieces and scattered on the ground. The PSP guy was stunned. The professor couldn't form a coherent sentence. The jeers from the audience stopped and the whole auditorium was silent.

Youth could be wild and energetic, but also incredibly stupid. Lin Yan stood stubbornly amidst the broken porcelain. Professor File Folder suddenly lost his composure. He leapt over and shoved Lin Yan's shoulder, his mouth opening and closing, unsure of what words to even say. The commotion from the audience grew louder and louder, as if being fueled by a storm.

Lin Yan broke away from the professor. He squatted down and picked up one of the shards off the floor, selecting a piece of the base of the incense burner. He pointed out the incline of the fracture, stuffed the shard into the professor's hands, and said softly but clearly: "It's a modern fake. It's a shame to put it in the Palace Museum."

File Folder let out a distressed noise, his face flushed. Anyone who really loves antiques knows that compared to the high price of an antique, the historical value it carries was a truly priceless treasure. Everyone was waiting to see the professor lose his mind. However, even though he was furious, he suddenly raised his head and looked at Lin Yan in disbelief, and then stared at the broken porcelain piece. His stubby fingers rubbed the porcelain piece back and forth. He trembled: " How. . . how could you tell?"

The professor spoke very quietly, but the mic on his collar picked it up, and the sentence echoed across the auditorium.

Hearing this question, PSP guy also picked up a piece of debris from the ground and looked at it over. When he raised his head again, the expression on his face looked like he had just eaten shit.

"Uh. . ." There were several things he wanted to say but they were all caught in his throat. Lin Yan has this problem. No matter what the situation, he never has any trouble when he speaks to a friend, but when he is alone in a large group arguing with others, he often freezes up because he lacked self-confidence.

Xiao Yu held Lin Yan, fingers tightly interlocked with his, standing side by side. His whole body was also cold like a piece of porcelain. After a while, he slowly calmed down, and cold lips gently tapped the side of Lin Yan's mouth.

He. . . was on his side. This thought made Lin Yan relax a little. After taking a few deep breaths to straighten out his thoughts, he explained: "Because of the temperature of the kiln, no matter how accurate the imitation of Ming Ge-ware porcelain is, there is still a slight difference in the direction of the cracks in the glaze of Ge-ware porcelain. The glazed surface of this incense burner has the characteristics of the Song Dynasty, but the exposed base has the characteristics of the Ming Dynasty. There is only one possibility for two eras of craftsmanship to appear on one piece; that is, contemporary counterfeit.” After finishing speaking, he added: “These kinds of frauds only started appearing within the past two years. I. . . I also took a gamble. I didn't think I'd be right."

The professor stared at him blankly, and hissed through his teeth: "You. . . you took a gamble? What if you were wrong? What if you made a mistake!" He tapped his feet twice, and finally gave up. He slapped the surface of the desk and said in a deep voice to the audience: "The students here are truly amazing."

After thirty seconds of silence, the audience burst into thunderous applause.

Lin Yan scratched his hair. He looked at Xiao Yu embarrassedly, and said softly, "We won."

He swore that this was the first time in his life that he has seen this ghost showing the expression of an ordinary person, looking very proud. Xiao Yu gently hugged him from behind, his long hair rubbing against his face. Lin Yan didn't avoid it. He was a little grateful for this ghost, even a little dependent on him. His palms were soaked in a cold sweat. Lin Yan gave Xiao Yu a sideways glance and rubbed his wet palms on his clothes.

Professor File Folder took a sip of water. He took out a pen and memo from his book bag, and looked at Lin Yan with interest: "Classmate, what's your name? Come to me when the lecture is over and I'll engrave it for you."

Lin Yan took two steps towards the professor and decided on what he wanted engraved.

"Xiao Yu. "Xiao" written as the character for "dejected", "Yu" written as the character for "sweet smelling"." Lin Yan explained. . .

The professor's smile dropped immediately, and his face changed in an instant.

[atinybitofau]

S E O N G H W A ⭇ art thief au

WHO COULD PUT A PRICE ON FINE ART?

a/n: had a little fun with this one hehet

• “A little more to the left.. a little more... there! That’s perfect.”

• now I know this sounds boring.

• —you being one of the most elite art exhibit planners in the country.

• except you find it more worth while than anyone else normally would.

• art being more important to you than a menial article of praise.

• art was a gift—

• a skill no less.

• that shouldn’t be auctioned for money hungry fools.

• but for people with a taste.

• though you don’t give yourself enough credit.

• not like anyone gives it to you in any how.

• “Y/n, Mr. Jung won’t be making it tonight. The finalized list of visitors will be printed and in your hands before doors open.”

• you smile your assistant away, fumbling with white tulips in a priceless vase.

• “One less of a burden anyway. We can open doors at 7.”

• things at the exhibit were perfect.

• after all, it was you who planned it.

• artists from far and wide just thieving for your expertise.

• the expertise of setting their art up.

• time was almost near,

• you, yourself presenting like an art piece from the pop up.

• but lights blind you as you check yourself in the mirror.

• halls eerily quiet.

• till you hear a hushed glass shatter over your breath.

• you run on your 5 inch heels thinking,

• how could you have been so unprepared?

• you, a widely known exhibit planner,

• to be robbed minutes before the exhibit even begins.

• you gasp,

• when the lights flicker on.

• a man like Spider-Man hanging lopsided from a rope, only lips shown to you.

• vice and like an art form itself.

• the way it mocked you and your excellence.

• “You’ve done an outstanding job, Ms. y/n. With your over the top art events— I couldn’t help but drop by and steal a glance of my own.”

• your jaw tightens and you’re eye locked with the masked robber.

• “A man like you shouldn’t feel honored.”

• “That may be so. But I’m definitely honored by the art pieces you have put out here today. One in particular I seem to be granted on.”

• he’s talking about you.

• though hiding behind a mask,

• feeling tempted to reveal himself in your presence.

• “My staff... what have you done with them?”

• “Oh? The poorly rooted crew you call your staff? Those little pesks would believe any voice out of your given ear pieces. Even if it were my own.”

• “Of all exhibits, why mine?” you ask the thief, eyes still unruly drawn to his.

• more tempted to pull the mask right off his face.

• if not for the visible gun and knife at his collar.

• “Now, Miss. That’s no way to credit yourself. You’re the most enviable art host in all of South Korea. Not at all tasteless. And maybe a little bit uptight but that’s no ridicule. I would steal your art auctions faster than you could say you’ll spite me for it.”

• “Is it too late?”

• “Depends. Turn around and we’ll see.”

• you reach to slap him when he graces on his rope like a stripper.

• lips smirking at you through his ski mask.

• and you visibly shudder, gulping.

• eyes watering when every single painting, sculpture, and art form disappeared while you had been conversing with the thief himself.

• “Y-you’re gonna pay for this.”

• “Will I?”

• the lights flicker again and you’re left in an empty space.

• no beauty.

• no art.

• no skills left to present.

• you were helpless because of a damn thief.

• and after paying your dues,

• a kind sue despite it being your fault,

• now jobless at the will of the devil,

• close to committing suicide for losing your whole life.

• just from one hell of a heist.

• “Y/n, there’s a check for you in the mail.”

• you look up concerned, letter now in your hands.

• it’s a check for half of a million.

• you noticing the only hint at the corner of the letter.

• an address?

• and a note hidden inside as well.

• ‘though you don’t give yourself enough credit, miss, you did take part in the most successful heist in South Korea’s crime syndicate. here’s your share. if it doesn’t tickle your fancy, why don’t you give my little art exhibit a visit? Maybe we could negotiate a price more reasonable for you.’

• your fingers play with the check.

• all of your debts solved if you do accept it.

• classless money.

• though...

• you had to admit that you were tempted to give yourself the credit.

• after all?

• wasn’t it you who set up the most successful art heist in the world?

• “Woah, girly. You’re at the wrong art exhibit.”

• shakily, you try to make out the lips on this handsome man.

• not the man you’re looking for, you think.

• not the art form you couldn’t stop thinking about for the past months on end.

• not the one who robbed your life away in a light’s flash.

• “Who sent me this?” you ask another man whose lips also had no resemblance to the lips you look for. “I need to beat the shit out of them.”

• one on the stair railing, eyes of glass shards smirks at you poking interest.

• “Brave for someone who rudely walked into a fox’s home.” the blond sings quoting the thief of animals. “As a past art collector, don’t you think you could give the home’s residents a little more class? Like complimenting the art on the wall. The least you could do, Ms. y/n.”

• he’s not him.

• speaks like him.

• acts like him.

• but he’s not.

• “I know you’re trying to deceive me. But I’m here to thank your little boss. Someone a little less tasteless.”

• he’s impressed.

• thinks you’re as graceful as they come.

• no doubt the woman his boss has been pining for.

• an art that he’d insist on stealing if it didn’t come to him fatefully.

• “What makes you think I’m not him?”

• “I’m an art collector, didn’t you say?” you taunt the petty thief, other’s joining in on the show. “I have a knack of weeding out the grotesque virtues.”

• “It’s a wonder why you haven’t joined us yet.” the blonde jumps off nodding towards the highest level of the building. “Doing quite well stealing the hearts of men, why not the art on people’s walls that they don’t deserve?”

• he makes one hell of a statement though.

• for someone who knew very little of you.

• that you’d have a knack of doing what they do.

• “Go on then. The art piece you’re looking for’s up there.”

• you shove the cash check into his chest before storming up,

• for the moment,

• for the first time in your life ignoring the paintings on the walls.

• sighted on a more particular object of beauty.

• “Ms. y/n.”

• you stare at the curves of his back.

• as he stands in front of clear glass panes that face a city.

• like a truly priceless art form.

• “Finally giving yourself the credit you deserve?”

• you take a deep breath before saying, “Depends. Turn around and we’ll see.”

• so he does.

• and you think you need to give yourself more credit too.

• for finding the most beautiful art piece in the world more definitely being a vice you shouldn’t be shameful for. but proud of.

• “Yeah.” your lips twitch. “I should give myself more credit.”

• his eyes spoke more than it should.

• like something out of a museum.

• history of unspeakable truths.

• you wanted to keep it for yourself.

• an art you didn’t want to sell even if your life depended on it.

• “Ms. y/n. I hope you didn’t show up here to return what you insisted I’d pay for?”

• you let him enjoy mocking you.

• heels locked in place when he’s towering you the way he did on a rope not even a year ago.

• his head cocks in interest. “What’s this? You don’t seem unhappy. More enticed to see me actually. Now of all exhibits, why mine?”

• you’re in a time lapse.

• of hand crafted beauty at your disposal.

• but no one’s asking you to auction anything but yourself and your life.

• fully committed to using your skills for his bidding.

• “What you did to me deserves more than just a payment from selling you out the largest art heist in the world. I deserve more credit than that.”

• he’s bought.

• the way you look.

• the same way he did when he was robbed of his own life years ago.

• the vengeance and the vice.

• “That you do.” he glances to your lips. “Is this your way of saying you’d like to plan one of my heists, ms. y/n?”

• if this is how everyone feels about winning an auction.

• maybe you were wrong about the tasteless rejectables of high society.

• “Do you doubt my skills, fox thief?”

• “Give me none of that,” he chuckles lowly. “I am no fox. Just a man who craves the best art in the world.”

• “And I’m just a woman who came here to beat your ass.”

• he smiles at you.

• thinking you’re definitely the one art piece he left behind that day he should’ve stole over anything else.

• “And now?”

• “Now I just want kiss your ass. For giving me the credit I’ve always deserved.”

• you think he’s the greatest creation.

• for knowing true art and what’s valuable—

• the recognition.

• not the fame.

• “Did you get to look at the art downstairs? My exhibit that’s been needing a skillful planner like yourself.”

• your eyebrows frown. “More stern on finding you.”

• he smirks. “How sweet. Though... why don’t we take a second glance at them, shall we?”

• you follow him out.

• his hands interlaced with yours.

• as your greeted to 7 other smirking men at not only your disposal, at the bottom of the staircase.

• thieves in their natural habitat.

• surrounded by paintings that none other than you had painted years ago.

• that you thought you had sold to an anonymous collector.

• “Now about that heist we talked about. Let’s start by stealing what you really deserve.”

• he spins you around.

• arm locked up with yours.

• “How’s my heart sound? What kind of a price would you put on that?”

• “A price only I could afford, I’m sure.”

@atinybitofau

[imaginesbymk]

PINK + WHITE.

—CHAPTER TWO ; THE GREATEST CITY IN THE WORLD.

summary: teresa’s permanent resignation from the peaky blinders leads her to a whole new chapter of working in an art museum. but little did she know her best life would be butchered some time later when her former lover tommy shelby gives her no choice but to return to the peaky blinders after they make new enemies, with the leader, of all people, being the man teresa fell in love with one night after a wedding reception back in post world war; luca changretta.

pairing: luca changretta x OC x tommy shelby

tags in this chapter: swearing (in a different language), and i *tried* to add some fluff because luca’s charming teresa and just smoothly asking her out on a date *spoiler* but yeeee

[ chapter index / meet my oc / wattpad link ]

1919.

BEFORE ART DECO became a widespread aesthetic, Teresa instead promoted the wonders of oil landscapes. And yes, Luca Changretta paid a visit to the Penarth gallery that day. It was him and two of his relatives that tagged along to the day's trip, walking behind him. People would assume Luca had business to attend to, meetings were always important as he kept a tight schedule, but he couldn't help but squeeze in an ounce of leisure.

It started with marble floors and art, and Luca silently wishing to himself he could reserve the entire museum for himself. All he needed was to simply request for one.

As for Teresa, she strolls around the floor after finishing up paper work in her office, and enjoyed the privilege to look around as part of her job, when she entered the same section Luca and his men were strolling in, the space of the renaissance.

"This one's my favourite." Teresa faced the tall man, and he perked up when he noticed a woman had caught onto a gaze. He noticed the dress she wore for the job, and her ID pinned on her chest. "It just speaks to me, eh? I'd like that hung in my home, where I can walk pass it every morning. Don't tell me. It's worth almost a million pounds?"

Teresa turned to what he was looking at. Indeed, the piece were a lot of people’s favourites. It just couldn't belong to anyone, unfortunately.

"Oh, I believe this painting isn't for sale," she smiles apologetically.

"I see. I'm more of a theatre man, anyway. But where I'm from, art speaks to our souls, and this painting deserves a spot here, truly."

Teresa studied him from head to toe. His suit looked new and clean, including the two other men accompanying him while they kept their distance a few feet apart looking around. All three of them wore pressed suits with hats to match them, and neither of them looked like they were from Penarth.

"Would you like some tea while I send a tour guide over your way?" Teresa asks politely, hoping to satisfy the handsome man's visit.

"That's kind of you. But I prefer having you show me around instead. You happen to be more passionate to everything here more than the actual tour guides."

It's not like she would get fired for being a tour guide for the day, but that wasn't technically her job by the hour. Teresa holds account for activity coordination, fundraising and selectively hand pick artwork and design from various staff members.

But hey, what the hell. She blushed. "Right! Well, you can ask me anything. I grew up reading art history books and wishing to paint just like every artist credited here." She eyed him again, now clasped onto curiosity over the mysterious man. "What's that accent?"

"I'm American," the man tips his fedora, lowering a smile down at her. "From the greatest city in the world."

"New York." He didn't even need to say it. A lot of people love New York, anyway. Plus his accent kind of gave it away.

The man nodded. "We get a lot of you Welsh people back there quite often."

"When I was in college I visited New York," she pointed out.

The man raised his brow. "Really?"

"Yeah. It was a year after the Titanic sank to the bottom of the ocean, before the great war. So count me as lucky."

"I could of met you," he said. "Where were you? Brooklyn? Had to deal with liquor business there." Which that reminded him he had a meeting in a couple hours.

"Had to visit someone in the Bronx," Teresa nodded while noticing the men approaching Luca from behind like they were attached to him. "Well, Mr. New York, welcome to Penarth. And welcome to the Penarth Art Gallery. Your visit is greatly appreciated.”

"Grazie . . . Miss Tour Guide." Thank you. Italian-American, then. Teresa smiled, so intrigued by this man as she kept observing him looking around.

"Well," she smiles humbly at the three men. "Let's start, shall we? You've all seen the renaissance, but how about Pablo Picasso..."

It switched afterwards. The atmosphere, the attitude, the comfort. And she was quick to notice while she spoke the whole time, the men listening to her, often times just letting her words enter through one ear and out the other. But Teresa was smart. He didn't quite keep his distance from the art as it was a rule, and stared down at the labels of all the paintings Teresa introduced, studying it in a way that had nothing to do with admiring, but more likely guessing the pricing.

Teresa gradually realized the man is just using his American identity as his own privilege into getting a personal tour around the gallery instead of gathering with different guests. She jumped one step ahead to know he would later ask for private access to hidden artworks that aren't placed public to the museum for the next few months in hopes of buying them.

"None of the art here is for sale," Teresa grew confident in her tone. "Art should never be in the hands of Americans who have no business being in a gallery to begin with."

The man shot his eyes toward her. "Do you have any idea who you're talkin' to, Miss Tour Guide?" his voice lowered until it no longer sounded friendly as before.

"I'm not afraid of you, Mr. New York," Teresa folded her arms.

"You should be."

"Guests come here to feast their eyes on the subject of emotions, dreams and tragedy, not for buying them."

"Well maybe," the man leaned a bit closer. "You should reconsider handling things around here, because one day someone will take away your paintings, you'll walk in here dying inside every time you walk past an empty space on the wall where your personal favourites used to be hung."

"Basdun." Teresa wasn't afraid to insult the man in Welsh, too.

"Very unprofessional to insult a guest, no?"

"Luca," one of the men moved closer behind him. "Non ne vale la pena."

"Mi sto solo divertendo qui, Matteo," Luca responded while he smirked at Teresa.

The other man chimed in. "Non puoi vincere. Lei è una pistola."

"Okay, basta," the man, Luca, rolled his eyes back a bit when he turned to his attention to the men behind him. He looked at Teresa again while telling them, "Lasciami con lei."

"What does that mean? What did they say to you?" Teresa demanded, confused. "Did they insult me in Italian?"

The men leave, Luca and Teresa remaining inside the empty section of the gallery, with pastel landscapes surrounding them.

"Actually, Miss Tour Guide. I hope you can spare five more minutes of your time."

"Teresa Griffith."

He nodded. That was easy. "Miss Griffith, allow me to explain myself. This art gallery you own, it's a shame nothing here is for sale. Imagine how much money you'd be making selling Van Gogh's Starry Night at an auction, or that disturbing painting of that naked man eating a little boy."

"Saturn Devouring His Son."

"Yeah that. The first painting that I fell in love with was the School of Athens, my mother showed me that one. Then it was the sculpture of Pietà. I even visited the Louvre."

"So have I," Teresa shrugged.

"Anything to do with the tragedies or emotions that you speak of, that comes to my eye. Amore is one hell of a blueprint for painters."

"Your point being?"

"I'm what you call a businessman, and I was actually nice enough to give you constructive criticism." Luca faced a self portrait painting while he spoke.

Teresa shook her head, hoping something—anything, would come up so she would no longer have to deal with this man's nonsense. Whatever he was doing, it was probably stalling. The two men that were with him were probably thieves and that this man was just charming her away so she would be to blame after it's all over.

Or maybe he was just being a nuisance on purpose. "I don't need you to tell me how to run a gallery, and it seemed to me it was more of an attack rather than providing constructive criticism."

"Well, that was part of the plan. I make you use your time on me as my personal tour guide just so I could be with you," Luca says, eyeing down the use of colour of the portrait. "And to ask you if you were free tomorrow night."

There it was, the point. Teresa was more than ready to smack the hell out of a total stranger before she could get ahold of authorities, but she could now barely hold a steady breath. The room suddenly felt still, even the temperature to keep the air tight drew goosebumps on her skin. Were her ears clogged, or was this man that was at first giving her a hard time, asking her out on a date?

"I'm sorry?"

"I’m Luca Changretta, by the way." He took off his fedora hat so he held it against his chest. Dark hair, slicked back. "A whole half hour has gone by, one more and you get paid another forty bucks."

"Well," Teresa bit her lip. "You came off as if you were only here to buy my workplace, and what makes this workplace the way it is. I don't know you, and I don't think you'd want to take me out."

"Why is that? You keep a tight schedule? So do I."

"It's not that. I mean, I do. But I think you'd grow bored of me within the first hour of spending time with me.“

"Like I said, Miss Griffith. I'm a lover of theatre. We met half an hour ago and I’m far more interested in you than what makes your workplace the way it is,” he shamelessly repeated her words. ”And I plan on taking you out to the grand theatre to see the performers put on a show, a moving painting. To me it's New York's grimy perspective, but set here in Penarth.”

Teresa tensed up when she felt her cheeks flush a bright red.

"Whaddaya say?" Luca smiles. "One date."

After all, she booked Monday off tomorrow to get a head start on coordinating future events, but maybe she’ll use that freebie to see a show with a handsome man.

“Sure,” she nodded.

+ pls be mindful that my pinch of knowledge of italian in this chapter/story overall isn’t gonna be fluent, so pls bare w/ me! ��mk.

[ask-de-writer]

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Return to Flocking Bay

MET BY MOONLIGHT

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

5740 words

© 2017 by Glen Ten-Eyck

written 2003 by Glen Ten-Eyck

All rights reserved.

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express written consent of the author or proper copyright holder.

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These had been made with fine, supple leathers taken from the destroyed village of the Marquosts. They had originally held pictographs of things that the Shamans and Totem Society leaders had thought worth recording. Their pictograms, like Egyptian hieroglyph or Chinese ideograms were a genuine written language. That was one of the ways that the Marquost society had been more than a little different from that of the Indians about them.

The men had a Society of Shamans lead by the Great Shaman. They had the charge to do the mighty magics that needed the Blackwall and its power. I was descended from that tradition.

The women had charge of the assorted Totem Societies. Most Indians drew inspiration from their totem animals. The Marquost women did more than draw inspiration from their totems. They became them. They were not lycanthropes, cursed to change with the moon. Marquost women were skin-turners. They donned the skin of the totem animal and became that creature in truth but with a guiding human intelligence and cunning. They were lead by a woman known as the Mother of Change, who could become any animal from any of the Totem Societies — and if rumor be true — any other beast as well.

The High Shaman and the Mother of Change were the ones who wrote and decided what to write.

After three hundred years, their wisdom and spells were coming to light again on my computer monitor. As the English writing was subtracted from the Darkmoon palimpsests, I began to notice something else.

My hackles rose the way that they will when you find that something is very wrong. When I examined the original photographs of the book pages more closely, I found the cause. The originals were genuinely ancient. That was almost beyond doubt. When you are a Shaman, as I am, you get a feel for such things. The problem was in the handwriting. I had a three hundred year span of books open to me. Everywhere that I sampled the Darkmoon Dairies I found the same thing.

The Darkmoon Diaries were a forgery. A unique forgery. I was willing to give long odds that there was no other such forgery in the world.

Efforts to make the handwriting different from writer to purported writer had grossly succeeded. It was the little things that betrayed the forgery. The downstroke of the f’s and s’s. The loop form of the e’s. They were common throughout. It appeared that one person had written all three hundred years worth of dairies.

The most recent volume revealed the likely author.

Just as I was pondering the diaries, Allison delivered a note from Laelia inquiring about my progress and inviting me to assist with cataloging the Hilstrom house. I put aside my problem with the dairies for the more immediate one of helping with Hilstrom house and seeing what might be of use. A Shaman may benefit from much that the ordinary person might not even find interesting. There might be things in there that could lead me to other surviving descendants of the ‘Founding Fathers’ of Flocking Bay.

Because of the age of the Hilstrom House and the contents it was known to have, it was necessary to catalog everything. We would assess what to include in the sale or even if the place should be sold at all. Some of the contents, at least, would have to be auctioned off and some kept for the library and the Historical Society museum.

The Hilstrom House was worth putting aside my petty mysteries. It would be an easy restoration to bring the house back to its original state. Most of the original hand hewn planks and timbers were still there and in place. The electricity and gas had been put in with no attempt to hide the wires and pipes inside the walls.

The fireplace still had the original hand made crane to hang cooking pots over the flames. The andirons were a recent addition. The originals we found later, cast out into a bramble thicket behind the house.

The whole place could easily become a colonial museum. When I breached the idea to Laelia she agreed that it could be done at little cost. The only problem that she foresaw was the simple one of maintenance cost. Such museums rarely paid their way and the township was simply too poor to support another one in addition to the Historical Society museum.

“Don’t give up, though,” she said, patting my hand. “You can propose it at the township meeting. If it is approved, they will find a way to do it.”

I felt that odd hackle-raising twisting that tells you where magic is. It led me to a corner of the living room. There, in a window seat made to serve as a storage chest, were many papers and books … and the source of my feeling.

The old matchlock musket appeared to be in near perfect condition. It was mounted to a plaque with an engraved brass plate just as the diary had said. It read, “This gun won us the town now called Flocking Bay. Eben Hilstrom shot and killed the Shaman with it. The gun would never fire again after.”

Laelia reached past me and took the old gun. “The Historical Society will want this testament to the shameful deed that founded this town.”

I looked at her strangely. I was beginning to fear that Laelia might be a descendant of one of the Founders. A check of ship passenger manifests from 1645 through the end of 1648 showed none who could be Laelia or her ‘ancestress.’ Something would have been in those records even if she had been a stowaway. What did she have to hide? Several things that she had said before flitted through my mind. The unique forgery of the Darkmoon diaries. The Darkmoon crest. The timing of her ancestress’ arrival in Flocking Bay. The low price of the indenture.

With a winning smile, I said, “Laelia, I think that these papers will be enough to keep us busy for the rest of the day.” “Let’s take them back to your place where we can catalog them over some of your wonderful tea.”

We strolled back to Changer’s Court in a pleasant afternoon, with the wind playing with leaves and trying to steal our booty of history.

Back at Laelia’s cottage, I breached a different topic as she puttered about her modern kitchen with its gas range, making tea for us. “Laelia, I have some of the palimpsests done. I think that you will be interested. I found your indenture contract. You can even see where Eben Hilstrom altered it.”

The puttering in the kitchen stopped for a moment. You could hear the strained smile in her voice as she see replied, “You mean the indenture of my ancestress. I’m not THAT old.” She resumed puttering purposefully about and emerged with the tea tray.

As she set it down on the coffee table, I said, “I’m afraid that you’re not telling me the whole truth, Laelia. I can prove that you wrote all of the Darkmoon dairies and I can also prove their age.

“I need to ask you some questions about your origins. I can only think of a few reasons that a person might live so long.”

She let out a long sigh and leaned back in her chair. Resignedly she said, “Have some tea and ask what you will. It was a long run from Poland for my sister and I. She was killed in France. The Crest says it all, to those perceptive enough to read it, as you seem to be.”

I raised my tea to my lips and smelled the aroma. My hackles rose again. I could smell and feel the power. It was a familiar power, like my mother’s but stronger. I had my answer.

“No,” I said, putting down the cup untasted. “You have lied long enough. You are not a werewolf and you are not Polish either. Though being one would account for your age. I know who you are.”

I spoke in Marquost, the old Indian tongue of the area when I said, “Ask me what you want to know, Mother of Change. This Shaman will tell you truthfully what you wish to know without the power of that.” I pointed at the tea.

For a second, she appeared startled. Then she let out the same laugh that I had heard and liked earlier. She replied in the same language, “Your accent is abominable! Still, I haven’t heard anyone use this language at all for years!” Her speech was the utterly relaxed, easy flow of a native speaker.

“Near enough to three hundred years, I expect,” I said softly. “You must have been lonely, living among your enemies for so long.”

“Not so lonely as you might imagine,” said Laelia with that calm that comes only from utter assurance. “I have been stalking my prey. I have got to know them and listen to their Councils and give them advice. When the time is right I take one of my skins and turn it. Then an enemy suffers. That is when proper vengeance comes. They have suffered and must suffer for a long time yet to come. That is why your killing them is not to be accepted. Do not do that. It may put them on their guard.”

Startled, and just a bit guilty, I said, “Mr. Hilstrom was the last of his line. He was old and a bachelor. The Hilstroms are gone.”

Her cheerful laugh interrupted me. “Where did you get that silly idea? That was only the end of the male line. What is the true line of descent?”

I was dumbfounded. I had forgotten, been taken in by the white man’s patrilineal lines of descent. So proud of my own matrilineal descent from the last Shaman, I had used the white man’s genealogical rules to track my enemies! I would have to start my genealogical work all over.

I hung my head in shame. Determined, I raised my head looking Laelia in the eye. “A Shaman must acknowledge his error and try to remedy it. I must begin to search for the neglected lines of descent. Our enemies must die!” I said firmly.

She rebuked me gently but with absolute certainty. “They must NOT die! Death is the END of vengeance. I swore ETERNAL revenge to the Blackwall, pouring on it the blood of my foes. When the last of them dies, so do I!”

Smiling, Laelia said, “I help them in their need and see to it that they stay within my reach.” Her eyes going lupine, she added, “I stalk them down the trail of time. In each generation, they all suffer. A few die. They go on. And so do I.”

I looked at Laelia with new eyes and a heightened respect. I said softly, “Mother of Change, I am sure that your eternal vengeance is more suitable than my slaying. This Shaman opens to you the whole power of the Blackwall.”

—THE END—

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[group-noodle]

Running Together - Chapter 19

| AO3 | FF.N |

Ikuna was sitting cross legged amongst piles of old treasures in the dining area. Kurama sat at her tea table, a textbook and workbook lying open in front of him. It was unseasonably cold and rainy that day, and it was certainly having its effects on him and Ikuna’s cat. Henry was pressed against Kurama’s leg, warm and sleeping soundly through the sounds of the downpour floating in through the open glass door. She could see in the heaviness in his eyes that Kurama wished he could curl up listening to the rain, too.

“You know, darling,” Ikuna said absently, riffling through old papers, “the more I walk about the city, the more I realize how right you were.” He didn’t reply right away, and she was certain that he dozed off--as uncharacteristic as that would have been.

She glanced up at him. He was staring at her, again.

“Did you hear me?” she asked, caught a little off guard by his gaze.

He smiled. “Yes, you were telling me something I already knew.”

“Pfft. The ego on you,” she said. While he’d turned his eyes back to his books, she didn’t immediately turn her attention back to her papers. She still didn’t understand why he insisted on going to school when he had a job with his stepfather waiting for him, but if it meant that she would have more rainy days spent in comfortable quiet, then she wouldn’t voice her opinion too loudly. Even now, she drank him in—the set of his shoulders, the tension of his fingers scratching pencil on paper. He’d pulled his hair out of his face in a large clip, and she could study the lines of his brow and peaks of his cheekbones.

She began flipping through her papers again. Each one was easily worth fifty times the denominations that were originally scribed, but exchanging them would be incredibly tricky. She may just auction off another few art pieces instead.

She continued talking idly, more of a stream of consciousness than actual conversation, “Anyways, I spent all that time and effort crossing into this world. I planted myself into dreams and wiped myself from them. I bribed, I lied, exchange a favor or two. All of that to find that demons have been openly living here for years. Why, I saw three of them on the television just the other day! I feel increasingly foolish the more I think about it.”

“Ah. Well...” Kurama leaned back against the couch, holding his chin in thought, “I did find it odd how ill-informed you were. That isn’t like you at all.”

“Coming here was an impulse decision at best,” Ikuna sighed, “I didn’t take the time to research beyond King Enki’s first decree.”

“Your clients weren’t talking about the migrations?”

“I wasn’t taking any clients.”

Kurama’s eyebrows rose, “Why not?”

She swallowed dryly. She wasn’t ready to talk about this. Not yet. “I didn’t see the point,” she said carefully.

He could tell that there was more to it, “Then... What were you doing for the last three years?”

Ikuna laid her banknotes aside and scooted over to a collection of scrolls, picking through them and studying each with a discerning gaze before setting them aside of shuffling them back into the stack. “Living, I suppose. Or as much as I could.”

“Where were you?” Kurama asked.

“Still in the brothel.”

“Why did you stay if you weren’t taking clients?”

“It was someplace to call home,” she shrugged, unearthing her old pipe from under a few stolen drawings. She turned it over in her fingers. “And Himo didn’t dare tell me otherwise,” she said. She remained quiet for a moment, waiting for Kurama to speak. When he didn’t, “Well now, come off it! I won’t be feeling honest for very long, and I know you have more questions.”

“You stopped taking clients because you couldn’t feed from them without making yourself sick. You continued to live in the Makai because you needed the comfort of consistency, as you always have when you were feeling distressed. Then, in an uncharacteristic move, you came to the Makai alone without anyone to support or protect you.”

“That’s right,” Ikuna said, tidying up her belongings, “Well, now that that’s out of the way—”

“Except you moved to my city, in the neighborhood of my university.”

Ikuna’s lips drew into a thin line.

She wasn’t looking at his face, but if she were she would have seen the self-satisfied set of his mouth. She knew these were questions that had been weighing on his mind for a few months, but she hadn’t given him the opportunity to ask her.

She straightened her spine and sat tall. “It sounds to me like you’re implying something.”

“You moved here to be closer to me,” he said, only partially teasing.

She snorted. “What led you to that conclusion?”

“You chose to live here of all the places in Japan.”

“In the wealthier part of a university district surrounded by galleries, museums, and libraries?” she turned a bored expression to him, “You must be delusional.” If she could continue to pick apart his argument, he might get frustrated and give up.

“I agree that those are things you hold in high regard, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned about you, it’s that you find the wilderness to be much more soothing than a congested city. For instance, you would often retreat to the riverbank when you were wounded--”

She spread her arms out to her side defiantly. “Darling, I am clearly uninjured.”

He took a deep, quiet breath, held it, and let it out. “You very clearly came to this city seeking comfort,” he said evenly, “What I’m trying to ask you is why.”

“You don’t even have any proof to back up your argument!”

“I’ve already told you why I think you’ve come here, Onna,” he said curtly, “Honestly. I know you like keeping some things to yourself, but I can’t understand why you’re being so stubborn about this. About any of this.”

“Oh, I’m being stubborn am I? You’re being downright bullheaded!” Ikuna’s voice began to rise in her throat.

“Onna, you were quite literally wasting away to nothing when I first found you. You yourself expressed that your energy signature is too weak to be found,” he fought to keep his tone even, but his patience was wearing thin, “I’ve known you long enough to know when something’s wrong, but I’ve never seen you like this.”

She snapped. “What gives you the right to tell me about myself, anyways? It isn’t like you really know anything about me! The first time we’d spoken in fifty years was for intel of all things! Why would I want to speak to the man who kept a failsafe to kill me!? I left you for a reason!”

Kurama’s mouth fell open.

The silence that followed her exclamation was deafening. They both stared directly into each other as Ikuna’s face changed. She had the startling realization of what she said. She clapped a hand to her mouth, he eyes as wide as saucers.

“I... Kurama, I am so, so sorry. I don’t feel that way at all, I...” she trailed off, waiting for him to say something. A shadow passed over his eyes. He looked away.

“This must be how it felt for you back then,” he said, gathering his books, “When I would speak to you that way.”

Her heart dropped. “Kurama, no, please don’t leave. Not like this,” she clambered up to go to him, but he held up a hand. She froze half knelt on one knee. Tears threatened the corners of her eyes.

He picked up his books, but paused and put them back down as if commanded by some external force. He left his hands wrapped around the stack for a few long moments, fighting with himself. Finally, he released them and rubbed his eyes with a groan.

She timidly inched closer to the tea table, watching him for any signs that he didn’t want her any closer. She sat back on her heels, head bowed in shame.

“That...” he searched for the words, “That really hurt, Ikuna.”

Her stomach lurched at his direct use of her chosen name. She reached up to her horns, twisting her fingers around them anxiously. “I know. I said it to hurt you, and I hope that you know that there was no truth in those words.”

“No,” he leaned back, setting his head on the couch and staring up to the ceiling in thought, “You did leave, and for a very good reason. I suppose I assumed that we were passed it. Now that I think about it, we never talked through it like we should have.”

“I was so happy to see you again,” she murmured, “I thought I could let it rest. You appear to shy away from direct confrontation these days. I didn’t—I wanted... I wanted to hold onto you this time.”

Kurama heaved a sigh and dropped his hand from his face to the table, palm up. When he realized she wasn’t going to take it, he looked to her and took her hand from her horn. “Do you want to talk about it, now?” he asked.

“Right now?” she relaxed a bit and squeezed his hand, “Do you think we should, after that spat we had?”

He motioned to the balcony, the sliding glass door letting them see the ongoing downpour. “I’m not leaving anytime soon, and I think we should talk about it if we’re going to make this friendship work.”

“Could I perhaps pour myself a drink before we start?” she asked sheepishly.

The corner of his mouth pulled up despite himself. “Maybe one for me, as well.”

When Ikuna returned with glasses and a bottle she sat close to Kurama, enough that he had to raise his arm and set it on the couch behind her to accommodate for her presence in his space.

“Onna?”

“Hush,” she shuffled under his arm and pressed against his side, “Let me have this.” She poured two glasses of liquor and handed one off to Kurama. They sat sipping in silence, neither knowing exactly how to start.

“I suppose I’ll begin, then,” Kurama sighed, “I’ve lived in the Ningenki for two decades, and during that time I’ve learned a lot from the humans. Among those things are how to treat another being with kindness and dignity. You more than anyone know how strongly those lessons affected my disposition as I grew up for a second time. I realized how cruel I truly was to you. You were right. I am a different man from the one I was back then, but the fact still remains that I was that man. For that, I’m sorry. You deserved to be treated much better than that, and I hope that I can show you that treatment.”

Ikuna sat quietly for a moment, digesting Kurama’s apology. He looked down at her, gauging the expression on her face and waiting patiently for her to reply when she was ready.

“Would you think me rude if I ask you to apologize for one more thing?” she asked.

“I would be upset if you didn’t,” he replied.

“You called on me to bring you information of current events of the Kekkai, do you remember?”

He knew where she was going with this. “Yes. I even met with you in person a few times.”

“Three times, exactly,” she paused, “Well, four including the origami butterfly. I consider that to be a stroke of brilliance on my part, but I digress,” she took his hand, meeting and holding his eyes with sincerity, “Darling, calling on me in the first place was downright mean, but calling on me for something as impersonal as information? I suppose your mother instilled within you better manners since then.”

Kurama cracked a surprised smile. “Of all the things... You’re right, that was terribly rude of me, wasn’t it? In my defense, I recall our later meetings being more relaxed, but I’m sorry all the same.”

Ikuna leaned against the couch facing him directly. “Say, Kurama? Why did you call on me back then? Of all the other informants you know, why would you have chosen me?”

He hesitated, taken aback by a question that he’d never thought to ask himself. “I... I suppose I needed the familiarity. I had been here for ten years, and even though acclimating to my new environment was easy I still sometimes missed—” he paused to choose his words.

“Me?” Ikuna asked innocently.

He chuckled. “Yes, well despite your temperament you are very easy to miss.” He didn’t say anything more, and Ikuna internally cursed herself for interrupting him to begin with. When he stayed quiet, she chose to speak.

“I’m sorry for leaving you the way I did,” she said. She rested her head against his shoulder, tracing the lines of his palm, “Before you say it, yes you were a tyrant. I still feel the effects of that, but you never hurt me more than a few cold shoulders. Simply vanishing was no way to excise myself from our relationship.

“I’ve realized that I also displayed behavior unbecoming of a woman in trying to make you something you weren’t. I don’t endorse victim blaming, but I cannot deny my involvement in our dysfunction. I enabled you by continuing to stay and claw at your feet, even when I knew a return of affection was futile. I would like to apologize for my hand in that.”

Kurama sighed, good and bad memories flooding his mind in waves. Next to him, Ikuna fixed her gaze a thousand kilometers away, letting herself become equally taken up in her thoughts. Quiet nights, loud blow outs, cold greetings, warm sheets, bold proclamations, cowardly pleas. Ikuna touched her fingers to her chest. Kurama glanced down, catching her in the act. Guilt settled in the pit of his stomach. He sighed again.

“We weren’t very good for each other, were we,” he said. Somehow in pained him to say it just as much as it pained Ikuna to hear.

“No,” she said with a wry smile, “No, we weren’t.” She took a long sip of whiskey and topped off their glasses, thought Kurama’s was still mostly full.

“While we’re speaking freely,” he began gently, “I’d like to ask you to be more sincere with me.”

“What do you mean?” she demanded warily.

“You have this tendency to… forestall when we’re talking about something you don’t like,” he said cautiously, “It seems that you do it without realizing, but I hope you know that you can speak freely and honestly with me.”

Ikuna felt a protest bubble up, but snuffed it out. He was wrong in that she knew very well what she was doing, but she knew that of all people Kurama deserved her sincerity.

“I’ll be mindful of that in the future,” she said finally, “but only if you’ll do me the kindness of backing down if I express reluctance to speaking of certain topics.”

“That seems reasonable. I can be a little pushy with you sometimes.”

“Indeed, and while we’re on the subject of sincerity,” she drained her glass and huffed, “Yes. I did relocate to be near you. Are you pleased with yourself?”

Kurama’s eyes grew wide with her admission. He bit back a grin. “There, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

She sucked in her cheeks and pouted. “We hadn’t spoken since before you broke into the Spirit World Artifacts Vault—and yes I do know about that. I didn’t think you would notice my presence if I came here.”

He shook his head fondly and sipped his drink. “As I said when we first saw each other again,” he met her eyes, “I could never forget your scent.”

Ikuna’s breath hitched—surely he noticed—but she replied, “If I recall, your words were that you caught my scent, not that you couldn’t forget it.”

“Well, now you’re just being petty.”

She sniffed. “I told you I wouldn’t be feeling honest for very long. It seems your time is up. I’ll be returning to my work, now,” she swung her legs out from under the table to stand.

“Wait, wait!” he laughed and tangled her up in his arms to pull her back, “One more question.”

Ikuna wiggled out from his grasp, heart in her throat. “Fine. One.” She thanked her creator that her kind didn’t blush.

“Why did you move here?”

“I thought you decided that I’m running from something,” she sighed.

He shook his head. “What I meant was, why did you move so close to me?”

The answer to that was simple. Her efforts in information gathering weren’t spent on demon assimilation into the Ningenkai because they were spent finding Kurama. She moved to this neighborhood because she wanted to see him. She wanted to be able to watch him from her window as he walk by on his way to class, checking his watch, reading a book, smiling to the shopkeepers along the way. Hair fluttering in the breeze, steady strides to and from his destination. It was the comfort of knowing he would be there that lead her to this neighborhood. After everything they’d gone through, she just wanted to be somewhere near him when she finally withered away. It was a feeling so strong she wasn’t able to deny it, only push it further down and bury it.

“Well, I...” she trailed off. There was no lie she could tell that could get passed him in this moment. The only thing she could say was the truth. She forced a laugh, “Well, because I adore you, of course! Why wouldn’t I want to be near such a handsome face?”

Kurama chuckled and sat back, “I should have known you would say something like that.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, listening to the rain and feeling lighter than they had even before they talked. Ikuna hummed and leaned back against the couch. Kurama draped one arm across the cushions behind her and let his other arm rest at his side to languidly stroke the still-sleeping Henry. The afternoon continued on. Soon after, Ikuna noticed Kurama’s eyelids drooping again.

“Would you like a nap?” she asked softly, a smile in her voice. She brushed a lock of hair from his face. He blew a puff of a laugh through his nose and rubbed his eyes.

“I should get back to my studies,” he muttered.

“Hush,” Ikuna sidled away from him to make room and gently cupped his head, pulling him down into her lap, “Your books can wait for a few minutes.”

Kurama began to protest, but was stifled by a yawn. Finally, he stretched out and let his eyes drift closed. “Only a few minutes,” he murmured. Ikuna removed his hair clip and lazily ran her fingers through his tresses as she watched his breathing slow. He drifted off with his cheek pressed against her leg.

Kurama awoke to the sound of a tv drama playing at low volume in the background. Ikuna had stopped stroking his hair at some point and was resting her hand on his shoulder, tracing little affectionate circles with her thumb. Even with the smell of wet concrete wafting in from the balcony, he was still overcome with the scent of her skin. The whole scene felt so incredibly normal to him.

He turned his face up to Ikuna and rubbed his eyes, “How long was I asleep?”

She leaned down, pressing her lips to his eyelid. “Nearly an hour and a half, now. I know you said a few minutes, but I couldn’t bare to wake you,” she said apologetically.

“Heh, it’s alright. The rain makes me feel so lethargic I would have drifted off again anyways,” he didn’t make a move to sit up, instead adjusting so that he was on his back gazing at her. “I had a dream. Was that you?”

She shook her head. “What was it about?”

“The old bandit hideout of all things. Now that I’m awake, I don’t remember much else.”

“You don’t dream very often these days, do you?”

“Not if I can help it. I have too much to lose now.”

She caressed his cheek, “Is that what you dream about these days? Losing your family?”

“Yes. Sometimes I wish I had kept to my plan and left when I was a child,” he wrapped his hand around hers. “But then I wouldn’t have been there for my mother when she was ill.”

“And Enma knows where Team Urameshi would be without you. If there would be a team at all,” Ikuna smirked.

Kurama chuckled. “Yusuke is more capable than you think.”

“Nonsense, it seems to me that his strongest ability is dumb luck!”

His chuckle turned into a soft laugh. “I can’t argue that luck favors him, but he’s a little smarter than I think even he realizes.”

“Hm, I suppose you would know best. All I have is hearsay,” she moved her hand from his face to his chest, “What is the great spirit detective doing with his time these days? I heard a rumor that he was fired sometime around the Makai Tournament.”

“Yusuke runs a ramen stand. I would say that he seems happy with this peaceful life, but he picks up freelance detective work on occasion.”

“A ramen stand, eh?” Ikuna thought for a moment, “Can we go?”

“Of course. He sets up in his neighborhood not too far from where we met our friends last week.”

“I’m shocked you remember anything from that night,” she teased. He shot her a dry look. “Could we go right now?” she asked.

“To the ramen stand?” he glanced at the darkening sky outside. The rain had stopped, “I suppose there’s still time. His stand is open until late, but you don’t eat human food.”

“Well, it doesn’t hurt to go visit, does it?”

He grinned. “No, it doesn’t. Let me call my mother to let her know I won’t be home for dinner.”

They slowly detached from each other and stood. Ikuna stretched her legs, and sauntered off to her bedroom. “I’ll take this opportunity to excuse myself and slip into some more appropriate clothes, then.”

“Make sure you bring a jacket! It’s a bit chilly today,” he called after her. She poked her head out of the door and quirked an eyebrow at him. “Don’t look at me like that. If you want to fit in you should wear a jacket.”

Ikuna rolled her eyes and disappeared back into the bedroom. “I think you just enjoy nagging me, Kurama,” she said from the bedroom, “You are well aware of my immunity to cold, yet you cover me with blankets and insist I dress in layers.”

“Onna, you have a goose-down duvet.”

“I fail to see your point. What does my taste for fine textiles have to do with your lust for caregiving?”

Kurama found himself leaning against the doorjamb, talking out into the living room. “One could argue that your tolerance for cold climate has weakened with age.”

Ikuna stuck her head out of the doorway, glaring at him. “Kurama, you take that back this instant.”

“Oh?” he laughed, “Everyone grows old, Onna! It’s nothing to be ashamed of!”

She growled and huffed back into the safety of her bedroom. “Don’t you have a human to call?”

“Ah! Right, I should get to that. Hurry along, Grandmother.”

There was a beat of silence before he could hear the stomping of her heels striking the floor as she charged him. He whirled around and pulled the door closed before she could reach him, laughing heartily at her empty threats.

[supernutellastuff]

Revelations

This is my entry to the WonderBat Holiday event created by @fyeahwonderbat for the theme Birthday. You can find it on ao3 here.

I'm super late but this is my first Wonderbat fic and I was super intimidated by all the talented writers in the fandom. Hope you enjoy!

The invitation was lying on her desk when she entered her office at the Metropolis Museum of Art. Diana had finished her work for the day and was about to gather her belongings and leave when the stiff envelope caught her attention. Inside, embossed in silver ink, was an invitation by the Wayne Trust to celebrate their founder’s birthday.

“Oh, these arrived with that,” said Marcia, poking her head inside. She held out the elegant arrangement of flowers that somehow matched the colour scheme of the letter. “He really is smooth, like everyone says. Or does he just have an excellent assistant?”

Alfred does have distinguished taste, Diana thought privately. She took the bouquet from her intern. While the flowers smelled wonderful, as a gift she considered them to be quite ineffectual. “Thank you, Marcia. You can keep them, actually.”

“Oh, wow. Um, are you sure?”

Diana nodded as she pulled up the calendar on her phone. Her departure to Paris was scheduled on that day…

“So, yeah about the flight to Paris,” Marcia asked. “Should I cancel the ticket?”

She looked away, considering. Louvre had lent her to the Metropolis Museum for their exhibition on Greek art. Her term was coming to an end, but lately Diana had found herself pushing the dates back further and further. While Paris was a charming city, there was something about Metropolis –or more specifically, about its grim sister city- that held her back. “Yes, do that. I’ll postpone my departure.”

Well, she wasn’t planning on missing his birthday.

.

.

Bruce approached her as soon as she arrived. Almost as if he were lying in wait for her. The thought amused and pleased her in equal measures.

“Happy Birthday,” she greeted, leaning in to place a kiss on his cheek. He smelled nice; musk with a hint of spice. She lingered.

“Do you send flowers to every person you invite?”

He chuckled lowly. “Only to those who might need some extra persuasion.”

“Well, they were very lovely, and quite useless.”

A gleam in his eye told her that he had received the message.

Bruce introduced her around as Diana Prince, art curator. Most of the attendees recognised her as a familiar fixture at recent benefits and galas and soon they fell into pleasant, if not banal, small talk. They asked about her work at the Louvre, discussed the record-breaking amount a Picasso had netted in an auction, and spoke about the Royal Russian Ballet Company due to make a stop in Metropolis. No one mentioned the high-profile investigation into a drug smuggling ring that had finally ended after the main perpetrators were found dangling over Gotham Harbour, trussed up and ready for the police. This time, there were no bat brands on their skin.

All the while, Diana watched Bruce from the corner of her eye. He seemed relaxed, ready with a quip or a playful smirk whenever the occasion demanded. He looked like an agreeable man, if not entirely forgettable. But it was the moments when his façade slipped that Diana found endlessly fascinating; the weariness in the set of his shoulders during a lull in the conversation, the dark pull of his mouth whenever a dismissive comment about Gotham’s less privileged was passed, the restlessness in his eyes as he thanked person after person for their birthday wishes. She realised that Bruce Wayne was just another mask for him.

A while later, she slipped onto the balcony and leaned against the railing, admiring the Metropolis skyline. A flute of champagne dangled from her hand. Bruce found her not too long after, and deftly replaced her empty glass with a fresh one. She smiled her thanks.

“Admiring the view?”

“The lights do sparkle like jewels,” she replied. “But I miss skies that used to be full of stars.”

“Can’t say the same for me. All that I think about when I look up to the sky, is what’s coming for us.”

“This invasion you speak about-”

Bruce held up his hand. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. Tonight’s for enjoying good company, and…letting loose.” It was no surprise that the man who spent his days in the boardroom, his nights patrolling the streets, and the rest of his time forming an alliance to prepare for the end of the world, would feel uncomfortable with the concept of taking a night off.

When Diana told him so, he looked mildly offended. “Hey, I haven’t forgotten to have a good time. I’m not that old.”

“Being old has nothing to do with enjoying life.” She crossed her arms pointedly. “I’m an enjoyable person.”

“Debatable.” He hid a smile behind his glass. “Anyway, in human years, I’m-” He stopped suddenly as a thought struck him. His face collapsed into a sullen frown.

“What?”

“I’m older now than my father ever was, Diana,” he said quietly. “Sometimes I forget that. And when it comes back to me…” The grip on his scotch tightened. “It’s not fair. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

Moving closer, she laid a hand on his shoulder. Any words of comfort that came to her mind felt hollow in front of the kind of tragedies Bruce had suffered. Taking action, always moving, never stopping; the Batman had mastered this coping strategy, and so had Diana after she lost Antiope, her home, and Steve. But sometimes, memories could heal the wounds time left. The long hours she had spent with the photograph had taught her that.

So she asked him about his childhood, about his birthdays growing up, his parents. “Tell me. I’d like to know.”

This time when he smiled, there was no pretence.

.

.

The art exhibition was particularly noisy. The moneyed elite mingled with the young bohemians amidst the clink of glasses and lively conversation. Diana moved to a quieter corner and savoured the peaceful moments as she strolled from painting to painting. She paused at a few, but never for long. The years had made her appreciate the evolution of art, but she would always prefer the classics. There was one piece that caught her eye, however. It was an abstract painting; a brilliant blue giving way to a constellation of grey. The title was simply one word. Revelation.

“Marvellous, isn’t it?” asked a woman in a gown the exact shade of azure as the painting. “I like the inversion, blue to grey instead of grey to blue. Not exactly a happy thought though, is it?”

“Well, now and then, one does need a grey revelation,” she replied, thinking of foggy London skies.

The woman laughed softly. “Now why would a person like you have any greys in their life?”

Diana shrugged and turned back to the art. The woman, sensing that she had misstepped, touched her arm gently. “I apologise for any presumptions. Claire duMont,” She held out her hand, Diana took it. “I manage the gallery and it is second nature to slip into that persona. The fact that a curator of the arts from the Louvre is here is privilege enough, I don’t need to nudge you to buy one of the works too.” She smiled winningly, revealing straight white teeth. Diana gave her a brief smile, suddenly tired of this farce.

Claire shot her a conspiratorial look. “Now there’s someone whose patronage I could use.” Diana started a little on seeing him. “Bruce Wayne. Have you met him? Shame he’s rarely attended these things lately. He can easily afford every single piece of art in the room.”

Bruce was yet to glance their way. He was deep in conversation with a young woman dressed in a striking red, a charming smile on his face. But his eyes, Diana noticed, were flat. She considered going up to him but held back. Soon, Wonder Woman and Batman would have to stand together against an army of aliens. The less Diana Prince and Bruce Wayne were seen together in public, the less suspicious it would seem. Perhaps that moment on the balcony on his birthday was the last time. The thought filled her with momentary sadness.

Claire bit her lip in contemplation. “Alex Wentworth has already shown an interest in the sculpture but if I can draw Wayne’s attention to it, it may drive up the price. Or perhaps he’ll be more interested in a painting? I saw him lingering near that portrait… What could it remind him of? His dead father? Yes, that could work…”

The polished façade was off and Diana could see the undisguised hunger in her eyes. She left Claire duMont standing there, muttering to herself.

.

.

The next morning, a package arrived with her morning tea. It was flat and rectangular and even though she had an inkling of what it could be, Diana gasped after carefully cutting it open.

It was the painting that had drawn her notice last night. Revelation. It stood propped against the wall of her hotel room, fitting in quite beautifully. This annoyed Diana even more. A hundred years, and she’d never felt the need or want for anyone else to buy her presents or flowers. She wasn’t going to start today.

She was about to pick up her phone when she spotted a note she’d missed earlier.

Diana,

I don’t know when your birthday is and I don’t know if it even matters. But this is for when you kept me company for mine, and all the days before.

So, happy birthday.

Yours,

Bruce.

Diana sipped her tea with quiet satisfaction. The painting deserved a more permanent home in Gotham. And perhaps, so did she.

[askspiderqueen]

Three’s a Party (Caitlyn x LeBlanc, Elise)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @sweatered-mermaid​

I LOVE YOU LITTLE POOFERFISH

“Don’t you have something that isn’t so....flamboyant?” Caitlyn sighed.

She was seated at the edge of the bed, very patiently watching the one and only Matron of the Black Rose rifle through her side of the closet looking for something that was more, well, plain. They weren’t attending the party to be noticed after all. It was more like a reconnaissance mission, one that Evaine had decided to insert herself into at the last moment. The Sheriff had chosen to give Vi the night off; the Enforcer wasn’t the best at remaining in the background. Pink hair tended to draw quite the attention. She sighed again. LeBlanc’s voice drew her attention, “Ah, what a shame. We’ll have to wait then.”

The Noxian stood in a dark purple sleeveless dress, staring at the mirror and frowning. It was lightly frilled and unevenly cut, with the right side being longer than the left. The garment hugged her curves perfectly, and Caitlyn’s electric blue orbs trailed briefly to Evaine’s behind before she caught herself. Too late. The Deceiver was already smirking at her through the reflection. The Sheriff rolled her eyes, hoping her face wasn’t too red. “Wait for what?”

“Your girlfriend thinks I’m a servant,” a new voice sounded behind her.

Caitlyn jumped, almost sliding off the bed as she turned around. There was a snap of magic and something flew towards LeBlanc. The Deceiver caught it neatly, holding it up to observe the choice of dress. “You’re wearing that,” the newcomer ordered, “And if you don’t like it, you should have gone to get one yourself.”

The Sheriff blinked, staring at the long haired woman before her. Hazel orbs shot over, and a neat eyebrow cocked. “What?”

The gears in Caitlyn’s head turned, albeit a bit too slowly for her liking. “Elise?”

“No, it’s the queen of Freljord, you hamster-brained yordle.”

The woman glared, and the Piltovan just threw her an exasperated look, shaking her head. “Your taste might be improving just a tad, Elise dear,” LeBlanc interrupted their silent battle.

The Deceiver had on a simpler and longer black dress. It had a slit up the right thigh and an intricate design woven in the back. The garment was sleeveless, but not incredibly revealing as the material went up to her collarbone. It was a good choice, Caitlyn silently admitted. She’d never say it out loud to Elise, of course. Speaking of which...

“Why exactly are you still here?” the Sheriff hesitantly asked the Spider Queen, who was currently scowling at the Matron for her previous comment.

Elise’s attention returned to Caitlyn. The new color of her eyes was a bit unexpected, but it was still a great improvement from their usual unsettling blood red. “I hear there’s an event of interest tonight,” the Shadow Isler replied, her expression morphing into a smirk.

The Sheriff blinked, then turned to Evaine for help. The Deceiver was purposely looking away, pretending to fiddle with her jewelry. “No,” Caitlyn stated, standing up,  “No. Absolutely not.”

She had never liked Elise but tolerated her for Evaine’s sake. Actually, the Deceiver didn’t seem to like her much either, but the two seemed to know each other very well....The Sheriff stopped her thought process there and went back to grabbing LeBlanc’s attention. “Evaine? What did you tell her?”

LeBlanc finally looked up, and the twinkle in her eye told Caitlyn she was about to launch into an intricate lie of twists and turns with the purpose of confusing the Sheriff. The Piltovan raised her hand before the Deceiver could speak. “Truth,” she said sternly.

Evaine shared a look with Elise before shrugging. “I needed a small favor so I told her she could tag along if she wished.”

Caitlyn threw her hands up, “Why?”

“Don’t you have a suspicion some of those items were stolen anyway?” Elise crossed her arms and cocked her hip, “By a certain little group that’s been running around everywhere? They have been in Noxus too.”

And that, the Sheriff realized, also explained Evaine’s interest in the “Unveiling of Ancient Magical Artifacts From Across Runeterra”. The businessman conducting the event likely attained some of the relics from an auction by the thieves. However, she had witnessed the Black Rose’s methods of finding people. LeBlanc would often start broad with those who had recently been in contact, spiraling closer and closer until she unveiled secrets and destroyed the victim’s life, letting them suffer before actually killing them. Caitlyn didn’t approve one bit. And if Elise was involved, that meant she had been targeted as well and was also looking for revenge.

The Piltovan took a deep breath, speaking to both other women but maintaining eye contact with Evaine, “They will be caught with time and will be spending the appropriate time in jail. Your interference is not needed.”

She knew even before the words left her mouth that she was wasting her breath. Noxus functioned under a brutal method that used death as the consequence for most transgressions. However, she had been working to convince the Matron such extreme actions were unnecessary. It worked better on certain days than others. “There’s a rumor one of the men is Noxian,” the Spider Queen was rebutting, “We will deal with him under our terms. I don’t take people breaking into my place very lightly.”

Caitlyn gawked for a moment, having expected the both of them to argue for the death of all the thieves. Evaine must have spoken to Elise beforehand and warned her of the Sheriff’s views on the death penalty. “I suppose that...can be arranged,” she finally managed.

The Spider Queen looked as if she wanted to say more, but the Deceiver interrupted, a hand brushing Caitlyn’s shoulder. “Now that that’s settled, why don’t you get changed, dear? You’re the only one who’s not ready. We’ll have to leave soon if we wish to arrive on time.”

Confused, the Piltovan glanced over at Elise, who, despite her altered appearance, was still in a rather casual attire of simple pants and a v-neck shirt. The Shadow Isler must have noticed her look because she scoffed and snapped her fingers. A burst of magic later and she was standing in a body-hugging crimson dress that left one of her shoulders bare.

Sighing, the Sheriff shook her head and started towards the closet to grab her own garment, a dark blue piece that was loose past her hip, allowing for easier movement. It did have a somewhat low neckline, but nothing too revealing. She would put it on the normal way.

If not for the two people she had come with, Caitlyn might have actually managed to enjoy herself in the museum. Well, as much as possible, knowing that some of these artifacts had been stolen. A portion of her attention was always diverted towards keeping an eye on Elise and Evaine. LeBlanc tended to be significantly more mischievous when around the Spider Queen. That’s not the say the two weren’t useful. The Sheriff could tell they were no strangers to disguises and distractions; their tones remained flirtatious to select guests, but hazel and jade orbs - the Deceiver had taken on an illusion as well - were always sharp and alert.

There was...quite the odd crowd in certain spots. Caitlyn’s gut told her there were some individuals here that generally did not attend events like these. They seemed awkward; not quite sure where to look and how to look. She had pointed it out to her companions, and they had agreed almost immediately. One of such people was a large man, almost bursting the seams of his tuxedo. His voice was gravelly, matching the gruffness of his face. Visitors were keeping a wide berth around him, and the Sheriff was sure she once spotted the gleam of a gun beneath his suit as he shifted. A sweep of the room showed at least three other suspicious looking individuals.

Maurice Delaroue, the man responsible for the occasion, was due for a speech in approximately ten minutes. Caitlyn suspected an assassination, or at the very least a kidnapping, was to occur as he spoke. She leaned against the wall by herself, close to a door that read “Employees Only”. Her blue orbs were eying the cheap alcohol she was holding, but the Sheriff was, in fact, listening to Elise and Evaine employ more of their distraction techniques. They had sauntered close to the guard, starting small talk amongst themselves and slowly drawing the man into the conversation. And so Caitlyn casually sipped at her glass as she waited for the door to open so she could slip in unnoticed 

Ah, there. A woman in a well-ironed suit made her exit, too busy flipping through a notebook to even look up at her. Caitlyn immediately slid through, casting one backward glance to find Evaine, Elise, and the guard laughing over something trivial. Almost too easy.

Delaroue. She wasn’t quite sure where to start. Perhaps a meeting room or a small office? After disposing of her drink, she kept her back straight and face forward, making it seem as if she knew where she was going. Several people passing by gave her a glance, but that was all. Some muffled voices to the side made her falter, and, ensuring there was no one else around, the Sheriff peered through the meshed window of the door. A man that perfectly match the picture in her folder back in her office was shaking hands with a blond individual, and Caitlyn backtracked to the end of the hall to avoid looking suspicious as the door opened. Delaroue remained in the room, and the Sheriff dipped her head politely as she passed the blond man. He grinned at her in return. The smile was slightly unsettling, but she quickly shook it off as she raised her hand to knock. She entered immediately after, “Mr. Delaroue?”

He looked up, an expression of surprise on his face. Caitlyn entered and quickly closed the door, reaching into a hidden pocket for her badge. “Sheriff Caitlyn,” she said, holding it up for him to see, “Although you likely know me, judging by the look on your face.”

Delaroue straightened, brushing back his hair. He looked rather confused, and stammered, “Ah, y-yes, I’ve seen you on the news. Is there something I can help you with?”

Caitlyn looked him in the eye and kept her expression neutral, conveying that her next words were serious, “I have reason to believe that you are in danger. I’d like to evacuate you as silently as possible to avoid tipping off anyone who wishes you harm.”

He seemed genuinely shocked. “For what reason? This is a very important night for me. There may have been several delays, but I assure you, my security is quite efficient-”

“I’m afraid you should consider re-evaluating the entirety of your security team, as I was able to enter without alerting anyone,” Caitlyn interrupted patiently, “Now, if you wish to inform someone that an emergency has arisen and requires your attention, then I would advise you do so outside. Anyone could have come in here and-”

She stopped short, a thought suddenly occurred to her. “That man,” she stated, fixing Delaroue with an intense stare, “The blonde one. What did he come in for?”

Delaroue just gave a weak shrug, rather intimidated by the sudden change in her tone, “He just came to congratulate me on organizing this event and putting together all those rare artifacts. Gave me a business card in case I-”

“Give it to me,” Caitlyn demanded, “Now.”

The man was shocked but obeyed, reaching behind him to grab a white card. Caitlyn already had the hextech scanner on the back of her badge ready, and as soon as she held the piece of cardstock up, it beeped positive. Shit. “Leave the building. Tell security there’s a bomb,” she ordered, before dashing back out into the hallway.

She pressed another button on her badge as she ran; it would notify the station of a situation that required immediate attention, as well as her location. Cursing her heels, Caitlyn burst into another room, one with many cleaning products. An older man jumped in surprise, and she immediately grabbed him by the arm, dragging him out. “Get out of the building. There’s a bomb,” she told him calmly.

She didn’t have to say more. Caitlyn rushed about the hallways, helping any stragglers towards the stairs. There was an announcement running repeatedly on the intercom at this point, so she rushed back into the room where she left the card. It was warm to the touch. Fuck. She had less than a minute.

She absolutely hated purely magical explosives. Hextech, she could deal with. There was still an obvious switch and wires for deactivation. But this, this was a formless, hazardous spell woven into a card, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. The Sheriff ripped off a portion of her dress, using the material to grab the card to avoid burning herself. She shot out of the room and back down the hallway, yanking a window open. Clambering out into the fire escape, she immediately started towards the roof. She had to get this as far away from people as possible. Another strip of her dress was torn off, and she tied one end to her badge, slipping the smoking card into it as she went. It was about to explode. She wouldn’t make it to the roof, but at least she was only one story away. Grabbing the loose end of the cloth, Caitlyn swung her badge in several quick circles, building up its velocity as much as she could before releasing it towards the sky.

BOOM.

It exploded not two seconds later, shoving Caitlin onto her back and rattling the entire fire escape. She groaned, coughing from the debris and smoke all around her. Her eyes stung, and even after blinking several times, she couldn’t see clearly. The Sheriff made an attempt to stand but swayed dangerously to the right. Everything was muted.

A good portion of the top of the building had been blown off, but the rest of the structure was intact. Good. Now if only she could-

Creaaak.

The Sheriff yelped as her world suddenly tipped. The top part of the fire escape had loosened from the wall due to the explosion, and it was now bending precariously outward. Caitlyn couldn’t help herself from sliding off the edge, but she managed to grab onto the metal railing before she plummeted to her death. Shit.

She dangled, wondering if she could swing herself down to the level below. Unfortunately, she could barely make it out due to the smoke, and the sudden impact from landing might rip the entire fire escape from the wall. She looked around futilely, hoping for more options. The railing gave a jerk, moaning in protest at her weight.

She could fall three stories and live right? It wasn’t that far away. The Sheriff glanced back down, squinting at the lower level. Better than falling, she supposed. She swung back and forth a few times, building her momentum before letting go and angling her body to her destination. She exhaled, stretching desperately for a handhold as she flew through the air.

She missed.

Caitlyn wasn’t sure if she was screaming, but she must have been because the breath was suddenly knocked out of her by something very large. “Oomf!”

She struggled for a moment, disoriented by the sudden horizontal movement. The Piltovan turned her head and would have screamed again had her lungs been working properly. A giant spider had grasped her in its jaws, and its glowing red eyes narrowed as the two made eye contact. The Sheriff wanted to faint. The familiar stomach-dropping sensation of falling prevented her from speaking this time, and the two landed on the ground with a bone-shaking thud. Caitlyn found herself dropped to the floor, knocking the air out of her again, and Elise turned upward with a loud hiss. The Sheriff glanced up just in time to see the fire escape fall on them.

Screeeeeech.

Caitlyn was curled into a ball and had her eyes screwed shut, so she wasn’t quite sure if it was the screech of metal or the giant monster above her. Once her brain realized she wasn’t dead, she carefully blinked, automatically looking up. The fire escape was bent around them like a cage, and Elise still had her front legs and jaw against the metal. The Spider Queen seemed to groan, finally releasing her death grip and staggering slightly. There was a clear fluid leaking from one of her right limbs. The Sheriff scrambled to get up, wincing as a sudden pain in her side flared. There was still dust everywhere. She couldn’t see past the cage they were stuck in. Of course, another hunk of metal crashing down hadn’t helped.

Slowly, Elise morphed back into her human form - the one with red eyes and short dark hair. Caitlyn had never witnessed the transformation; it was quite surreal. The second and fourth pairs of legs migrated to the back as human skin broke through the dark carapace with a sharp crackling sound. The rest of the appendages morphed into limbs, their clawed tips dissolving into fingers and toes. The large mandibles retreated into Elise’s mouth, and her eyes merged into one glaringly crimson pair. Her right arm was bleeding. The Spider Queen was naked, but as soon as she was fully human, her usual outfit began to cover her body. Advantages of magic, Caitlyn thought tiredly.

She was half standing, wondering how to get out the cage when there was a clinking sound from behind. The Sheriff wanted to turn around and look, but the glowing golden chains threading through the railings immediately told her who it was. The metal ripped open, shrieking with protest, and Caitlyn felt a pair of arms wrap around her as she stumbled to meet her girlfriend. “I heard the explosion,” she heard Evaine whisper.

LeBlanc didn’t have to say more. Caitlyn just nodded weakly and buried her face into the Matron’s shoulder. There was a cough somewhere to her left. “Elise, thank you for saving me. Oh, of course. No goddamn problem. It’s not as if we both almost died or anything,” came the sarcastic drawl of the Spider Queen.

The Piltovan raised her head, blinking at the sudden realization. She turned towards the Shadow Isler. “You...saved me,” it came out more incredulous than she had intended.

“Congratulations, Detective. You must have graduated at the top of your class,” Elise huffed in response as she limped over, wincing.

Her shoulder appeared to have been dislocated, accompanied by a compound fracture of her forearm. There was blood all over her right side at this point. She should have fainted already from the pain, but the Sheriff wasn’t quite sure if her anatomy was even close to that of a normal human’s. “She crawled up the side of the building once we were outside. She could get to you faster than I could,” Evaine supplied helpfully.

Caitlyn’s brow furrowed, “There was dust everywhere. How did you find me?”

Elise sneered disdainfully. “You weren’t exactly the quietest person.”

The Sheriff had a feeling there was more to that answer, but she’d save it for later. She turned to ask Evaine if she had sustained any injuries, but the loud blaring of fire trucks, police cars, and ambulances took away any chances of questioning. A commotion was definitely headed towards them, and LeBlanc released her slowly, making sure she was supporting herself. “We’ll be at home,” Evaine nodded, backing away to stand next to Elise.

Caitlyn, looked at them in confusion. “Elise needs medical atten-”

“I’ll be fine,” the spider mage interrupted.

She definitely did not look fine at all. “Also, no one saw a giant spider,” Evaine added, smiling pleasantly.

The Sheriff was still rather befuddled, but she gave a slight nod. “You owe me so much,” she heard Elise say as the two teleported away.

Caitlyn sighed tiredly, turning to meet the paramedics hurrying towards her.

It was late into the night when the Sheriff stumbled into the apartment. The lights were on in the living room, so she slowly trudged her way there, kicking off her heels as she went. She had been questioned nonstop left and right, but she stood by her story that she had been knocked out after the explosion. No, she had no idea how she ended up on the ground. No, she didn’t know why the fire escape was bent around her like that. In the end, they could do nothing but bandage her ribs and let her go. They hadn’t even caught the blonde culprit. She’d probably get called back in the morning, quite honestly. Not that she didn’t have a mountain of paperwork waiting for her already. At least all sightings of a giant spider had been dismissed. Mostly. She’d have to work on that.

The lights were bright. Caitlyn had to blink a few times before she could focus on Elise sitting in the armchair. The Spider Queen had her right arm in a stark white cast and looked very disgruntled. The Piltovan was about to ask where Evaine was, but a breath close to her ear answered her question. “We were just wondering when you’d come home. Welcome back, dear,” LeBlanc purred.

Caitlyn felt a good portion of the tension leave her body at the sound of the voice and she leaned happily into her lover. It made her realize just how wound up she had been from the day's events. She let the Deceiver guide her to the couch, plopping down with a grateful sigh. LeBlanc swept her hair back, kissing her forehead. “I’ll grab more wine,” she murmured, gesturing to the empty bottle on the coffee table, “Why don’t you have a bath?”

Caitlyn opened her mouth to protest, but Evaine was already gone in a puff of smoke. That left her with Elise, who was regarding her silently. A bath sounded wonderful, honestly, but the Sheriff couldn’t find the strength to stand up again. Maybe in a few minutes. Her eyelids fluttered closed, but they were startled open again by a quiet voice. “You know, I've never in my entire life seen Evaine panic,” the Spider Queen finally said, “Anxious, yes. Panicked to the point of irrationality? You must really be that special.”

That made the Sheriff look up. “I’m sorry?”

“She was debating teleporting towards you,” the Noxian laughed sharply, “Until I told her she'd likely end up dead in the wall since she didn't know where she was going. And you wouldn't enjoy that very much, would you?”

Caitlyn’s mind was so sluggish after the long day. “A wall?”

The Spider Queen raised an eyebrow at her. “Teleportation can be very dangerous if you don't know your exact destination. Many have turned up dead because they ended up merged with a large object, like a building. You can imagine it's not pleasant.”

The Piltovan actually shuddered at the thought, while Elise simply looked amused. They were left in silence again. The Spider Queen raised the wine glass she was holding to her lips, downing the rest of the drink. Caitlyn wasn’t sure how she still managed to look so graceful despite being in a cast. She decided she really should take care of her personal hygiene and get some rest. She hadn’t expected the other two to still be awake, but they had likely been waiting for her. The Sheriff was at the threshold to the hallway when she stopped. “I never thanked you for saving me,” she said suddenly.

The Noxian hummed. “You did,” the smirk in her voice could be heard.

That brought a chuckle out of Caitlyn. There was a whoosh of magic, and Evaine appeared again, frowning at two bottles. “Both,” the Spider Queen stated helpfully after staring for a moment.

The Matron looked at her, then Caitlyn, then shrugged. “Open them, would you, Elise? I’m awfully tired from the long day.”

She set one bottle next to the Shadow Isler and placed a hand on her forehead to emphasize her words. Caitlyn heard the Spider Queen scoff, “Don't you even dare. You're the only one that got out unscathed.”

Evaine actually had the gall to raise her finger dramatically and point at the long, but thin, scratch from the debris on her leg. Even Caitlyn had to sigh at that. Elise turned her head and the two shared a look. The Sheriff shook her head in exasperation. “Right. You children have fun,” she quipped weakly.

LeBlanc looked up long enough to throw her a warm smile, and Caitlyn’s heart fluttered. “Want company?” the Deceiver asked innocently.

The Piltovan stammered for a moment before her brain managed to find the correct words. “No, I’m fine!” the Sheriff practically squeaked, trying not to blush.

The Shadow Isler was busy holding the bottle with her free hand and stabbing the cork with one of her spider legs, but she let out a short laugh. Evaine began to pour the wine into three glasses with her magic, and standing back, Caitlyn really couldn’t tell that she was staring at two of Noxus’s most brutal individuals.

Elise had saved her today, she thought as she headed to the bathroom. The Sheriff would never have expected it in her entire life. Perhaps she wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe...just maybe, Caitlyn had a good chance of turning them both around.

To be continued...?

[licencedtoretire]

This post is a little out of order from the route of our trip but with today being ANZAC day I felt it was appropriate to publish this post ahead of some of the other posts that should come before it.

We had spent the night back at the NZMCA Park in Napier catching up with our friends Dave and Nita who despite being regular visitors to Napier had never stayed at the Park as they have family in the area. The following morning Dave and Nita headed off to do their thing whilst we had decided to tackle a road we had never driven before, the Gentle Annie which takes you from Napier to Taihape.

It always feels good to head towards a road that you haven’t driven before knowing that new adventures await. Having read the postings about this road on Facebook we knew it was steep and winding with some great scenery as well as a couple of DOC camps along the way.

As the road heads inland it starts to climb with the farm land slowly giving way to forestry as the trees get closer and closer to the side of the road you really do get the sense of being on your own especially with almost no traffic coming towards you and nothing behind us.

Surprisingly the road only crosses a couple of rivers with this one lane bridge over quite the gully below. This bridge is just before the start of one of the steepest windiest bits of road we have driven in a while. The road these days is sealed but it’s still narrow without a centreline and thankfully the only logging truck we did meet coming the other way was when we had tons of room to pull over. Given the twists in the road it could have been quite interesting to have met him elsewhere.

We didn’t come across this sign till slightly later in the journey but I had to laugh with the picture rotated the slope looked almost as steep as the one we had driven up and down. I actually think we drove this road the wrong way I think that had we driven from Taihape the views down over the sea as we descended the hills would have been quite spectacular. Especially on such a clear blue sky day, but I could be wrong about that.

We weren’t much further down the road when as we came around the corner we spotted this stag at the side of the road. It’s hard to know who got the bigger fright. Thankfully we had the camera at the ready and Sarah was able to snap a couple of shots as it headed to safety.

When we stayed at Whakaipo Bay in Taupo we spoke with Phil and Annie who mentioned the freedom camping area at the site of the old Springvale Suspension Bridge. Whilst we thought about staying here alongside the Rangitikei River with no other campers we decided to move on and spend the night at the Army Museum. As a place to stay it looked ok with plenty of space but with no one else there we were a little hesitant.

It’s hard to miss the Army museum as you pass by on SH1 especially with the tanks outside the building ready to repel any unwanted invaders. There is apparently a new method of ensuring you pay your entrance fee with the tanks taking aim of those who don’t and using their vehicles for target practice. Imagine that! You can see the smaller tank lining up the red ute.

The museum charges an admission fee of $15 per adult which I think is reasonable as it’s actually free to camp here around the back of the museum so if you factor in the usual cost of staying somewhere it’s a reasonable deal. Sadly the display cases aren’t fitted with non reflective glass so getting a decent shot of some of the displays was rather difficult.

The museum is set up so that as you wander around you start with the oldest conflicts and finish the tour with the most recent encounters with good storyboards and displays to cover almost every display.

From the Maori land wars it was onto the horrors of WW1 and the use of chemical and poison gasses to maim and kill. Thankfully since then the use of chemical weapons has been outlawed but seeing the masks and treading the storyboard makes you aware of how bad it would have been.

It’s impossible to believe but with the display moving from the Western front to what happened in Gallipoli and the main reason for publishing this post today that neither Sarah or I took a single useable photo of what was shown here. (we actually made this visit a couple of weeks prior and had I thought about it at the time I would have ensured I had proper photos.)

Then downstairs to the WW2 display which appears larger than the others and certainly has more equipment to view. Although it’s only look and don’t touch with no access inside any of the vehicles. I thought this was a real shame and would loved to have had the chance to sit inside the tank or if that wasn’t possible at least somehow to be able to see inside. I think if you could do this especially with a video display running it would really bring home the feeling of what it would have been like.

I am not grumbling (Oh all right maybe a little) it’s just something I think that would take the museum to another level if it was a little more interactive. At one point I got too close to one of the displays and a booming voice came over the nearby speaker telling me to “step back from the display you are being watched” all rather big brother but I guess after the thefts here back in 2007 has made them extra cautious.

Talking about medal thefts bring me to the display of medals here which is extensive. On display are medals of all sizes and shapes for all sorts of events that New Zealanders have been involved in. Of particular interest to me was seeing the Victoria Cross and Bar (far left in photo) awarded to Charles Upham one of only three people in history to have been awarded it twice. I read with interest after our visit that these medals are worth around $400,000 if they came to auction and this one worth even more due to it rarity.

I know that these medals weren’t awarded in the Gallipoli campaign in fact they were given out in WW2 but they are still an important part of New Zealand’s history and something that we came to learn about by visiting here.

For those that don’t know a number of medals including 9 Victoria Crosses were stolen from the museum in a burglary. They were recovered the next year on payment of a reward which it turned out was actually paid to the burglars. One of whom returned it with the other keeping it even after being convicted.

After we had finished our museum tour we returned to the motorhome parked securely at the rear of the museum. It’s a huge area here with both the carpark and grassed area being available for freedom camping although a donation is requested it’s not expected. During the night there are security patrols around the camping area making us feel very safe. Talking about this there are very bright lights on the building that are on all night so make sure you take this into consideration when parking otherwise it’s like daylight.

That evening we were treated to a magnificent sunset which I thought outlined the guns on the parade ground with that special glow you get at that time of the day.

The following morning our black and white alarm clock decided he wanted an early morning explore howling to be let out of the door at around 6am. (I took these photos later when the sun had actually risen.) Since he wouldn’t take no for an answer I was elected to accompany him outside to say it was brisk was rather an understatement with a healthy frost outside. Thankfully common sense prevailed with Mr Blobby deciding that returning to the warmth of the motorhome was the best option. That morning was the first time this year we have turned on the heater. Overall we enjoyed the night at the museum and it would serve as a very useful place to break the journey or wait out a road closure during winter. If you are here take the time to go inside to view the museum. Once again it’s hard to believe that we have driven past time after time without stopping in the past.

To view the places we have visited click here to see them on Google maps. You can click the links to read the blog about that area. [cardoza_facebook_like_box] To view the Ratings we have done for places we have stayed click here 

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Camping At The National Army Museum This post is a little out of order from the route of our trip but with today being ANZAC day I felt it was appropriate to publish this post ahead of some of the other posts that should come before it.

[caveartfair]

Winner of World’s Top Architecture Prize Announced—and the 9 Other Biggest News Stories This Week

01  The world’s top architecture prize went to Balkrishna Doshi, an Indian architect and urban planner known for designing public housing.

(via the New York Times and Quartzy)

“It is a very wonderful thing that happened,” Doshi told the New York Times after winning the 2018 Pritzker Prize, becoming the 45th laureate and the first architect from India to receive the coveted award. Doshi’s work is at the forefront of community-conscious, low-cost housing, driven by a belief that architecture should serve the public good rather than the demands of a single client. Doshi worked with Le Corbusier in the 1950s, overseeing several buildings that were part of the Swiss architect’s radical urban plan for the Indian city of Chandigarh. In his work, Doshi draws upon traditional Indian architecture, such as for the Indian Institute of Management in Bangalore (1977–92), which was “inspired by traditional, mazelike temple cities in southern India,” according to the Times. Vastushilpa Consultants, the private practice Doshi founded in 1956, has worked on over 100 projects in total. Among the crowning achievements of the 90-year-old architect is the Aranya Community Housing in Indore, an affordable housing project designed to accommodate 80,000 residents, which features a series of interconnected homes and courtyards.

02 Christie’s, Sotheby’s and Phillips brought in a combined £345 million with fees across their Post-War and Contemporary evening sales in London.

(Artsy)

Christie’s Post-War and Contemporary evening art sale in London pulled off an almost flawless performance to start the week on Tuesday, notching the highest-ever total for any contemporary art auction held in Europe, to the tune of £137.9 million, including buyer’s fees. Only five of the 65 lots offered failed to sell, for a stellar buy-in rate by lot of 92 percent. Primed with appealing and largely blue-chip offerings, the art market continued to show strength and stability at Sotheby’s Contemporary Art evening sale on Wednesday, bringing in £109.2 million after buyer’s fees with only three out of 58 lots going unsold. The tally, including fees, neared the high side of pre-sale estimates between £85.8 million  and £118.7 million; the buy-in rate by lot was a slender 5.2 percent. The hammer total was £93.4 million. The evening total was roughly a 7 percent drop from last year’s £117.4 million result, including fees. Anchored by a stunning Picasso painting and a ravishing Matisse sculpture, Phillips’s 20th Century & Contemporary Art evening sale broke into the big leagues with the firm’s best-ever sale on Thursday night, which pulled in £97.8 million, nearly seven times its total from the previous spring sale in London. The hammer tally of £84.5 million, before fees, blasted past the high pre-sale estimate of £73.1 million. Picasso’s spare yet convincingly sensual La Dormeuse, executed on March 13, 1932, in oil and charcoal on canvas and capturing sleeping beauty of his muse and mistress Marie-Thérèse Walter, sold to an anonymous telephone bidder on the line with Marianne Hoet, deputy chairman of Phillips Europe, for a whopping £37 million (£41.8 million with fees), more than doubling its high estimate.

03  New U.S. government data shows that the arts contributed over $763.6 billion to the American economy in 2015.

(Artsy)

The arts sector employed 4.9 million Americans in 2015, who together earned over $370 billion, according to data released Wednesday by the U.S. Bureau of Economic Analysis and the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA)—a contribution to the U.S. economy great than both the agricultural and transportation sectors. Together, the arts comprised 4.2% of the U.S. GDP in 2015, with the sector expanding by an average of 2.6% between 2012 and 2015, the latest year for which data is available. The data was also broken down by state for the first time. Unsurprisingly, New York and California saw the most arts-generated economic impact, with the arts adding $114.1 billion and $174.6 billion to the two states’ economies, respectively. But Washington State and Utah saw the highest year-over-year growth between 2012 and 2015, averaging more than 5% annually. “The data confirm that the arts play a meaningful role in our daily lives, including through the jobs we have, the products we purchase, and the experiences we share,” NEA chairman Jane Chu said in a statement.

04 The director of Ghent’s Museum of Fine Arts has been temporarily suspended amidst mounting scrutiny of an exhibition that experts say contained forgeries.

(via artnet News and The Art Newspaper)

Catherine de Zegher was suspended Wednesday night by a board of directors that oversees the Belgian city’s cultural institutions—a decision she only learned of after being asked about it by a journalist, according to artnet News (citing Belgian paper De Tijd). The suspension will last until an investigation into the museum’s 2017 Russian avant-garde exhibition, which some experts believe was littered with fakes, is complete. This news comes amidst mounting criticism of how Zegher handled 24 works loaned to the institution by collector Igor Toporovsky, which were included in the exhibition on Russian modernism. The pieces were removed after experts raised authenticity concerns in The Art Newspaper in mid-January. Zegher claims that she had the collection examined and authenticated by two art historians, but both have since indicated that they had doubts about the works—one went so far as to label the Toporovsky works “fake.”

05  Artist Liv Wynter resigned as a Tate artist-in-residence in response to what she called “invisible inequalities” at the museum.

(via The Guardian)

Wynter resigned on Wednesday, just ahead of International Women’s Day, to bring attention to how the Tate and other arts intuitions are failing to combat sexual assault and to diversify, The Guardian reported. Wynter was particularly critical of Tate director Maria Balshaw’s comments, made last month to the Times, that she “was raised to be a confident woman who, when I encountered harassment, would say: ‘Please don’t’ ... or something rather more direct.” Wynter, who, according to The Guardian, identifies as a “queer working-class female artist,” is also a survivor of domestic violence. She said she felt “personal shame” working for Balshaw after the remarks. Balshaw later apologized for her comments on Instagram and in a meeting with Tate staff. “It is absolutely not my intention to say that women are in any way to blame,” she wrote on the social media platform. “To be clear, it is the perpetrators who are responsible for their behaviour and not the women who are subjected to it.”

06  The Guggenheim Foundation won a long-running legal dispute over the management of Peggy Guggenheim’s collection and former home in Venice.

(via The Art Newspaper)

The family of Sandro Rumney, the son of Peggy Guggenheim’s daughter, sued the Guggenheim Foundation in France in 2014. The impetus was the organization’s decision to accept 83 works from another collection and, as a result, place several works from Peggy’s collection (on view in her former Venice home) in storage to make room for the resulting exhibition. When she died, Peggy bequeathed her house and her collection to the Guggenheim Foundation in New York. The Rumney family argued that the recent removal of work from view violated both her wishes and a prior 1996 settlement reached between the the family and the foundation. But France’s highest court disagreed, ruling on Wednesday that the terms of the settlement didn’t prohibit the exhibition of work from another collection, and that the Rumneys had failed to prove that the display “damaged the reputation” of Peggy’s historic collection. The court also ruled against the family’s claim that the foundation had disrespected Peggy’s burial site and ordered the Rumneys to pay the foundation €3,000. The Guggenheim Foundation said it was “pleased that these meritless lawsuits and appeals have now come to an end,” in a statement to The Art Newspaper. A statement from the family said that Peggy’s collection should be treated as its own intellectual work, not to be changed through the display of outside pieces.  

07  Piet Mondrian’s heirs have laid a claim to four of the artist’s paintings currently held by the Kaiser Wilhelm Museum in Krefeld, Germany.

(via the New York Times)

Heirs of the famous modernist painter claim they are the rightful owners of the works, which Mondrian left behind when he fled Europe in the 1930s. Over three years, a team of experts hired by the heirs—led by provenance researcher Monika Tatzkow—investigated the pieces and found that the works were first exhibited in 1929. They were then loaned to the museum in Krefeld, along with four additional paintings by the artist, an account seemingly backed up by a 2010 email from a now-retired curator at the museum. But the disputed works didn’t show up in an official museum inventory until 1954, under what the then-director called “mysterious circumstances.” Although the Wilhelm has since claimed that Mondrian gifted them the works, “it has been unable to buttress that claim with evidence,” the New York Times reported. Tatzkow told the Times it seems unlikely that Mondrian would gift works at such a perilous moment, and that if they were donated, they should have been inventoried. “The theory that these were a gift is completely absurd,” she said. The museum has also argued that any legal claim by the heirs is time-barred by the statute of limitations governing the dispute.

08  French president Emmanuel Macron has appointed two experts to formulate a strategy for the repatriation of African artifacts.

(via the New York Times)

Macron announced the appointments of art historian Bénédicte Savoy and the Senegalese writer and economist Felwine Sarr on Monday. This decision marks the most concrete step yet in the long process of fulfilling Macron’s bold pledge that the “temporary or permanent” restitution of African artifacts held in France would be a top priority for his administration—a pronouncement he made during a speech in Africa in November. The promise, a major reversal from previous French administrations, was generally met with cautious enthusiasm. Some, however, were doubtful that Macron would (or could) follow through. Savoy and Saar will present their plan in November. Curator Simon Njami, who is critical of restituting artifacts and skeptical it will ever occur, told the New York Times it would be difficult to decide which nation should receive the restituted work, considering the haphazard manner in which colonial powers divided up Africa in the 19th century. Others have read Macron’s actions as a bit of deft cultural diplomacy, an effort to increase goodwill on a continent where China is becoming increasingly influential. For her part, Savoy praised Macron’s pledge in a piece written shortly after the president’s November speech. “It suggests that sharing is possible,” she wrote, adding that the decision represents a generational shift towards the issue.

09  Defendants charged by U.S. prosecutors in a $50 million stock scam hoped to use a London art dealer to launder money.

(via Bloomberg News)

In a recorded conversation, one of the alleged perpetrators in the international securities fraud scheme suggested to an undercover FBI agent that he should use a $9.2 million Pablo Picasso painting to launder illicit profits, boasting that the art market is the “only market that is unregulated,” Bloomberg News reported. According to Bloomberg News, “The alleged perpetrators range from a U.K. stockbroker with hundreds of millions of dollars under management to a bank in Budapest.” The defendants are accused of having “conspired to conceal the ownership and control of publicly traded companies in the U.S. and manipulated the price and trading volume of the stocks,” in what are known as “pump-and-dump” scams. The undercover FBI agent had asked employees of the brokerage firm Beaufort Securities Ltd. to help him launder money from an earlier scam, for which they suggested buying Picasso’s Personnages (1965)  through Mayfair Fine Art Ltd., a London dealer. Mayfair’s owner Matthew Green, who was charged in the case, agreed to arrange the sale, which was stopped before its completion. U.S. prosecutors filed the case against six defendants on Friday in a Brooklyn court, and the U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission filed a related civil lawsuit in Brooklyn.

10 The French High Court annulled the conviction of Pablo Picasso’s electrician and his wife, who possessed 271 works allegedly stolen from the artist.

(via The Art Newspaper)

In 2016, a court ruled that Pierre and Danielle Le Guennec––Picasso’s former electrician and his wife––must return the works, and handed them a two-year suspended prison sentence. But on February 28th, the French High Court annulled the conviction after determining that “handling stolen goods only stands if the theft itself can be demonstrated.” Now, the couple will receive a new trial focusing on who committed the theft of the works worth an estimated €70 million, with Picasso’s chauffeur, who is also Pierre Le Guennec’s late cousin, a primary suspect. The Le Guennecs claimed that Picasso’s wife, Jacqueline, gave them the artworks in 1971 or 1972, later claiming that Jacqueline (who died in 1986) gifted them a sack of pieces for their help in hiding several bags of work from Picasso’s son. “The couple’s defence lawyer, Antoine Vey, intends to develop this version, which had been discarded by the judges for lacking credibility and consistency,” The Art Newspaper reported.

from Artsy News