#so I think I'll have to be more modest with my horns

[queen-of-meows]

Heavy is the head that bears the horns...

[inblackwoods]

While I'm posting about my pathologic transcription, I'll make shorter posts about my takeaways. About the literal health of the environment around town, we get a couple people on day one to give context. The most obvious is Aspity, but to get an idea as to why things are as she says, you have to talk to a drunkard, called a Carouser, and a Tot.

The Tot mentions a "Rotten Field," and when asked what that is, he says:

"It’s where they bury the bulls’ bones. The place is covered with fur instead of grass, and it’s all bones bones bones underground. Bones and horns. Yeah."

Why are so many bones and horns and hides being thrown into a field instead of being used in some way? Either for jewelry, clothes, or for tradesmen's tools, these things have a variety of uses.

The Carouser, when asked about the Abattoir, says:

"Hundreds of bulls are being slaughtered there- what else is there to know? It is our humble town that provides the whole Northeastern region with beef! Or even the whole country mayhap."

It's because of the massive scale of the Bull Project that so much excess material is being produced and then thrown into the fields and rivers as waste products. Nothing is in higher demand than meat, nothing is needed as regularly, and perhaps the people in the Capital and in other towns are less interested in buying blood or bone. It's not profitable, the Olgimskys don't view it as anything but by products of more lucrative things.

Aspity says:

"All that water comes from the Steppe and it isn’t exactly clean. Yesterday I inspected all the springs in the area; there seems to be no more clean water around. That salty taste is everywhere, it’s reddish in colour, and there are disgusting clots in it."

And when Bachelor asks for more information, she says:

"The towsnfolk store water in home-made reservoirs. This modest supply should be enough to help us last a little while, but afterwards we’ll have to drink that bloody mixture."

Bachelor reacts to this with disgust, and can even insist she is lying, perhaps because he had been benefitting from this disgusting reality in his life in the Capital.

Aspity's whole point in starting this conversation is to make blatantly clear some of the side effects of the Steppe's occupation, which is that the waste material of the Abattoir is dumped into the river and land. This problem would be lessened in severity if the community was manufacturing meat not for the sake of providing for the entire country, but just for the local population and what's necessary to export in exchange for other essential imports. Obviously, this would be less lucrative for the Olgimskys (who don't care as long as they don't suffer any loss) but it would mean that the people who live here would better be able to care for themselves and the land with no need to think of supporting an entire country off the backs of one small community. The occupation of the Steppe, the running of the Bull Project, will not only destroy the Kin and lower classes, but will also eventually kill the town, the higher classes and even the Olgimskys as well. When the water runs out, it will run out for the lower classes first, but it will eventually run out for everyone.

More on Fat Vlad trying to talk about this all as if it were an inescapable, natural reality (and the Bachelor's fighting against this notion) later. Sort of how some people think that the way the world works, capitalism and such, are natural laws instead of constructed ideas (horrible fallacy).

[symphonybracket]

YouTube links: Tchaikovsky 6, Dvořák 9

Comments:

Dvořák 9

I know it's gonna get nominated a hundred times, but I have listened to it four times in a row in the past week so I gotta mention it. Exquisite bliss from first to last note.

it slays <3

When I heard the first movement for the first time, I was GRINNING LIKE AN IDIOT because of how much I loved it. LIKE THIS IS SO YUMMY (link opens to the timestamp)

it's got everything. the interplay between minor and major. themes from the early movements that come back in the finale. the most iconic english horn solo in all of classical music. dvorak wrote it while traveling across the US and was directly inspired not only by his native czech/bohemian soundscapes but the musical languages he heard from black and native americans. there's a tuba part but it only plays for like five measures. fantastic orchestrations, making full use of all the different colors of the orchestra. the start of the finale sounds kinda like jaws. it is physically impossible for me to feel upset while i'm listening to it it's the first symphony i ever played in orchestra and i'm so normal about it that i want to get that EH solo tattooed on my art and also i wrote a paper about it for a university music history class and i got an A on it so it should definitely win the bracket or i'll cry

Tchaikovsky 6

Everyone bangs on about the 4th movement but it's the 3rd movement that really hits

tchaik 6 is what i would listen to if i had an hour to live

the 5/4 movement of the tchaik lives rent free in my mind and i think about it every day

It’s beyond gorgeous. The melodies soar, the orchestra swells, and you just need to lie down for a while after listening to it. It’s Romanticism at its zenith. You want to weep and sigh, and it’s impossible to listen to it without literally feeling something.

Symphony No. 6, titled “Pathétique”, was Tchaikovsky’s final symphony. It is an intensely emotional piece, and to many scholars demonstrates the emotional turmoil that characterized much of Tchaikovsky’s life. He died about a week after its premiere, a fact which leads many scholars to debate about whether the content of the piece itself reflects the possibility that he may have committed suicide. The title itself is often translated to mean “impassioned suffering”, although this was most likely a later addition by Modest and not actually part of Tchaikovsky’s vision. Given these facts, many scholars interpret this piece to be about death and suffering. However, this piece can also be seen to represent life and all its contrasting moments. This interpretation is more holistic and inclusive of all of the moments captured in this piece, and also serves to break down the common narrative of Tchaikovsky as a tragic figure.

More comments about Tchaikovsky 6 below the cut (length warning):

Scholarship surrounding Tchaikovsky’s music tends to focus heavily on the ways his confliction over his homoerotic desires appears in his writing. However, his personal letters reveal a much more balanced understanding of himself that goes beyond the common narrative. In one letter written to Modest describing a new relationship with another man, he writes: “I awoke today with a feeling of unknown happiness and with a complete absence of that emotional sobriety that used to make me repent in the morning for having gone too far the day before.” Many of the letters he wrote regarding his relationships demonstrate no shame and no anguish beyond what can be expected of a man living in a homophobic society. It is important to take this information into account when listening to a piece such as this one that has been discussed so frequently, and to understand it beyond the turmoil and strife that it is seen to represent. Like many of Tchaikovsky’s works, this symphony displays a range of human emotions. It is not only representative of tragedy and “impassioned suffering”; it is a depiction of what it is like to live. It is also interesting to note that this piece is used as a signifier of queer desire in the novel "Maurice" by E.M. Forster, a novel also notable for its radical portrayal of a queer man who gets a happy ending. Much to think about there.

The first movement begins with a lone bassoon soloist playing a plaintive minor melody, which later comes back in the strings. As the movement progresses, it grows in intensity and texture. More instruments are added, and the music becomes more frantic, building and building towards the dramatic trumpet fanfare. Throughout this piece, Tchaikovsky continues to make significant use of contrasting dynamics and melodies, reflecting the emotions he hopes to convey through the music. Dramatic, tumultuous sections are interspersed with pastoral woodwind melodies, and the angry brass fanfares give way to a quiet ending.

The second movement is reminiscent of a waltz, and uses the strings and woodwinds more than the brass to achieve its floating melodies. The dynamics ebb and flow to build tension, but this movement never reaches the same levels of anguish that the previous movement does. Tchaikovsky makes use of pizzicato in the strings to convey a lighter, more cheerful mood, and features the upper woodwinds prominently. He also repeats themes frequently, giving the audience something familiar to listen out for as the movement progresses.

The third movement begins with frantic energy in the strings and woodwinds. As more instruments join the rush of music, the underlying eight note accompaniment does not let up, continuing the vivacious beginning through the whole movement. Instruments pass the melodies between each other and engage in conversations across the orchestra. Like the first movement, the brass play a prominent role in creating dramatic climaxes in the music, as well as supporting the march-like conclusion. Conductor Myung-Whun Chung describes the deceptively dramatic ending as, “one of the greatest, most thrilling, but most empty of victories in musical history,” observing that this movement has the energetic finality of a final movement. The reversal of having the true finale be a slower movement represents a shift away from the “Beethovian model of light over darkness” common in most other symphonies of this time period.

As mentioned before, ending on a movement with a slow tempo was a significant shift away from the standard of the time. This innovation inspired many other future composers to use the same technique, most notably Mahler in his Ninth Symphony. The quiet beginning builds up towards a chaotic rush of fast runs throughout the orchestra, only to stop abruptly and continue in halting, cautious bursts of melody. The movement continues with this cycle of rushing up to a climax and backing away as the movement progresses. Tchaikovsky highlights the horns in this movement, giving them both angry, blaring notes which cut through the string melodies and the flowing, lyrical lines that are passed throughout the orchestra. As the piece ends, the instruments fall away until all that is left are steady repeated notes in the basses, bringing this lament of a movement to an understated close.

[pninisms]

hiii bee 💙 20 (/ any upcoming releases you're looking forward to?) & 6 & which russian brick is up next?

hey ve <3

20. What was your most anticipated release? Did it meet your expectations?

my most anticipated book was definitely the spear cuts through water by simon jimenez, who wrote perhaps my favourite book of 2021, the vanished birds. it was published in august, but i have not read it yet for silly reasons so i can't say how it stands up to my expectations which i think are modest (enjoy myself while reading)

bonus book i was looking forward to (a lot less than the spear cuts through water, it has to be said) and did actually read (upon release!) which is babel by rf kuang but you know how i feel about it.

anticipated releases in 2023: i think for the first time in my life i am very out of tune with the current literary world & new releases. if there is a book i am looking forward to can't remember. i read so much this year and perhaps more than ever balanced contemporary with 'classics' and i guess i overwhelmingly enjoyed those more (or stuck with them more often). so i will read books as i come across them but i am mostly on the lookout for the old and bridging gaps in my knowledge.

6. Was there anything you meant to read, but never got to?

i'll skip the banal answers you probably know very well to books i distantly planned to read 'soon' and didn't: long live the post horn (vigdis hjorth), sorrowland (rivers solomon; author of my favourite book of 2018), vile bodies (evelyn waugh), all the horses of iceland (sarah tolmie), parable of the sower (octavia e butler), tears of the trufflepig (fernando a flores) and breakfast for champions (kurt vonnegut) + to the lighthouse (virginia woolf) which i hoped to reread at this juncture in my life. also everything on my nonfiction shelf (most of which i at least tried to read), perhaps in particular the climate change section as well as ghosts of my life and wanderers a history of women walking.

i don't think the next brick will be russian per se. besides la vie mode d'emploi which is a bulgakov 2020 nominee [books i vaguely wish to read but never remember, mostly 'classics', named for my intention to read the master & margarita in 2020. recent winners include in de ban van de ring, the brothers karamazov and the book the endeavour is named for], i think ulysses daily (ulysses om 't uur?) is perhaps the funniest possible outcome of the serialised email format, something that occured to me about a week too late this june. so maybe this year i finally read ulysses. if we're doing strictly russian: doctor zhivago but it's not very high on my list. oh i heard such high praise of against the day namely that it's disco elysium adjacent. the people on r/discoelysium book recommendations are NEVER wrong

some lighter/more recent long books (600+ pages) i hope to get to: the secret commnwealth (sequel to book of dust), jonathan strange & mr norell, perdido street station, the books of jacob, utopia avenue. how many pages is the silarmilion. 300 something pages. well it's an honourary brick. 2023 i sprout a whole new set of issues that can be related to the sirmamillion

[the-baddest-of-batches]

Dar'Aliit: Chapter Eleven - The Dar'Aliit (full ver.)

Since I forgot to post all of these Friday, two full chapters versions in one day! Sneak peak coming later tonight. 💕

20 BBY Coruscant, Lower Level

Zenden's Droid Den, Scrapyard and Spares. Catchy name, if not a little lengthy. Zenden himself is a hulking spacer, half human and I think possibly half Zabarack. No horns, but his shaven head is a reddish tan. He's muscled thick, dressed in a modest flight suit and waits for us outside the humble shop.

Us meaning me. The rest of my escort as General Nidor so tactfully referred to them, is lost somewhere in traffic. I haven't bought myself much time, but it's enough to prove I don't need dead weight.

I enter the shop alone. We were given clear instructions to blend in, but I can tell by the pointed look Zenden himself is giving me, nothing about my face is blending in. I'm a clone plain and simple. Not many people have seen us without helmets, but that doesn't mean they don't know what lies underneath. Carbon copies, one after another.

The plainclothes doesn't hide anything about my identity.

"Here about a droid?" Zenden lumbers forward. "Got your request."

"Yes," I cross my arms over my chest. "Is it here?"

"Well I've got a lot of that model, but your request said something with...grey markings?"

I nod.

Zenden side eyes me as he walks toward the crate I assume holds the captive droid. Why do we rely on those things anyway? It's an R3 model according to intel. I know the information it holds is important, but droids are easy to lose, and easy to destroy. The Republic would be better off without them trundling all over the place getting into trouble like this.

"Say, what's a republic clone want with an R3 droid with such specific markings? He special or something?"

"Need a replacement," I say bluntly. "Wanted something that looked familiar."

Zenden laughs. "That so?" He mulls it over, his hands lingering at his sides. Finally he squats down and opens up the crate. I half expected to see a bomb, maybe an IG-88 coiled up inside, or worse a BX.

It's just a grey painted droid. R3, exactly like the model. In fact it is the droid I'm looking for.

Zenden turns and there's the faintest click of a safety coming off. I look up into the business end of a holdout blaster.

"I know when I'm looking at something suspicious," Zenden says, his brow furrowed dangerously over his keen eyes. "And you're mighty suspicious, clone."

I stare cooly at the blaster. "I came to buy a droid. What's wrong with that?"

"A man wanting a replacement droid doesn't care what it looks like, you can paint 'em any color. Something tells me this droid is worth more than scrap. So why him?"

I can feel the eyes on the back of my neck. The commlink in my ear pings. They've caught up.

"Good in there, Kian?"

I look up at Zenden. "Fine," I say. I hope my tone warns them off. Zendin lifts a brow, though, expecting me to continue.

He's not the only one armed. The commlink pings again.

"We're parked just outside. We have the place surrounded and we can move in at any time."

I put my hand to the back of my hip and hope they can see it. I do not need help.

"Fine what?" Zenden snaps. "Cough up some answers or I'll put a bolt in your head right here, right now!"

He means it. Empty threats are usually easy to tell. The shaking in the hands, the sweat on the brow. This man has none of them. He will kill me, and he won't feel remorse over it.

So I won't either. My hand snaps up. My holdout recoils. Laser singes skin and Zenden shrieks as the bolt shaves his ear. He fires on instinct and I duck sideways to avoid being shot in the head.

"Kriffing clone!" He fires off a few more shots. I drop my holdout and charge him. As we collide, I wrap my arms around his middle. My momentum is enough to topple the monster and we slam into the ground. Laser bolts ping off the ceiling. I can't let him fire wild or he'll hurt someone.

I straddle Zenden and grab his arm, trapping it against my chest as we wrestle for his blaster. He roars and hauls me over onto my side. The blaster fires wild into the back of the shop.

Boots clamor across the floor. "Get the droid, we've got him!"

I don't need your help!

Zenden writhes. My leg is trapped under him, my holdout is somewhere on the floor and Zenden outclasses me in strength, but some lowlife smuggler can't have years of military training.

"I can't get a clear shot!"

"Get out of the way!"

I ignore the cries for me to extricate myself and I slam the backend of my elbow into Zenden's nose. He recoils, roaring, and blood spurts from his nostril. I disarm him quickly while he's stunned and stick the blaster under his chin.

Zenden's dazed eyes blink open wide and meet mine. I see him shiver in fear.

"I'll be taking that droid," I mutter. Slowly, I stand up. Zenden pants on the floor with blood running down his face. I look over and Headshot's already kneeling by the droid. He gives me a thumbs up. I try not to snarl at him.

Instead, I kneel, holdout pinning Zenden all the while, and not to Headshot to the droid on. He flips the switch and the R3 flickers to life with a disgruntled beep and a spin of its dome.

Looking back, the other two wait. They're not happy. I don't really care, they're alive. And they can handle a droid. "Take him back to the General," I mutter and stand back up. Turning to Zenden, I lower the holdout to my side.

Headshot ushers the R3 out. I don't like ordering them around. I don't enjoy their presence, but this will keep everyone safe.

Zenden chances sitting up. "Should've known you were no good," he spits blood and saliva on the floor before rubbing at his bleeding nose. I drop the holdout and kick it back to him. Then I take out the credits for the droid and drop them on the floor.

"We're done here." I turn around. My own holdout waits a few feet away. I retrieve it off the scuffed floor as the other troopers vanish back to their speeder with the droid safely back in their custody.

"I won't forget you!" Zenden calls out. "Good for nothing republic scum."

Pausing, I stare out at the crowds. I am just that. Republic scum. Better Republic scum than some brainwashed droid. I should just leave the insult and go, but my fully functional Republic scum senses are telling me this guy will be a problem if I leave him here.

Zenden is halfway up when I turn. He groans and straightens up. I flick the safety off my holdout and train it on him. He's got nothing to defend himself with except that hulking body of his. I should take the shot.

But I wait. I wait to see his yellowed eyes lock onto the fact he's on the wrong end of the blaster now. I wait to see him realize what people like him, brainless drones, have done to people like me. I wait until his eyes widen, just that inch, and fill up with fear.

Then, I pull the trigger.

#

"You shot him?"

I stiffen up under the spittle off the General's lips. His yellow eyes narrow close to my face. The other three are beside me.

"Yessir. He resisted."

General Nidor has the whole room at a stiff attention as I'm berated for my actions. The only creature not concerned by the display is the newly recovered R3 unit sitting in the corner waiting to be scanned.

"Resisted." The general's lips curl. I can see all his glimmering predatory teeth, sharp to a point. Perfect for tearing into unobedient troops.

I nod simply.

The general backhands across my face. The room goes quieter than a morgue. I can feel the stares of Headshot, and the other two troopers along with every other officer in the room.

"Disobey me again," Nidor hisses, "and see where it gets you. Civillians are not droids, trooper. That goes for all of you!" He snaps at the other three. I fight the urge to let my lip curl.

Civilian. The word grates on my nerves. That man was no civilian. Zenden was a threat. I know, I'm trained to find them. I'm trained to be one. And no matter what I did, those three aren't to blame for it.

My face stings, the pain keeping me from making another rash decision as I blink a few times and center myself. I manage at least to hiss a low, "Yessir."

"Dismissed." Nidor spits in my face.

I about face. Three shadows follow as I leave. My heart pumps. So much for the Jedi being peacekeepers. They might shy from war, but they certainly won't shy from violence. They're the scum. I'm just doing my job.

I blow past the guards outside. Steps pound behind me, running catch up. "Kian," Headshot calls out. He's not alone. Two other pairs of boots approach me.

A hand grabs my shoulder and I stop dead in my tracks. I turn to face–I don't know his name. The trooper with the scars. It takes a moment to realize I'm seething in his face, my shoulders heaving.

"Don't let him get under your skin."

"Raf, just leave him alone," pipes up the last trooper.

Raf, however, stares me dead in the eyes. I don't know if he's trying to make me feel better, or if that's just what he does. I cut my gaze away and jerk out of his grasp.

"Leave me alone," I mutter. "All of you."

Raf crosses his arms over his chest. "You're just like us, Kian. We're all leftovers. The Dar'Aliit. And we've all been where you are."

I don't care.

We're clones. Of course we're all the same. I know I'm not the only person without a squad. I'm not the only survivor. War is all about death. If you don't get shot, the man next to you will. But I didn't ask for a bunch of replacements.

"Leave him alone," pipes up the fourth unnamed trooper. "Raf, he's not in the mood."

"I told you, antisocial," Headshot mutters.

I ought to slug him. I keep walking instead and make a beeline for the barracks. In the hollow of my ear, my comm crackles. Kriff, I forgot I had that thing in there.

"Well, wasn't that fun," someone sighs.

I should turn off the comm. I slam the door behind myself and lean back against it instead.

"He'll come around."

"Not everyone is as level headed as you, Raf."

"I really don't know why the General stuck us together, he could've assigned us anywhere."

I look down. I know why. Because the General is a liar. And the Jedi all have this inflated sense they can fix anything. Guess that extends to broken little toy soldiers too.

"I told you why," Raf's voice cuts in. "Because we're the Dar'Aliit of the group."

Headshot pipes up. "That some fancy words for misfits?"

"No."

Raf doesn't strike me as a reg trooper. I've heard something like that term before, but it was always in a whisper on Kamino. Something people said about those guys you'd see in the halls who weren't clones, but looked deadlier than them. The Cuy Val'Dar they were called. Mandalorians. They trained only the elite.

"It means we don't have a family, or a squad anymore," Raf says.

Someone huffs. "We've got this squad. We've got each other and we've got our decee's, that's all we do need."

"General Nidor's squad of survivors then," Headshot says. "The Dar'Aliit squad."

I break from listening and shake my head. I don't care. I wouldn't be here if it had just been me on that ship. If I hadn't sent Aftermath. These guys might be survivors, but at least they didn't get their only squadmate killed.

Snatching out the comm, I toss it on the floor and crush it under my boot. I stalk to my bed and grab the helmet tucked underneath–Aftermath's. Helmet in hand, I stalk back out.

A few troopers tried to get me to accompany them to a local bar two weeks back. I told them no, but I know where it is. There at least my face means I'll blend into a crowd. There I can be alone.

And two blocks down, right around the corner from the uniforms offices there it is, a haven of drunken solitude. The blinking sign is decrepit at best, the image of a dancing Twi'lek woman dressed in well...nothing, clinging to the letters "Bar".

It'll do.

I shove in the door and find myself in what could accurately be called the backside of the universe, and trust me, it has plenty of competition for that. Waitresses in skimpy clothing wander around bringing drinks to the dull eyed of Coruscant's underbelly. I avoid any familiar gazes and slip to the bar.

A brown eyed Zeltron woman with deep red skin looks me up and down. I set Aftermath's helmet on the bar. She likely assumes it's mine by the way she's eyeing it with...the kindest term would be, respect.

"What can I get for ya?" her drawl sounds fake, but I imagine someone out there finds it cute. She leans a little too far over the bar. Not that she's not well endowed.

"Beer," I mutter, distracted, and it's not until she leaves that I can really think clearly again. I put my hand to my cheek. What stings is the resentment leftover from the literal slap in my face.

I thought General Nidor would be different maybe. He seemed like a real commander, a man with a solid head on his shoulders. Certainly not another Krell. But Jedi only come in one breed it seems.

"One beer, on the house." The Zeltron is back, as is her allure. She slides the beer in front of me and I grip the glass with the desperation of a man holding onto his senses. No wonder they all come here. She's intoxicating. Even General Nidor wouldn't last against her wiles.

I watch as the waitress moves off, her fine boned hips swaying to the sound of the quiet low beat of cantina music. I sip on the beer absentmindedly. She vanishes into the crowd. I finish a couple swigs, and knock the glass against Aftermath's helmet in a silent toast. To not caring. To being alone. To surviving another day.

#

13 BBY Naboo Resort

I should know full well better than to get drunk on technical missions. There's the whole thing of being a Commander and setting a good example. Do I care? Less each day. It's not entirely my fault anyway. We're on shore leave, sort of.

I roll over, blinking my eyes. I need a shower or I'm going to be hungover all day.

Something moves under the covers. I turn to my right and catch the faintest glimpse of loose black hair sprawled over blue shoulders and it takes every ounce of composure not to panic.

The hell is Myren doing in my room?

She's still asleep, thankfully. I glance at my bare chest and a chill runs down my spine. As quietly as possible, and as normally as possible, I slip out of bed. I don't know what happened last night. I actually don't recall anything after we got to the bar, which is usually a sign of good drinking.

I glance back. Myren's still out. I take my chance and slip into the shower to clear my head. Cold water does a lot for a hangover, and for shock. By the time I'm out and dried off, I'm halfway sure I'm just still a bit drunk.

But she's still there when I get back. I'm going to have to act natural. Not that–okay, Myren's gorgeous. I've known her for a while now because she's our intel officer. It's not that I'm blind. It's just that we work together. We're professionals.

And her clothes are definitely on my floor.

I'm not going to wake her up. I cannot let anyone on the squad know anything, so I slip to the door and leave, as casually as a man finding a woman in his bedroom can. Dross is sitting outside. My hangover is returning slowly. I can see the leftover weariness in the eyes of those lingering around.

"Morning, Commander," Dross says without really looking up.

I sit down, not too close, and lean back. "So," I look around. "Everyone okay?"

"Yessir. Kanor took Esho and they're doing laps. Clearing their heads, Kanor says."

I nod. I look down at my shoulder.

I don't remember getting a tattoo. There's one clearly emblazoned there, though. A wampa skull. I look at Dross. "What did we...do last night?"

"Well, we got drunk," Dross flips to another record. "We all got tattoos except Zur, and well," Dross cuts off there. I nod.

"Right then, well–" movement catches my eye and for the briefest moment I can see Myren sneaking out. Dross doesn't even look up.

My chest tightens unconsciously and I lean back to compensate for the nerves. "We have a party today, right?" I look at Dross. "Imperial something or other?"

"Yessir. The Gala will be held downstairs in a few hours. Is there anything you'd like to do before that?" Dross looks up, his stiff face always the perfect image of regulation. "I would advise no further drinking."

"I'll stay here," I say. "We've only got a few hours."

Zur emerges, yawning. I lean back. There's no sign of Myren anymore, so I assume she made it back to her room safely. I exhale under my breath.

I really need to stop getting drunk on missions.

#

The suit is tight and mildly itchy. I know Myren tried. She's the best out of all of us at trying, but that does not change the fact a suit is a form of torture worse than slow death. I glance back.

Myren gives me a smug look, but her eyes are lingering.

Please tell me no one else can see this. The suit is about two times hotter now. If she keeps staring, I'll cook alive in this thing.

"Who all is going to be here?" Zur asks Dross behind me.

Myren pipes up and answers for Dross. "The elite of the Empire. Admirals, Grand Admirals, perhaps even the Moffs. We will need to be on our best behavior."

"I'll try." I turn around and realize the suit is going to make it a little hard to breathe. At least, so long as I'm looking at Myren. Her dress suits her, maybe a little too well.

Someone chuckles under their breath. I want to assume it's Zur. I choose not to assume, so my wrath isn't directed at anyone, but all of them.

We'll survive this. I'll survive this, because I have to. It's just another mission. All I have to do is look like I'm not a thirty-year old, disgruntled clone commander who's seen nearly ten years of war. Can't be too hard?

We file down the carpeted and lavish hallways. This place really isn't somewhere we should be, but secretly I'm very proud of getting in here. Accounting can chalk it up to mission expenses later. We needed this.

The lower dining halls have been converted into an open-air ballroom. A woman who looks oddly...ancient, sings from a small stage. Everyone here is in uniform, or a suit. I know my team is all uniformed, mostly because they're here keeping tabs on me. Why am I always suddenly the most important man in the room when it comes to Winterfang?

Stick me in a suit of armor. Then we can talk.

Myren wasn't lying when she said Elite. I recognize a few faces, not that I'd dare interact with them. Some of the Moffs and Admirals glance back at me. There are nods, and mutual looks of respect.

This room is stifling. I need to get some air, but I can't leave until I've made something of a good impression.

"Drowning out there yet, commander?" Dross asks over comms.

I choose to ignore him. I wander, smiling as best I can, nodding to the few who glance at my scars and acknowledge I've seen far more than the inside of a pretty council room. I've seen something half these men haven't.

Thrawn is here. He too takes note of me. I put on my best grimace for him, but he's interested in an art discussion. The man has a passion for it, if nothing else. That and military tactic. He's terrifying.

In the throngs of people I've lost track of Myren, which means she also likely has lost track of me. Now's my only chance. Everyone has spread out. Jay's over by the buffet, he'll occupy himself. Dross is in polite discussion and Zur seems taken by the stranger singer.

I chart my course for the door to the patio that opens out over the beach. There's hardly anyone out here so I wander to the railing and look over the edge. It really is peaceful out here. Hard to imagine amid a world so war torn as ours. Maybe I'm jaded, or maybe I simply haven't stopped long enough to really consider what a future without war could look like.

I know I thought about it once. What was I going to do when I got out of the military? If I got out of the military? It was never a guarantee. Still isn't. I shrug off my suit jacket and am granted a brief reprieve from torture. I loop it over my arm and watch the waves crash on the shore.

"Commander."

Thrawn has appeared soundlessly at my side. Even for someone of my perception, it's enough to make me stiffen as I glance at him.

"Sir."

Thrawn smiles, somewhat cruelly. "You know full well that Myren was found an orphan, and I helped raise her. Correct?"

"Uh," my brain racks for the information. I've read her dossier. I've read hundreds of dossiers. I never committed them to memory. "Yessir," I mutter eventually.

"Good. And you should know that while she has tried to assure me of nothing untoward, she is rather obvious, when she looks at you."

My face is heating up under my skin. Both of them, how do they do this? I look down at the waves and keep my posture and expression even.

"After all," Thrawn's voice is cool. "I taught her to lie."

I swallow, but I've been faced with tougher situations. I keep myself stiff, still, and wait for him to break the silence.

"What are your intentions with my daughter?"

"Sir," I snap to look at him and realize I've made the first mistake. Thrawn arches an eyebrow.

I clamp my lips together firm and resort to a grimace. "To keep her safe, sir."

"Good." Thrawn turns around. "Do your best, Commander."

As his steps recede, my commlink pings me and I realize I've forgotten it was there.

"Commander?" Zur is asking for me. I flush redder than I think I ever have. Thankfully there's no one to see it.

"Commander?"

"What?"

"I learned some...information. I'm going to follow up on it."

"Sure," I shake my head. My team knows what they're doing. "Inform me of the results later."

"Copy that, sir."

I turn around. Esho is sitting there with a plate and one leg crossed over the other. She smiles at me.

"Come out here to escape the crowds, Uncle Kian?"

"Yeah."

"I see you already wormed out of the suit." Esho laughs. She's in a dress too, her and Myren went shopping yesterday.

"It was hot!"

Esho laughs. "Myren's still inside. I'm pretty sure she's talking to everyone if you wanna find her."

"I don't—" I look down at Esho and she smirks. She looks like her father when she does that. Which goes to say she looks like every clone I've ever known.

I sigh and dump the jacket on the back of her chair. "Keep an eye on that."

"Yessir!" Esho salutes and goes back to eating.

I wander back inside. I have to try. After some wandering conversations, though, my trying is mostly failing. I have little tolerance for needless bureaucracy and that's all they talk about.

"Kian." Myren walks over in the midst of my conversation with a Grand Moff who's likely as old as the republic itself. I turn.

Myren smiles apologetically for interrupting. She puts her hand on my arm. "Care to dance?"

Dance. I stare at her.

Myren just nods and her hand slips down my bicep, to my forearm, and she finds my hand. And like that, she's leading me away. I've heard of dancing. I might've tried my hand a couple of times. Plenty of bars around have pretty girls to dance with.

But this isn't some barmaid, this is Myren.

She smiles as I somehow manage not to fumble the whole thing and we fall into a rather easy step. At least the music is slow. As we turn, though, I make eye contact with Jay.

Guilt flashes over his face. He's still by the buffet. I glare at him and try to pull Myren in another direction but it only gives me a full view of the rest of my team, lined up, and watching. My teeth grit.

I'm going to kill them.

Slowly.

In their sleep.

I glower at their insinuating grins. This isn't what it looks like. I wish commlinks had telepathy built in, but it would be no good. My insistence would be drowned out by the rest of the thoughts clogging up my head.

Is this what comes after the war?

Myren smiles as we step to the side. My scowl relaxes unconsciously and I smile back, timidly, afraid to even ask myself the biggest question of all. I'm a clone. I'm a soldier. I'm fighting a war. That's the truth and reality of the matter. But I know I had dreams once.

Will this one last?

Can it?

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Hue and Cry IX

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series), mild violence, male-iinduced anxiety

This is dark!medieval!Bucky Barnes x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: The first day of the tournament arrives.

Note: My pupper had surgery yesterday and it was my longer day of work for the week so lots going on. Also had some bad Chinese but managed to get this out before it came back up. Feel better now and I'll have a shorter day today.

Thanks to everyone and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Lord Barnes’ mood did not improve in the days leading up to the first of the tournament. It grew colder in the capital and many feared the events would be cut short by an early winter. You didn’t care much either way. You had no interest in the sport or much of anything. You just abided the duke and in those times he left you alone, you laid in a void.

His want of you didn’t wane nor did your despair or the disgust you felt when he touched you. It was one thing to be a servant, to be a tool, a means to an end, but what he used you for now seemed little more than torture. He delighted in what he did, in how he made you suffer. Those times you remained unmoving and unfeeling angered him the most.

You dressed in yellow that morning. The horns announced the beginning of the tournament as you made your way to the stand amid the sea of guests. The wives, daughters, sons, mothers and fathers of those who would compete. You were out of place as you climbed the wooden steps between the benches and a green sleeve shot up to wave to you.

“Dearie!” May brushed past her husband to stop you at the end of their seat, “here, with us,” she insisted, “we did save you a place.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that,” you said quietly. You hadn’t seen her or her family since the night of the feast. Since Barnes had…

“I can’t have you sitting alone,” she trilled as she pulled you along with her and sat beside Lord Benjamin who bowed his head and issued a gentle greeting. “And I always longed for a daughter, you know? Peter’s a good boy but so troublesome. I did try to persuade him not to enter the lists but he just never stops.”

“The boy’s old enough,” Benjamin said, “when I was his age--”

“You married me,” May cut in, “a foolish decision indeed. He is on the roster for today. Sparring. I fear he might not make it past the early rounds but so long as he is not hurt.”

You nodded and covered your hands in your sleeves. Even with the fur-trimmed cloak Barnes allotted you, it was crisp. Your matching cap barely kept the cool air from your cheeks. Your leg shook from more than the cold as you recalled that Barnes was set to compete with the sword as well.

“A fine cape,” May commented as she touched the edge of your cloak, “with sleeves even.”

You looked down at the fawn-coloured garment that only allowed a peek of the canary yellow beneath. You fidgeted and kept your eyes on the field, “a gift,” you lied, well, maybe it wasn’t a lie, or maybe you’d bought it in sweat and tears.

Another horn blew and she quieted and clapped as all looked to the center of the arena. The wooden stands were hung in all shades of silk, the banners of each house, high and low, covered the rafters. By the end of the day, only one would remain. Lord Barnes’ blue and ivory flapped opposite your side and Benjamin pointed out his family's slender red and black crest amidst the panoply.

You were thankful for the distraction, not for you but for them. You didn’t know how many lies you could conjure or if you could keep the false smile on your lips. You clamped your hands together and watched a man in gold stroll out to the centre of the stadium with a cone to project his voice. You stood with May and Benjamin and the rest of the onlookers

“Fine ladies and gentlemen, princes, paupers, and everything in between, we welcome you in name of King Samuel to the Games of Goblets. For each competition, the victor is to be prized a goblet to bear as a symbol of his prestige. For the ax-throwing, bronze inlaid with amber, for the bow-and-arrow, silver set with citrine, for the melee, gold set with sapphire, and for the joust, a fine piece in gold set with opal and ruby.”

The crowd applauded and shouted. The man waited for them to quiet again, “This day, we begin with the melee, on the morrow, the axe, the next day, the arrow, and on the final day, we ride!”

Again, the audience grew rowdy and you were deafened by the cheers. The man laughed at the excitement and held up his hand for a final lull.

“Without further delay, let us begin. In our first round, the lower lords and the untested, before the second where they shall meet our season veterans, and so on…” he gauged the fervent tension of the people, “you will see me again upon the finale and perhaps you will be surprised by whoever stands with me.”

Again, the stand quaked with the energy of the people. You would have liked to sit but you stayed on your feet, afraid to draw unwanted attention. The first pair was announced but you didn’t watch. You stared at the sky or a rippling banner but had no interest in the games.

You only stopped to look as Peter’s name was called out and May grabbed your arm. She squealed as her nephew came out decked in his used armor, beaten out from its former user’s wear, and he unsheathed his sword to face his opponent. When the handkerchief was dropped, you were as stunned as his fellow competitor and the crowd by his swiftness. You’d never seen anyone move so fast, and in at least twenty pounds of armor.

The crowd awoke from their awe and cheered as his sword beat against the other man’s suit with tinks and tunks. It was like a bell, ding, ding, ding. It wasn’t until the other man was on his knees that the spar was ceased. Peter was declared the plain winner and sent on to wait for his next engagement. May wiped away tears of joy and Benjamin grumbled his approval.

You smiled, just a little. You were happy for Peter. You’d seen how joyful he was, he was likely dancing behind the curtain right now.

🏰

It wasn’t until the second round that Lord Barnes was introduced. He walked out fully armoured like any other combatant but his left arm was permanently bent, a shield strapped to it as he gripped his pommel in his right hand. He showed his steel and faced his match. He dealt hard and heavy blows until his opponent was on his back.

You shuddered at his unboasting victory as he wasn’t even patient enough to hear himself declared the winner. You touched your cold cheeks and puffed into the bitter air. The bodies around you warmed the stands but you were chilled to the core.

Peter appeared again in the second, then the third, fourth, and to his aunt and uncle’s delight, he soldiered onto the final. To your fear, he was to meet Lord Barnes. You tried not to squirm, not to show how nervous you were for Peter. You thought of running down and begging him to withdraw but what could you say? If anything, you’d both be worse for it.

As the last two banners were presented to the crowd, you sensed movement to your right. A familiar head of blond hair approached and the tall duke pushed past the row of people along the bench. Lord Rogers smirked as he came close, his sweaty hair drooping down his forehead from his last bout, the one he’d lost to his closest friend.

“Ah, I found you,” he said, “lady.”

You felt May peek past you and you gave a meek “my lord” as he stood close. He looked around you at the older couple.

“You have friends,” he stated, “please, do introduce us.”

You looked down and chewed your lip. You turned slowly to May and Benjamin, the latter peering past her only as he was torn from his fixation on the field.

“Lord Benjamin and Lady May Parker, baron and baroness,” you rubbed your hands together nervously, “Lord Steven Rogers, duke of Astrens.”

“Oh, we’ve heard of him,” May chirped, “my lord, it is an honour.”

“Indeed,” Benjamin agreed, “my lady, you did not inform of us of your lofty friends.”

“She is modest,” Rogers intoned, “we met by chance, really, through a common acquaintance.”

“You were skillful on the field, it is a pity you were bested,” May said.

“Very pitiful, I did put some gold on you, Lord Rogers,” Benjamin added, “alas it was a fine showing.”

“Wasn’t it?” he turned to stand with his arm pressed to yours, much too close for your liking, “however this one should be intriguing.”

“It’s our boy,” Benjamin said, “and your friend, my lord.”

“Perhaps you’d take another bet?” Rogers countered.

“I’ve lost enough this day,” Benjamin snorted, “I’d rather watch and be pleasantly surprised than paupered.”

“Prudence is wise but always so boring,” Rogers mused.

As the lower of the lords, Parker was announced first and you were saved from more uncomfortable banter by the man in grey. Rogers nudged you and bent as the introductions went long as the man with cone went into detail about the day’s fights all the way to the present match.

“I did look fine out there, didn’t I?” he whispered, “good form, even if I did lose. Barnes is in a mood and we both know that makes him… unpredictable.”

You lowered your head, “my lord.”

“You are quiet since last we met,” he remarked, “perhaps your thoughts linger on how else to use your mouth?”

You squirmed and stared at the competitors as they awaited their signal. Rogers laughed and stood straight as he focused on the field in kind. He played with your sleeve and tugged your arm down. He caressed the back of your hand and stepped even closer.

“When he wins, he might just be cheerful enough to share in his celebrations, hmm?” he said under his breath.

The gold cloth was dropped and the two men circled each other, eyeing their opponent cautiously. Barnes was the first to act but was evaded by the younger man. He didn’t not falter however as he swung again. Peter rolled under the strike and met it with his own steel, batting it away so that it nearly struck its holder.

Barnes dodged that time, then the boy spun again. They danced around each other, both swift, both calculating, both determined. Steel met steel but never that which clothed the fighters. May grabbed your other wrist as she held her breath.

Barnes laid a hit across Peter’s chestplate that made him stagger but he turned it into another lithe evasion. He snaked around the higher lord and hammered his false arm. The shield cracked in half and Peter ducked again.

Barnes was angry as he stabbed out. His blade was shoved away again and Peter jumped over the foot that tried to trip him up, a true achievement in armor.

You realised as Barnes laid a flurry of blows at the air that he was angry. The crowd silenced as the realisation fell over them and they watched as time seemed to slow. The duke was losing and he was enraged.

Peter jabbed the other man’s chest plated with his sword then hit his true arm. The sword bobbled in Barnes’ grip but he regained his hold on it. Too slow as Parker struck over and over, throwing him off balance, and sweeping him off his feet with a low lunge.

As Barnes clattered onto his back, the breath went out of him and every other person in the stadium. The man in grey shook away his shock and finally stepped forward.

“Our victor!” he grabbed Peter’s arm and raised it, “the Lord Parker!”

May hopped up and down and hugged her husband. Steve tutted and shook his head. Your eyes clung to Barnes as he sat up, forgotten in the dirt. His left arm was stuck at an angle away from his body and he reached up to force it back down.

Peter offered him his hand and was ignored. Barnes sheathed his sword and offered a curt bow before he exited. Rogers’ hand crawled up your arm and he gripped you. “Well, looks like we both will suffer his loss.”

For once, he spoke the truth.

[lepusrufus]

Double edged scalpel ch.4

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3

Summary: Daniela wingman Dimitrescu

---

Who knew that a door could look so intimidating. The dark wood decorated with golden floral patterns and the Dimitrescu crest in the middle wasn’t unlike most other doors in the castle. This door however had one big difference from the rest: it was the door to Cassandra’s bedroom.

Nicole had crossed paths with Daniela earlier, who wasted no time in placing the duty of fetching the middle sister for dinner upon her. Oh well. She was supposed to meet the brunette anyways. Tomorrow at sundown, Cassandra had said. And that was just after dinner. But the lingering feeling of their lips together, deep in a hidden nook in the garden, left Nicole unsure on what to expect from her.

With a final deep breath, she knocked on the door.

It was silent for a few long seconds. She was about to knock again, sure that Cassandra was still sleeping, but was stopped by a groggy reply that she took as her cue to enter.

“Lady Daniela sent me to let you know dinner will be ready soon.”

Nicole had a split second when she regretted each and every decision that led up to that very moment when she noticed the brunette stirring awake, naked body thankfully covered by soft blankets. Cassandra didn’t seem to mind though, as she yawned and stretched her arms like a lazy cat would.

“That’s a weird way to say Daniela is lazy and sent you to do her job.” She grabbed her watch from the nightstand. “Ugh, it’s early.” It’s 7 p.m.

From where she stood, looking anywhere but at the brunette, Nicole wasn’t sure how to respond. It’s not as if she could’ve said no to Daniela’s request. Or, to be more accurate, order. Apparently Cassandra didn’t wait for a reply, as she got out of bed and shuffled to her dresser, hopefully to put some clothes on. With one of her typical black dresses now on, she tiptoed to the other occupant in the room.

“Modest, are we,” she said, placing her hands on Nicole’s waist, not unlike she did many times before.

“Just trying not to get my eyes gouged out.” Hopefully Cassandra still appreciated her humor.

The brunette slowly spinned the other girl around so she could look in her eyes, as if she were a child inspecting a newly received christmas gift. “Mm...you can keep them. Now come on, spend some time with me since Dani insisted on you waking me up so early.”

Thanks Daniela.

Nicole felt herself get pulled further into the room, barely having time to take in all the trinkets and decor inside before she was tugged down to sit in Cassandra’s lap.

Well… best possible scenario.

This time there was no hesitation when their lips connected, one hand finding its place at the brunette's nape, pulling her close. Cassandra let out a small moan when she felt nails scratch lightly against her scalp, which Nicole took as an opportunity to slip her tongue past black painted lips. They kissed until Cassandra pulled back, opting instead to leave a trail of kisses and black lipstick on her jawline, down her throat, and finally her collarbone. The kisses were getting increasingly more aggressive, with nips at the skin and finally teeth dragging at the crook of Nicole's neck.

Cassandra inhaled deeply but pulled her mouth away from the skin, resting her forehead against that spot instead. When she spoke, her tone was dripping with barely held back desire.

"If you want me to stop, you should go."

Oh no, Nicole didn't just shove her tongue in her god damn mouth for them to stop. Whatever crumble of self preservation was left within her, it got booted out the metaphorical front door of her brain the moment she got pulled into the brunette's lap. The only thing that made her hesitate for a second was whether or not Cassandra could bite someone without actually killing them.

"Do not go near the jugular.”

And Cassandra listened. She dragged her teeth from the neck, down to the shoulder and, after an uncharacteristically gentle kiss to the spot, she sunk her now sharp fangs in the flesh.

Nicole couldn't stop a whimper from escaping past her lips at the sudden jolt of pain. But the sensation of soft lips on her skin and Cassandra's low moan at the taste of her blood made for the perfect mixture of pleasure and pain.

"Cassa- ah," she moaned her name, fingers tangled in black hair which only seemed to spur her on.

The pain steadily faded, leaving behind only a tingling sensation. It stopped her brain from putting together any coherent thought, almost as if being drunk without the actual alcohol. But blood loss instead. Nicole tugged lightly on Cassandra's hair when dizziness started to make itself present. When that did nothing, she pulled with slightly more force.

"Cassandra-" she let out a pained groan, mild panic slipping into her voice.

That made the brunette snap out of it, forcefully pulling herself back and eyeing the bloody mess on Nicole's shoulder. She caught the redhead by the arms for support when she slumped forward slightly, pinching the bridge of her nose with a soft ugh. How much blood can a human lose again? Fourteen percent? And Nicole was also quite small.

Cassandra stretched to grab a tissue from the nightstand and pressed it against the puncture wounds, frowning when Nicole flinched at the pain it caused.

"Uh...are you okay?"

Nicole took a deep breath before replying. "-m good. You should...uh go though. I'll go lay down and-...and meet you after dinner." Then she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment to try to alleviate the dizziness and tried to stand up.

Cassandra grimaced at how wobbly Nicole's movement's were and guided her back down, on the soft mattress. The redhead didn't protest, not that she really could anyways.

"No. Stay here, you're no good if you just fall and crack your skull open against a stairwell."

"But-"

Cassandra ignored her, only pushing her down to rest against one of the many pillows littering the bed. "No buts, this is an order from your lady. Now take a nap or something and I'll fetch you after dinner."

Nicole saw her turn around and exit the room, door shutting with a heavy thump. She felt too dizzy to try and fight back. And after all, why would she? The bed was incredibly soft, almost as if it was cradling her small body, inviting her to fall asleep. She slowly pulled one of the blankets up to her waist and positioned herself in such a way that the tissue wouldn't fall from her shoulder. A short nap was all she needed, then she'd be up by the time dinner was done. It only took shutting her eyes for a few seconds to fall asleep, the haze in her mind receding into comforting nothingness.

---

Hot. She felt so incredibly hot. How could Cassandra sleep amongst all these pillows and blankets in the middle of August?

She groaned and stirred, tissue forgotten and covered in dry blood by now. She turned around, trying to find a colder spot and sighed contently upon finding a cool pillow to bury her face into.

Since when did pillows hum?

Nicole snapped her eyes open and jerked backwards, realizing that the "pillow" was Cassandra's side, who apparently had returned from dinner and was now laying in bed with a book.

"I- I'm sorry! I think I overslept and-"

She was interrupted by a slender finger on her lips.

"Get back here, you're so warm."

Too warm, Nicole almost replied but Cassandra's hand mowed from her lips to trace her jawline and neck. Then,when it got to her nape, she pulled the redhead back on her chest, cheek resting on the cool skin.

Nicole froze for a moment but soon melted into the touch. Presumably one of the perks of being an undead being was never getting too hot. At least temperature-wise. She tentatively snaked an arm around the brunette's waist and, when there was no protest, she shifted her body closer against hers.

Checking the time didn't even occur to Nicole until her eyes fell on one of the windows, noticing it was pitch black beyond the glass.

"Shouldn't we have…" she just vaguely gestured, not even sure what they were supposed to do that day in the dungeons.

"Here's one of the perks of working with me darling: if I don't feel like doing anything then congratulations, you've got yourself a day off. Now why don't you enjoy it hmm."

She emphasized her words by bringing her free hand to Nicole's head, nails lightly scratching the scalp. But Nicole was wide awake, despite the pleasant sensation that elicited a content hum from her.

There were so many things to take in that she hadn't noticed earlier. Just like her study, Cassandra's bedroom was like a collection of glimpses into her. The desk was littered with papers and oddly modern drawing supplies, the kind you would get by entering the art supply store down the road from her college dorm. A mannequin in the corner of the room was wearing a most likely tailor made dress, complete with what looked like a matching sword. The wall she could see was half covered in bookshelves, half in deer antlers or horns of different animals. Some had labels with dates underneath them that were too far to read, but Nicole managed to decipher one that said 08.06.1982.

She didn't want to risk losing her precious head scratches in order to explore the other half of the room, so her eyes settled on the one thing she could see without moving. The book in Cassandra's other hand.

"What're you reading?"

Cassandra sighed, realizing that she was still awake but answered anyway.

"Watership down."

She giggled, still a bit lightheaded. "Bunnies…"

Cassandra rolled her eyes, not quite in the mood to go on a lengthy discourse about the themes of said "bunnies". She opted to change the topic instead, voice oddly soft.

"How's your head?"

"Mmm...dizzy."

"Sleep then."

"My room is too far away."

"Sleep here you dumbass."

Nicole was silent for a few moments, putting together the few coherent thoughts still lingering in her brain. Then, trying not to slur her words due to dizziness and sleepiness alike:

"Isn't that against protocol? Do you even have a protocol?"

"The protocol is that our staff serves my family. Right now you're keeping me warm. There, congratulations on performing your duties. Now go to sleep."

The redhead gave in, too tired to keep on annoying Cassandra. She nuzzled her face closer to the brunette's neck leaving a small peck on her collarbone and closed her eyes. The nails still scratching at her scalp, occasionally moving to run through long auburn locks proved more than efficient at lulling her to sleep. She could swear she felt a soft, almost imperceptible kiss on the top of her head before consciousness fully slipped away from her

[notasapleasure]

happy valentines day jo!!! i have my most niche question for you. if you had to assign folk songs to lymond characters what would they be

REY. This is an INSPIRED ask and I’m truly grateful to have received it, and I also apologise if my answers are kind of Basic and also just a random selection of characters because I could quite easily have spiralled and spent a month on this otherwise 💕 but happy valentine’s, here’s some incoherent thoughts...

Francis Crawford - Sir Patrick Spens (Child 58)

Because if this isn't the most Francis Crawford of verses I don't know what is: 'The first line that Sir Patrick red, A loud lauch lauched he; The next line that Sir Patrick red, A teir blinded his ee.'

The tragic Scots lord! Is he entrusted with the mission because of a malicious courtier, or because they genuinely think he can succeed at anything he turns his hand to? Depends on who's singing I guess. Aside from the obvious TRC resonances, the position of Sir Patrick Spens as a trusted pair of hands who will take on a foolhardy mission and despair on behalf of the other lives he's responsible is perfect Francis, no?

Philippa Somerville - Riddles Wisely Expounded (Child 1)

I like a riddling ballad for Philippa. The context of this one is often a woman persuading a man of her worth by answering his impossible riddles, but there's also the early tradition of the child or maiden outwitting the devil (cf. The False Knight on the Road), and both fit Philippa nicely I think. It's also full of innuendo ('lay the bent to the bonny broom'), wit, and usually comes with the context of the woman having to 'win' the man. It's not quite Tam Lyn and Janet breaking a curse, but there's no indication that the man is upset at having his impossible riddles answered - he goes ahead and marries her.

'"Envy's greener than the grass Lay the bent to the bonny broom Flattery's smoother than the glass And you'll beguile a lady soon Rumour's louder than the horn Lay the bent to the bonny broom Slander's sharper than the thorn And you'll beguile a lady soon Regret is deeper than the sea Lay the bent to the bonny broom But love is longer than the way" And you'll beguile a lady soon'

Marthe - The Maid Upon The Shore

“Oh thank you, oh thank you,” this young girl she cried, “Oh that's just what I've been awaiting for: For I've grown so weary of my maidenhead As I walked all alone on the rocky old shore, As I walked all alone on the shore.”

So she sat herself down in the stern of the ship How the moon it shone gentle and clear-o, And she sung so neat, genteel and complete, She sung the sailors and captain right off to sleep, She sung sailors and captain to sleep.

And she's robbed them of silver, she's robbed them of gold, And she's plundered their bright costly ware-o. And the captain's bright sword she's took for an oar And she's paddled right back to that rocky old shore, And she's paddled right back to the shore.

Need I say more?

Jerott - Blow the Winds aka The Baffled Knight (Child 112)

I was so tempted to put Crazy Man Michael for him and Marthe, though it's obviously not trad...but just think of that scene in CM: 'O where is the raven that I struck down dead And here did lie on the ground-o I see but my true love with a wound so red Where her lover's heart it did pound-o...'

Buuuut, the modest shepherd boy who learns to be cruel from the girl he catches skinny dipping and doesn’t take advantage of is kind of Jerott vibes too, ngl.

'“And there is a flower in my father's garden, It's called the marigold, The fool that will not when he can, He shall not when he would.”

Says the shepherd's son as he doffed his shoes, “My feet they shall run bare And if I ever meet another girl I'll have that girl, beware.”'

Also, just...L'homme armé.

Joleta - Fanny Blair

I read somewhere that Martin Carthy said he'd no longer sing this one because he thought the 11 year old girl should be believed over the male narrator. And this is why we stan Marty. It's not a badass song for Joleta I'm afraid, it's a song where the crowd turns on a child for accusing a man of rape, and he gets to appear merciful for praying for her forgiveness. Don't google it. You'll find men in forums saying 'it's obvious' we're meant to side with Higgins in the song. So. A pretty apt fit for Joleta.

'On the day that young Higgins was condemned to die The people rose up with a murmuring cry. “We'll catch her and crop her, she's a perjuring whore. Young Henry is innocent, of that we're sure.”'

Oonagh - The Snow It Melts the Soonest

'Oh the snow it melts the soonest when the winds begin to sing And the swallow skims without a thought as long as it is spring But when spring blows and winter goes my lad then you'd be fain With all your pride for to follow me, were it 'cross the stormy main'

Danny - The Saucy Sailor

'Oh, I am frolicsome and I am easy, Good tempered and free, And I don't give a single pin, my boys, What the world thinks of me.”'

And I know it's not trad, but: Mariotta - Let Me Be (Kate Rusby)

'This young soldier boy is Ned His gun's like his own, he can shoot me dead His eyes are blue but they don't see me Oh, why does he let me be?'