#so i am soaking in all the new year prosperity i can fucking get to make up for it

[killerandhealerqueen]

新年快乐!🐉

Happy Chinese New Year!🐉

Wishing you a prosperous year of the Dragon! 🐉

[caltropspress]

FEEDBACK LOOP #7: Curly Castro’s “Weapon 13X” featuring Breeze Brewin

There was a very old man, an old white man out in the crowd, and he started screaming and crying like a baby and he kept crying and he said, “God damn, God damn, what is this God damn country coming to that the niggers have got guns, the niggers are armed and the police can’t even arrest them!” He kept crying and somebody led him away through the crowd.

—Robert F. Williams, Negroes with Guns (1962)

Gun flash beats the child’s head in, maniac teeth dance in a bloody grin blue lies, badge confessions, yng dude dead just beyond his mama’s arms

—Amiri Baraka, “Stop Killer Cops”

Police said Cleaver and Hutton were holed up at 1218 28th Street with two 9 mm automatic pistols, two AR-15 and one military-type M-14 automatic rifle, and a large supply of ammunition, some armor-piercing.

—Berkeley Barb, Volume 6, Number 15, Issue 139

1.

“Weapon 13X” is a diptych. Two verses; one pivot—or volta, for you bookworms. Curly Castro is first with a séance that summons the mysteries of Clarence 13X and Weapon X. These nullified variables and Roman numerals come together in an elixir mix so potent that it would make Aes Rock choke on the amalgam. Castro opens the fission gate and discharges two-hundred forty thousand mega-therms on the city of brotherly love, the city of bombs from above onto a 6221 Osage Avenue row house. Shameek just got bust in his arm, leg, leg, arm, head. The Black man is God personified, and Logan is regenerative. Adamantium claws. Mathematical jaws. Science dropped and experiments performed. Spark this like metal does when dragged across concrete.

2.  “Harriet would grab her balls, / This my gun, and this my rifle.”

Harriet Tubman gets cast by Kubrick for Full Metal Jacket, recites the Rifleman’s Creed, but it was actually a pistol she kept buried within the folds of her calico. She sallied forth seeing visions from the overseer’s heave of a weight—made her skull snap. Don’t sleep. “When the caliber’s inside you,” you can’t necessarily count on “the muzzle smoke revival.”

3.

Quelle Chris provides production, lest we forget his 2019 Guns album with its Dada-bullet, double-barreled barrage album art. The title track armed to the teeth: “Ain’t no cracking that code, / Ain’t no safety on locks, / Might as well get you one, / Procrastinating will get you popped.” The machine gun funk outs finks and COINTELPRO cooperators, conspirators, dispiriters. Here, Castro’s got those same turncoats and sucker MCs in his sights, so to speak.

4.  [The oppressor] teaches the Negro that he has no worth-while past, that his race has done nothing significant since the beginning of time, and that there is no evidence that he will ever achieve anything great. (Carter Godwin Woodson, The Mis-Education of the Negro, 1933)

Castro makes a promise, provoked by those who came before him, those who brandished firearms in the faces of their enemies:

We never will disarm: these are the lies that you were sold, When your glory tripped up, you trade your weapons in for gold. With Yakub in the schools, trade your dreams, knowledge folds. Found the tome, Mis-Education Negroes…

Dr. Yakub sloshing liquids in the lab—Bunsen burners explode and the lab leak is viral whiteness. Tricknology replaces Biology. Castro is looking back while moving forward. “Doomed to repeat it”-type forewarnings. He knows the ledge and also wants his people to.

5.

aim     get your sights & its sound in abstract or journal movements to a peace settlement

dude shot my man

dead,          precious lord blow off theres no willy in th blues theres no you.

—from Tom Weatherly’s Maumau American Cantos (1970)

Castro is a “gunhand, cybernetic with spray cans, / Basquiat, baklava, Mau Mau.” That’s likely an intentional malaprop—surely his militant stance calls for a balaclava. Even still, Castro doesn’t stutter. He will still sh-sh-shift his voice on you—the dynamics of his delivery raise stakes and get guttural, scraping against sewer plates. He’s potent, even if Basquiat’s pistol appears flaccid with its hand-scrawled linework. In another piece, Basquiat starts the decolonization process at the point of a safari helmet. The image detonates.  

6.  Free country? Man, I should fuck you up for sayin’ that stupid shit alone.

“This film is a call to racial violence!” a film critic shouted at Roger Ebert after a screening of Do the Right Thing. She worried Bed-Stuy would set fire to theaters, but Lee’s 1989 film wasn’t The Rite of Spring in Paris in 1913. An amerikan psychotic turn to theater violence would be postponed until Aurora in 2012, and it would be white violence, which would come as a shock to none who have tracked the trajectory of white violence. Displacement is white violence, too. White violence is a sine qua non for gentrification. And so Castro allies himself with “Buggin’ Out battle brownstone houses, some Bird fans, / While Mookie turns the radio up and launched the trashcan.”

7.  “We are the weapons.”

Of late, Castro has consistently been proving you’re out your depth, with verses so allusive they suggest a strong “Erick Sermon and Parrish Smith, nobody blink. / They don’t now who the fuck that is” vibe. So what, though? At this point, Castro’s a vet, an elder. The youngins need to catch up or cash out. Get KRS-One bookish, kiddies, or be left behind. Be the weapon or never prosper. Create your own mythos: “Omega built a mother by the sun and Cyclops sent / a blurred Baraka poem capable to raise the dead. / Yet instead I use the sword...”—with Wu-Tang pronunciation of the w in “sword,” of course. History moves backwards and forwards at the same time. Language is lost and recovered. The poem is “blurred” because it’s been duplicated on a mimeograph—a machine that involves a “drum.” The words are ink-smudged. Baraka’s former partner, Diane di Prima, shouted, “"Power to the people's mimeo machines!” Accuse and attack, Baraka sloganeered. We’re talking about agency—by hand-crank, handgun, or mic check.

8.

Castro creates imagery like Emory Douglas did with paint: painfully bold and saturated with color like blood soaks clothes. Baraka called Douglas’s art a combo of “expressionist agitprop and homeboy familiarity,” which applies to what Castro does on the track. I quote Mao who called literature and art “part of the whole proletarian revolutionary cause,” and Mao quotes Lenin who called lit and art the “cogs and wheels in the whole revolutionary machine.” And Baraka also said Douglas’s work:

functioned as if you were in the middle of a rumble and somebody tossed you a machine pistol. It armed your mind and demeanor. Ruthlessly funny, but at the same time functional as the .45 slugs pouring out of that weapon.

The Panthers were trapped and tear-gassed in a West Oakland basement. Eldridge Cleaver told Bobby to go out naked—unarmed as the day he was born not quite eighteen years earlier—but he emerged from the burning house fully dressed, with dignity, and he was searchlighted and shotshotshotshotshotshotshot dead.

Castro needs Brewin to make the cypher complete—a two-man killarmy using loud words in quiet wars, no silencer.

9.  “Before blurting out, try analysis, brother.”

Breeze’s Yo, listen… at the start of his verse is comparable to Sir Thomas Wyatt intoning Whoso list to hunt… to begin his 16th-century sonnet. The amalgam here is less Five Percenter plus clandestine government experimentation and more a deconstruction of the both violent and sexualized language of braggadocio. “Anything you say isn’t played like Miranda Rights,” and so we’re already with our hands behind our backs, silenced by an pig officer’s gag order. The competition doesn’t get played; they play themselves.

Sir Thomas Wyatt sets it off like so:

Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind, But as for me, hélas, I may no more. The vain travail hath wearied me so sore, I am of them that farthest cometh behind. Yet may I by no means my wearied mind Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore Fainting I follow.

Breeze has wanted to stay pleasant to the ears—you know, like Lauryn Hill phone sexing—so this isn’t new territory but rather a well-worn path. Wyatt’s wearied and “so sore” by “the hunt,” the pursuit of his love interest, even though he knows “where is an hind.” Still, “as she fleeth afore / Fainting [he] follows.” He can’t help himself.

Love is lost within violent pursuit. Breeze speaks of a “plan to strike” and “zero in” on a “target,” his quarry. He and Castro are “talking about broads often, no doubt, / We broad and burly as hell, / Brag about the hunt, you was jukin’ a girly gazelle.” Breeze’s assault is dizzying, a salvo from all angles: “Hit ’em with some counter clay rebuttals that’s subtle but still befuddle if dude slow.”

10.  “It’s nothin’, I gotcha, and that’s word to Super Lover Cee.”

Super Lover Cee and Casanova Rud’s 1988 single “Girls I Got ’Em Locked” articulates the carceral embrace of “locking” a girl down, which—consequently—requires violence to enforce: “Don’t ever touch a girl owned by me or I’ll ruin ya’, / Slap you with my mic simultaneously as I’m doin’ ya.” The girl is commodified, and Super Lover Cee takes a proprietary attitude toward the relationship. If you overstep, you’ll be ruined, that is, you’ll fall. And while you’re prostrate, you’ll be slapped with the phallic mic simultaneously. Is the Super Lover doin’ her or you, though? What’s truly getting him off? That hypermasculine posturing skews homoerotic. Breeze Brewin laughs at you for subscribing to the nonsense: “Dag, if that was what you believe then your world be a hell.”

11.

Liberal discourse suggests policing your impulses. Put down the gun—don’t touch it. “Touchy subjects,” like racism (apparently), get the “We need to have a conversation” treatment. Look, don’t touch. Don’t touch the exhibit of stolen artifacts—those Benin bronzes in the British Museum. Beneath the topic of orignoo gunn clapping, Curly Castro’s track is about the x’s and o’s of eros as well. Many gestures meant to protect women are merely some other man staking his claim, adorning her with “diamonds in letters plain,” as Wyatt writes of the collar around the deer’s “fair neck.” Wyatt’s sonnet warns against overstepping (or even half-stepping). The collar reads Noli me tangere (touch me not)—she belongs to someone else. It’s a bad touch example. Like his fellow Indelible J-Treds, Breeze Brewin is the living circle-circle-dot-dot: nobody can touch him.

12.

Let’s bring it back to Little Bobby Hutton. When Eldridge Cleaver told him to leave the ambushed basement naked, he was thinking of Bobby’s safety. He thought the extreme measure of appearing on the street without clothes would be enough to convince the pigs he wasn’t armed. Cleaver was naïve to think so. Bobby Hutton was right to emerge clothed. In doing so, he rejected the indignity of the auction block, the lynching, the mutilation and spreading of souvenir flesh. The searchlight made Bobby Hutton the subject of a spectacle, yes, but he refused to consent to the psychosexual desires of white supremacy. He refused the castration ritual. Little Bobby Hutton, in effect, threw down a challenge to the cops: Use your imagination once again. Try to think of a few situations where your own weapon might be used against you…used against you…used against you.

Images:

Emory Douglas, The Black Panther, Vol. IV, No. 78, 1971 (detail) | Weapon X (detail, issue unknown) | Emory Douglas, Rat Subterranean News (1970) | Harriet Tubman with gun sketch | Anti-Mau Mau British propaganda poster | Newspaper headline from Negroes with Guns | Jean-Michel Basquiat, Untitled (date unknown) | Jean-Michel Basquiat, Native Carrying Some Guns, Bibles, and Amorites on Safari (1982) | Screenshot from Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing (1989) | Two images from the Berkeley Barb, Volume 6, Number 15, Issue 139 (1968) | Emory Douglas, The Black Panther (miscellaneous poster) | Medieval depiction of the hunt (unknown) | Image detail from the Berkeley Barb, Volume 6, Number 15, Issue 139 (1968)

[caedmonfaith]

Method Acting

A new multichapter fanfic by Caedmon. 

Summary: Anthony J. Crowley is an A-list actor who has been in a bit of a slump over the last couple of years. A.Z. Fell is on the brink of superstardom, but has a reputation as a fuddy duddy. Their managers, Beezle and Gabriel, insist that if they pretend to date each other, it will solve both of their problems. It's only for three months. What's the worst that can happen?

Actors!AU, fake relationship, slow burn, rated E for later chapters. Updates every Monday and Thursday. First chapter below. 

Read it on ao3!

~*~O~*~

August 19, 2019

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Crowley stated blankly, shock rendering his face devoid of emotion. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It had to be a joke. “A.Z. Fell?”

“Yes. Glad to know your hearing is normal,” Beezle commented drily.

“Who the fuck is A.Z. Fell?”

“He’s an actor, and a rather good one. Surely you’ve heard the buzz about the new drama coming out, ‘Tadfield’. He’s the lead, and poised for superstardom after this film.”

Crowley racked his brain, but couldn’t call anything to mind about A.Z. Fell. The name was certainly familiar, but for some reason, he was connecting it with London, not LA. That couldn’t be right. Could it?

He shook off the thought and went back to his shocked disbelief. “I don’t understand,” he managed. “I genuinely don’t fucking understand, Beezle. I need you to enlighten me.”

“It’s simple. You haven’t had a hit in four years. Your last six movies haven’t done as well as expected—”

“They weren’t bombs,” Crowley muttered petulantly.

“No, they weren’t bombs, but given what you were doing five or ten years ago, they were a disappointment. Frankly, your star has fallen quite a bit as a result. Magazines aren’t writing about you, the paps don’t give a shit about you --”

“You say that like it’s a fucking bad thing.”

Beezle leveled a look at him. “It is a bad thing, and you know it. You know perfectly well that in this business, media silence is a death knell. If you’re not being talked about, you might as well lay down and die. But I know you, Crowley, and I don’t believe you’re done yet. You’re in a slump, yes, but I think you still have a few years of hits left in you. We just have to get people to pay attention again.”

“And you think the best way to do that is with a fake relationship with this A.Z. Fell?”

“Yes. If ‘Tadfield’ does even half of what people are expecting, he’s about to be on top of the world, career-wise. He’s already very much in demand, and highly sought after.”

“Then why the hell should he do this?”

“His manager, Gabriel, and I are old friends. He owes me a favor.”

“Some fucking favor,” Crowley grumbled.

Beezle ignored him. “You don’t have to do this. This isn’t the 1930’s, no one is going to force you. Your job doesn’t depend on it. But this could be very good for you, Crowley. I’m only asking you to go through with it for three months or so.”

“Three months!”

“Yes, at least three. Otherwise the paparazzi won’t even have time to be interested. After a few months, if you never want to see Fell again, you don’t have to. But think about it. Just think for a second. Think of your career.”

“There’s got to be some other way…”

“Oh, sure, we could do it without this, but dating someone on top of his game will open doors for you that I can’t open otherwise, or would be hard to open. It’ll propel you into the spotlight again. Your association with him will put you in front of casting directors and the like. Besides that, being linked with someone seen as stable and safe will help improve your own image. Your reputation precedes you.” Crowley scowled and Beezle leaned forward, propping their hands on their knees. “Think, you stubborn fool. Think of what this could mean.”

Crowley huffed, but he did as he was asked and thought about it. His star had fallen over the last several years, and the roles he was being offered lately were not nearly as good. Producers and directors didn’t want to take a chance on an actor who may not make a good return on investment, and Crowley hadn’t been as bankable lately. Sure, he still had plenty of money squirreled away, but he enjoyed what he did. He enjoyed the lifestyle - although he had to admit, the constant partying was getting old. And he missed working.

Beezle wasn’t done. “You’re not the only one who suffers when your career is in the dumps, you know.”

It was a pointed reminder if Crowley had ever heard one. And what’s more, Beezle was right. Everyone associated with him - Beezle, his agent, his accountants, everyone - stood to gain when he was successful and bringing home top billing pay. If he did well, they all prospered. If he floundered, they did, too. And if he floundered too much, they’d all leave him for greener pastures. Then he’d really be fucked.

“Three months, you said?”

“At least three. You get through to the end of November, and we’ll play it by ear. If the plan hasn’t worked and doesn’t look like it’s going to, we’ll stick a fork in it. But if it’s going well, we might milk it for a while longer. No longer than six months, though. Tops.”

Crowley sighed, his shoulders slumping a little, and he tried not to notice the gleam of triumph in Beezle’s eye.

“Tell me how it’s going to work.”

~*~O~*~

“I beg your pardon,” Aziraphale said politely, inclining his head forward a bit, as if to hear better. “So silly of me, but I’m afraid I must have misheard you, Gabriel. It almost sounded as if I’m going to be in a fake relationship.”

“That’s right,” Gabriel said with a bright smile, as if he was pleased Aziraphale had caught on so quickly to the most perfect plan anyone had ever come up with. A perfect gem of a plan. Aziraphale was forced to disagree.

“And just who are you proposing I have this sham of a relationship with, pray tell?” he demanded, voice chilly.

“Anthony J. Crowley,” Gabriel answered smugly.

“Anthony J. Crowley!” Aziraphale squawked. “But he’s… he’s…”

“He’s an A-list actor whose career has been on a downward swing for the last couple of years. You’re about to become an A-list actor when ‘Tadfield’ is released. You can help each other.”

“How on Earth can we possibly do that?”

“Your reputation as an actor is sterling - really, the best of the best - but no one knows anything about your personal life. You never go to parties and are very rarely social. Honestly, you’re developing a reputation as a recluse, a bookworm - almost a hermit. Certainly a stick in the mud. The words ‘fuddy duddy’ have been bandied about, and surely you can see how those would be detrimental to you.”

“I like who I am!”

“And there’s nothing wrong with who you are, Fell. But you’re boring. Boring doesn’t sell tickets.”

“I seem to be doing just fine,” Aziraphale huffed. “All my films have performed admirably.”

“They all did fine, but ‘fine’ isn’t what you want. ‘Fine’ is mediocre. You want excellence, and this will help you to get it.”

“I still fail to see how a false relationship is going to improve ticket sales - especially someone with the kind of reputation Anthony J. Crowley has. He’s a well-known rake.”

Gabriel leaned back in his chair, propping his feet on the desk and crossing his ankles, threading his fingers together and putting them behind his head. “First of all, no one says ‘rake’ anymore. Further, a torrid relationship with someone seen as your polar opposite will drum up interest in you. You’re not an unfortunate-looking man, Fell, despite being a little soft around the middle.” Aziraphale covered his belly protectively, but Gabriel didn’t pause. “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t have legions of fans who adore you and soak up your every move. Entire blogs and websites, devoted to you! You need to build an audience, and having a high-profile relationship can only help that.”

“You can’t make me do this,” Aziraphale tried. “It’s bound to be illegal. Isn’t it?”

Gabriel made a face that clearly indicated that Aziraphale was being ridiculous. “Of course nobody is making you do this. I’m just pointing out the benefits to your career if you agree to fake a relationship for the next ninety days or so. That’s all we’re asking. Three months - maybe more, if things are going well.”

“We? Who else is in on this?”

“Beezle, Anthony J. Crowley’s manager. They’re pitching the idea to him today, too, so we can get started as soon as possible.”

Aziraphale was quiet for a few moments, contemplating. It was a ludicrous idea, laughable, really. But would it work? Aziraphale had always loved acting, loved the craft, but he’d promised himself when he came to LA that if he ever made it big, he’d stay in the spotlight long enough to build up a comfortable nest egg, then he’d ‘retire’ back to London with his books and beat the boards in the West End whenever it pleased him. He’d had it all planned out… but he hadn’t quite had the success in LA he’d hoped for. He was comfortable enough, but not yet able to return to London full time. Los Angeles was still where the money was, so that was where he needed to stay for now - at least part-time.

But if Gabriel was right, this faked relationship could propel him into a higher status - which would let him see his retirement sooner. He certainly wasn’t getting any younger, and frankly was lucky to be getting the parts he was getting at his age. If pretending to date Anthony J. Crowley would open him up to more roles, what could it hurt?

Aziraphale sighed. “I must be mad.”

“You’ll be mad if you don’t do this. I promise, Fell. This will work. Three months of your life to secure the rest of your life. You’d be crazy to turn that down.”

He wasn’t so sure about that, but acquiesced. “Tell me how this is supposed to work.”

[maevefiction]

Your Light in the Mist - Chapter 8

I managed to wake up on time, despite the fact that I’d forgotten, yet again, to set my alarm. After putting on my glasses, I padded over to the dresser to grab my phone. I checked my notifications as I crawled back under the covers and saw there were four texts waiting for me, three of them from Tom sent late last night.

Meeting’s finito. They dragged us out for drinks. It’s 3:00 AM. I want to see you. – T

Mean Nanny Luke says it’s too late and he hid your room key from me. Asshole. – T

We meeting again with Skull people again at 11 morning tomorrow. 3:17. Bed. Night. – T

I figured he’d still be out cold and I was overwhelmed by the urge to ring his phone and rouse him unpleasantly, solely for my own amusement. I resisted, telling myself that he surely would have turned it off prior to retiring for the night. So tempting, but I decided to take the high road instead.

Good morning, Thomas. Hope you and Luke managed to get some rest and that the meeting goes well. Looking forward to seeing you both later. – M

The fourth was from Anne, sent fifteen minutes ago.

Hey kiddo, I’d love it if you’d give me a call. It’s been entirely too long since we last talked. – A

While it wasn’t a complete surprise to hear from her, given Luke had spoken with her yesterday, I honestly hadn’t expected it to happen so damn soon.  Inhaling deeply through my nose, I closed my eyes for a few moments, exhaled and decided to postpone dealing with it and order breakfast instead.

My stomach grumbled as I reviewed the room service menu, my index finger tapping my lips. I grabbed the in-room phone and dialed, and my call was answered on the first ring by an obnoxiously pleasant-sounding woman.

“Good morning, Ms. Gallagher. What can we get for you today?”

Funny, they hadn’t a clue who I was when I’d ordered in over the weekend. I guess Tom Hiddleston answering your door when a meal for two was delivered elevated one’s social status.

“Good morning to you as well. May I please have an order of Belgian waffles with bacon, a large orange juice and a cup of tea? Earl Grey if you have it, sugar and cream on the side. Thanks!”

There was dead air for a few seconds. “Will that be all?” I rolled my eyes. Subtle, lady, really subtle. Sorry to disappoint, but he’s not here at the moment.

“Yep, that’s if for now, thank you.”

“Your meal should arrive in approximately twenty minutes. Aloha!”

I re-read Anne’s text and sighed, running a hand through my hair. If I called her now I could use the arrival of my meal as an excuse to get off the phone, though twenty minutes could seem like an eternity if the conversation turned to a topic I didn’t care to discuss, which it always seemed to do.

“Come on, Maude. Like a Band-Aid, right off. Pee first, then call. That should waste at least two minutes, more if you walk really slow.”

After the bathroom, I sank down into the oversized wing-back chair, phone in hand. My heart began to pound as I located her in my contacts, under ‘L’ for Lestat because it amused me to no end when ‘Lestat calling…’ came up on my screen. Anne had been a part of my life since I was ten years old. In 1988, only a few months after my parents had moved into the neighborhood, she’d returned to the Garden District of New Orleans. After rejoining the Catholic Church she met my father, a devout Irish Catholic himself, and they became fast friends.

She’d been a friend to me as well, offering unwavering support and becoming my lifeline during some incredibly difficult times. One of the hardest decisions I’d ever had to make was distancing myself from her emotionally in order to force myself to move on as I tried to heal. Though it had been a necessity, I still felt terrible about it, and I deeply missed having her to turn to for comfort.

My hands clenched and grew clammy as the pounding of my heart morphed into a dull, throbbing pain. I silently vowed to cut her off immediately if our chat veered into the past and hit the ‘call’ button.  

“Maudie, honey! You took the job!” I wondered how the fuck she knew that already, then remembered she followed my twitter account and must have read the letter I linked to last night.

“Yes, Anne. I took the job. Though I wasn’t looking for one. And thanks for your glowing recommendation. Which established preconceived expectations that I will never be able to fulfill, by the way.”

“You will not only fulfill them, you will exceed them. Never underestimate your abilities, Maudie. You know better. So who is this Luke fellow? Is he as handsome as he sounds?”

I tipped my head back and stared at the ceiling, trying to prepare myself for the onslaught of Matchmaking for Maude that was about to ensue. “He is indeed.”

I could picture the sly grin that had surely spread across her face. “So? Is he single?”

“No, Anne. He’s actually engaged.”

“Well, you’re very attractive and, you know, anything can happen…”

“And he’s gay.” I thought that would do the trick. It didn’t.

“You have to introduce him to Christopher.” At least I wasn’t the only victim of her matchmaking…she’d been trying to find Mr. Right for her son as well as me forever.

“I haven’t met his fiancé but I hear they’re deliriously happy. So what’s new with you? How’s my next Lestat installment coming along?”

“I’m still researching some things, but the initial draft is essentially complete. You know, I Googled up Prosper PR and went to the facebook page and that amazingly talented actor, what’s his name…right, Tom Hiddleston, is one of his clients. I would love for him to take on the role of Lestat when the reboot of the Vampire Chronicles gets underway. Will you be working with him? Plant that seed for me, will you? Hmm, maybe he’s single?”

The thought of Tom as Lestat de Lioncourt rendered me mute for a solid thirty seconds, followed by lord knows how many more as I attempted to figure out how to weasel my way around her last question.

“Maudie, are you still on the line?”

“I…erm…yeah. Still here. Sorry, I was…multitasking. I have no idea if he’s single or not.” I was grateful that she couldn’t see my face because she’d know I was full of shit if she got one look at me. “But yes, I am working with him. I’m starting as his social media manager, which he desperately needs because he has issues with keeping his existing accounts updated and his overall presence is lacking, to say the least.  Once I’ve gotten him back on track I transition into the role of social media director for Prosper. But please keep that between us. We haven’t announced anything yet, though we’re meeting tonight to discuss timelines and such.”

She chuckled, and I cringed, realizing that she still knew me entirely too well. “No idea if he’s single or not my ass. Don’t lie to Auntie Anne. You’ve already met him, haven’t you? And he’s a component of the ‘we’ and ‘we’re’, isn’t he?” I said nothing. “That incredibly long pause, in conjunction with your use of ‘am’ as opposed to ‘will be’ working with him gave you away. So, is he as beautiful in person as he is on film? And is his personality as lovely as it appears to be in interviews?”

There was a knock at the door, and my gratitude for the delivery person’s impeccable timing was boundless. “Sorry, my breakfast is here and I have to dash becau…”

She cut me off. “Maude, I did want you to call so I could congratulate you, but I also wanted to speak with you about something else. Your mother…”

I could feel every muscle in my body tensing. “Anne, how many times have I told you that I will NOT disc…”

“Please, hear me out. Her health is failing, Maude.”

“All those years of sucking down bottle after bottle of booze finally catching up with her?” The venom in my voice caught me completely off guard. As much as I insisted to myself that it was all behind me, the reality was that it was always with me, here, in the now… lurking just below the surface, ugly and dark and awful.

“I know, Maude, I know. And I hate to bring it up, but she’s in hospice and, well, I felt compelled to tell you in case you wanted to see her. Before it’s too late.” I counted to ten before I responded, focusing on all the positive things she’d done for me, hoping I could end the call courteously.

“Anne, I have to go. Be well.” I hung up before she could reply…and, thankfully, before I said something I’d wind up regretting.

************************************************** Breakfast was eaten in silence, but I’d showered and gotten ready with my iPod cranking out tunes from my ‘Fuck Off’ playlist. I’d even done a passable job on covering up the hickey. I frowned when I glanced at the clock. It was only 8:15, and I knew I had to keep moving or I’d start thinking again. As I stood on the balcony, gazing out at the azure water rolling in and out, I determined that a walk on the beach might be an ideal distraction.

Shoes in hand, messenger bag slung across my chest, I wandered down as far as I could go without getting soaked by the lapping waves. I breathed in, then out, in, and out, ever so slowly, trying to match the rhythm of the ocean. The sun warmed my face, my hands, my feet, my body…but it couldn’t quite reach into my heart. I closed my eyes and lowered my chin to my chest, using nothing but the sheer force of my will to shove the anger and pain back in the box I’d crafted for it so long ago.

I remained stock-still until the tide of somber memories began to ebb, carrying them further and further away from me, back into the turbulent sea of my past…where they fucking belonged. Always a part of me, but no longer controlling me.    

My eyes opened slowly as I raised my head, and I bent down to pick up a handful of sand, letting it sift through my fingers, just as I had less than forty-eight hours before. Everything I’d overcome, the life I’d made for myself, and the promise of what was to be hit me all at once and I could feel the corners of my mouth curl up in a tiny smile. I stood, took one last look at the ocean, then turned around and headed for the conference room.

I checked my phone as I slowly worked my way down the hall, deleting five new texts from Anne without reading them. Nothing from Tom, which I fully expected. He was probably still sound asleep, all cozy and warm. Bastard. I put the phone away and pulled out my tablet to check my email, cursing myself for not doing so since Monday afternoon. One hundred and fifty-eight messages in my inbox. Fuck. I scrolled down as I walked, starring items that were urgent, until I collided with another body. My tablet went flying, landing on the floor behind me. I bent to grab it without looking up, apologizing.

“I am SO sorry…totally my fault. Reading and walking is not my forte, apparently.” I turned as I rose, and the device fell from my hands and back onto the floor as I realized just whose body I’d run into.

He was wearing black shorts, a white T-shirt and a black sweatshirt that he’d left unzipped, the hood up over his head. Aviator sunglasses hid his eyes, but he quickly removed them as he spoke softly. “Good morning.”

He leaned down and picked up my tablet, slipping it into my messenger bag before encircling me with his arms. I slid mine under his sweatshirt, ran my hands up his back ever so slowly, finally coming to rest on his shoulder blades.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m delighted to see you, but what in the ever-loving fuck are you doing up and about? It’s only 8:30. You’ve got another hour and a half to sleep, at least.” He bent to kiss me instead of replying, parting my lips gently with his tongue, then delving in to explore as his hands fell to my hips and pulled me against him. He was commando again, and rock hard. I groaned and broke the kiss, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Christ, do you even own a pair of underwear?” He laughed, then flinched. I slipped my right arm out from under his sweatshirt and gently grabbed his chin as I inspected his face. He was pale, with dark circles under his eyes that made him look bruised. “You appear to be significantly worse for wear since we last met, sir. Do I need to have a word with the gentlemen from Legendary?”  

He began rubbing small circles on my lower back with one hand. “Honestly, I’d seriously consider having you stand in for me at today’s meeting if you didn’t have prior obligations.” He took the hand that held his chin and brought it to his lips, then sighed. “They just kept buying round after round…Luke and I could barely keep up. We got mortifyingly clobbered at pool and darts. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

I fished a bottle of water from my bag and offered it to him. “Here. Drink.” He stared at me, pouting.

“But I’ll have to let go of you in order to open it. And I don’t want to.” I shoved it back in my bag. He brought me in closer, bending to nuzzle my neck. “I hope my late night texts didn’t disturb your rest.”

“I didn’t hear a thing. Wish I had, though. I would have told you to get your ass up the stairs and into my bed.” He snickered, and I felt his teeth tug at my earlobe. I wiggled my hips against him. “Thank you for the note, by the way.”

He pulled back to look at me and smiled timidly. “Did you like it?”

“No.” His eyes widened, and I stood on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I loved it. So much so that I held it in my hand while I slept.” He grasped the back of my neck, fingers easing into my hair as he pressed his lips to mine, both of our mouths falling open, tongues colliding. I sucked on his lower lip, sliding my leg up to wrap around him as he bucked against me. We froze at the sound of someone clearing their throat loudly. I leaned sideways to peek around Tom and found Serena staring back at me.

I wiped my mouth off with the back of my hand, then wiped my hand on my tunic as I stepped away from Tom. He took it in his and turned around to face her with me. My brow furrowed as I wondered what the fuck one was supposed to say in this sort of situation. Should I apologize? Should I pretend it hadn’t happened? It appeared that Tom had no clue, either. Serena burst out laughing and patted me on the shoulder.

“Good morning, Maude. I should probably give you a lecture and tell you to get a room, but I won’t because my god, the two of you are just so adorable. Dante’s loading the rest of our equipment onto the dolly. He should be here in a sec.” She opened the doors of the conference room, engaging the stoppers so they’d remain that way, then entered and began rearranging a few pieces of furniture.

I turned to Tom, shaking my head. “Public indecency. Told you so. I’m a ticking time bomb.” He smirked.

“I’m afraid I must leave you to your work, Maude. It would appear that something’s come up and needs my immediate attention.” He pulled at his shorts, adjusting himself as he whispered in my ear. “Though it would most certainly prefer your attention.” I pinched his nipple, delighting at his gasp.

“No one likes a tease, Thomas.” Dante was quickly approaching. I sighed. “On with the show, I guess.”

Tom pulled me to his chest and kissed my forehead. “Last one. And then you’re all mine.”

I poked his chest. “You need to go right now or I’m going to disappoint two hundred people when I run off with you.” He grinned. “Good luck with your meeting. I’ll see you at 4:15. Be ready to hula.”

“Oh, I’ll be ready. And I’ll bet you dinner that you can’t get Luke to join in.”

“Well, in that case, you’d better make sure there’s lots of room on your credit card, sunshine.”

“Not necessary. Won’t ever happen.” He waved as he turned and walked down the hall. I called after him.

“You are so very, very wrong.” I watched him go, biting down on my thumb. Sex on legs. Absolute truth. Serena spoke from behind me.

“Maude, Dante needs you to stand on a few marks.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. Thanks.”

“If he happens to come back before we leave, would you mind terribly if I asked him for a pic with me?” A light blush colored her cheeks. I laughed, shaking my head.

“Nope. Not one single bit.”

************************************************** It seemed as if it was over as soon as it began, and I even managed to keep my shit together when the attendees gave me a send-off standing ovation at the end of the last lecture hour. Though my emotions were mixed about being done with something that had kept me going for so long, I couldn’t help but feel…free.

Tom had stopped in during our first break, transformed from hung over frat boy to runway model after a hot shower, a huge breakfast and a gorgeous charcoal bespoke suit. He hadn’t worn a tie, and his white dress shirt was open at the neck. It took five tries on my part to get a decent shot of him and Serena, mainly because she kept looking at him instead of the camera, but my shaking hands factored in as well. I’d need to get over that shit pronto if I was going to be on photography duty for the foreseeable future. She asked if she could post it online, and I told her it was fine as long as she didn’t include location details.

It was 4:08 when I got back to my room, leaving me just enough time to change into my hiking shorts and vintage X-Files T-shirt. I did a little happy dance at the prospect of being able to spend more time in casual clothes…I’d amassed quite a collection of graphic tees over the years that I hardly ever got to wear, and now that a good portion of my work would be behind the scenes, I could.

“Well, that’s a fucking plus I hadn’t even considered. Comfy clothes, baby. Bring it on!” I ended the dance with a fist in the air as I entered the bathroom. I put my hair up in a ponytail, not even bothering to brush it first. My black Rio Birkenstocks were nowhere to be found, and, thinking about it, I hadn’t seen them since Monday. After tearing the rest of room apart, I spotted them in the little open cubby under one of the nightstands where Tom must have tucked them when he did my laundry. I strapped them on, grabbed my wallet, keys, phone,  and iPod from my bag and stuffed them in my pockets, making up a little song as I danced some more.

“I love pants with pockets and I can wear them all the time and that is fucking cool because…shit. Because I’m a mime? Because I like to rhyme? Damn, I used to be GOOD at this. Ah, fuck it. POCKETS!”

One of the things I abhorred most about dress clothing was the lack of pockets. Carrying any type of bag made me feel weighed down, plus they always either fell off my shoulder or smacked me in the ass as I walked, yet I had stuff that needed to be stored somewhere. Men’s pants had the best pockets, and I often opted for those over the women’s version.

I took a last look at my reflection in the mirror. “Off you go, Maude. New chapter and all that.” I opened the room door and meandered down the steps, hand trailing along the rail. Tom and Luke were waiting for me outside their suites.

I flung my arms out to the side. “Who’s ready to HULA?!”

Luke groaned, rolling his eyes as Tom raised his hand and shouted, “I AM, I AM!”

I put a hand on Luke’s shoulder. “Come on, Luke, let your hair down a little.” He snorted.

“I tried that last night and found it to be rather disadvantageous.” He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. Tom smirked at me and mouthed ‘this is a bet you cannot win’. I threw him double birds. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys to his rental car dangling them in front of me.

“Shall we?” I shook my head.

“Let’s take my Jeep. Feel the breeze. Be rugged.” Luke held up his hand.

“Please, no. The jouncing around might kill me.” I huffed.

“Fine, fine. Have it your way. But if the car has an auxiliary jack you might be sorry I acquiesced.”

He was indeed sorry, as Tom and I sang the entire 11 minutes it took to get to the Kaua’i Museum. Towards the end of Pharell’s ‘Happy’ he appeared to be contemplating opening the door and leaping into traffic.

“I’m not sure what’s making me more nauseated…the hangover or the two of you caterwauling up there.” I reached back to pat his knee.

“I promise I’m not always this obnoxiously elated, Luke. I’m just on a quit-my-old-job-today-and-have-a-super-cool-new-one high. It won’t last.”

He nodded his head. “Mmm hmm. And I’m sure it has nothing to do with our chauffer.”

I glanced over at Tom, put my hand to the side of my mouth and looked back at Luke, whispering. “He is awfully pretty, isn’t he?” He rested his head in his hands as the car made an abrupt right turn into the museum parking lot.

It was a lovely place, located on Rice Street in the Albert Spencer Wilcox and William Hyde Rice buildings. Hula classes were conducted by members of the Daughters or Hawai’i in the courtyard, as the museum itself closed at five. There were a total of eleven of us, and just as Tom predicted, Luke immediately sat on the sidelines while the rest of us gathered around the instructor. Her name was Iolana and she appeared to be in her late fifties. As she explained that hula is a dance accompanied by a chant (oli) or song (mele), the dance portraying the words in a visual format I stared at Luke and tapped my foot.

Iolana asked us all to move behind her, at least three feet apart, and I flung my hand out at Luke and then pointed to the open space next to me. He shook his head. I pouted. Then I put my hands together, silently begging, mouthing ‘please?’ while batting my eyelashes. No way in hell was I losing this bet. He sighed, put his chin on his chest and hefted himself out of the chair to join us. I turned to Tom and stuck my tongue out. He shook his head and stepped closer so he could whisper in my ear.

“He hasn’t actually danced yet, Maude.” I slapped his arm.    

We were instructed to stand with feet apart, left knee bent and our hands on our hips, then step with our left foot and slide our right foot next to the left, bending that knee. The process was repeated in the opposite direction. After we mastered the steps, it was time for some hip action…raising it in time with and in the opposite direction of the step, keeping both knees bent. Iolana turned to check our progress and immediately went to Luke, putting her hands on his hips and pushing them in the correct direction. I turned to Tom and grinned. He shook his finger at me.

“He’s not using his hands.” I rolled my eyes. Iolana had moved back to the front to continue the lesson. One arm bent at the elbow in front of the body, the other extended out from it in the direction of the step, head facing that way as well, fingers together and hands moving at the wrists like a wave. Again, the process was repeated in the opposite direction when moving that way.

Iolana taught us a few more arm motions and explained what they meant, advising that they were only the chorus of a mele called Eleile, which we’d be ‘telling’ over and over for the duration of the class, then turned on the music. I glanced at Luke, then turned to Tom and started doing alternating wave motions rapidly with my hands in front of me. He tilted his head.

“That doesn’t look like a legitimate hula hand motion, Maude.” I grinned.

“It’s not. Do you want to know what it means?”

“No.”

“Sure you do. It’s my visual interpretation of ‘you lose, sucker’.” I thumbed in Luke’s direction. He was dancing, and it looked like he might even be enjoying it a little. Tom hung his head in defeat, and I tried to refrain from drooling as I watched him roll his hips. I kept missing steps and had to close my eyes in order to focus. The tempo of the music increased, and without the distraction of keeping an eye on Luke or ogling Tom I completely lost myself in the dance. It was an incredible feeling, moving faster, back and forth, the rhythm and motions of my body conveying this brief chapter of a story via a method that had been used for generations, dating back to ancient times when indigenous peoples worshiped volcano goddesses.  

I heard clapping, faint at first but louder as more people joined in. I opened my eyes, discovering that I was the only one still dancing other than Iolana. And that everyone was staring at me. I stopped. A huge grin spread across her face.

“Miss, where did you study hula, if you don’t mind my asking?”

I swallowed. “I’m Maude. And, just here. I’ve never done it before.”

Her eyes widened. “Well, Miss Maude, it’s very unusual for someone to catch on so quickly, especially a first-timer. I guess you’re just a natural.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “You dance beautifully, my dear. I’m sure your boyfriend would agree.” She smirked knowingly at Tom, then began to circulate amongst the other participants, stopping to speak to Luke first.

Boyfriend. Is that what he is? I turned to face Tom, and what I saw in his eyes was overwhelming. Desire, passion, admiration, awe, joy, and something else that I didn’t think I was ready or willing to hang a name on quite yet. I waved self-consciously.

“Hi there.” I watched him take several deep breaths, and I noticed he had his phone in his hand.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, did you film that?!” He nodded. I groaned and covered my face with my hands. He pulled them away gently, and now that he was right in front of me I could see his eyes shone with tears.

“Sorry. My original intent was to video Luke so I could email it to Simon, which I did, but then you…and I had to. It was one of the most breathtaking things I’ve ever seen. Here, watch it.” I shook my head.

“Nope. Maybe later.” He reached out to touch my face, fingers feathering over my cheekbone and down to my jaw.

“Alright. Later. But I don’t think I’ll ever be the same. The rest of us, we were just moving. But you, you told a story. An ancient, timeless story.” He waved to get Iolana’s attention. She excused herself from her chat with two older ladies and came over to us.

“Hello, Iolana. I’m Tom.” She shook his proffered hand. “Do you happen to have an English translation of the chorus you taught us today?”

“Yes, I do. Right up here.” We followed her to the table that held her portable stereo and paperwork. She pulled a sheet out of a purple folder. “I’m so pleased you’re interested in learning more. An hour is such a short period of time and I have to focus intently on the dancing, so I rarely get to talk about the song itself. This is the chorus of the mele. Eleile is a dark swirling pool on Maui, also known as the water that returns the ti. It is customary to break a ti leaf stalk and throw it into the pool. As the water swirls, the leaves are unfurled, then pushed back into a long, tight bud.” She handed it to him. He read it, then passed it to me without saying a word. I read it. Then I re-read the chorus again. And again.

Dark is the water of Eleile The cold dwelling place of the mist It is made warm by love That stood close at my side

I felt his hand on my forearm. I refused to look away from the words on the paper. He spoke, voice fraught with emotion he struggled to contain.

“Looks like you were telling our story.” My hands were shaking, eyes still fixed on the mele chorus. He put his on top of them, steadying me. “When you danced…I swear I could see your soul. And oh, how it called to me, Maude.”

Silence surrounded us, and as I raised my gaze I noted that everyone was staring at me. Again. I inhaled, then let it out with a whoosh as my eyes found his. I still couldn’t quite manage to form words. He took a step closer to me, moving his hands to my shoulders.

“I know it’s only been two days since we met, and that you’ll very well likely think me certifiably insane for saying this, and perhaps I am, but every fiber of my being is screaming at me to do so and sometimes you just have to fight your fears and say fuck it, come on, so…Maude, I am totally, completely, utterly, madly in love with you.”

My mouth dropped open, then closed as I bit my lower lip. Right. Fight my fears. Sure. Fuck it, why not? I shrugged. “Well, Thomas, in that case we’d best pick out some matching straitjackets because I, too, have clambered aboard the crazy train. Wildly, wholly, entirely, absofuckingloutely in love. With you.”

He kissed me, briefly, sweetly. The tiny crowd oohed and ahhed, then began to disperse. As we said our goodbyes and thanks to Iolana Luke came over, phone raised, smiling. I rolled my eyes.

“Let me guess. You filmed all of that. What is with you people?” He laughed, and I shook my head. “Well, now we have even more details to discuss. And I want pizza. Can we get pizza? Let’s get pizza. LOTS of pizza. Tom’s even buying. Right, Tom? Or was all this a distraction so you could welsh out on our bet?”

He put his arm around my waist and kissed the top of my head as we exited the courtyard. “You can’t blame me for trying, can you?”

Luke’s eyes narrowed. “What bet?”

I looked at Tom. “You tell him.”

He shook his head. “I’m not telling him.”

Luke ran in front of us, stopped, arms crossed. “Someone had better tell me.”

We remained silent and walked around him to the car. Luke groaned as he got in. “Already conspiring against me. Fine. Don’t tell me. But I’m going to order ten fucking pizzas, just for spite.”

He took out his phone, clicked something, and the sounds of hula music filled the vehicle.

“Thomas William Hiddleston, did you send Simon a video of me doing the hula?” Tom started to chuckle.

“Me? Why on earth would you think I’d do such a thing?”

Luke snorted. “Because you fucking did, that’s why. Hmm, I think I’m starting to see how this went down. Your bet involved whether or not I’d dance. Maude suckered me into it and won. Tom, I’m going to kick your ass when we get out of this car. Maude, I’m impressed. Mildly disappointed in your behavior, but impressed just the same. And Simon says to tell you you’re a wonderful dancer.”

I turned to see Luke’s phone, hoping to catch a glimpse of Simon’s face. I got lucky…it was his lock screen background, or so I assumed. “Is that Simon?” He nodded and passed me the phone. “Damn, Luke, he’s gorgeous.” Luke grinned.

“Even more so in person. You’ll get to meet him tomorrow. He’s flying out to stay for a bit. In the beach house we’ll all be sharing.”

I turned to Tom, tilting my head quizzically. “Um, beach house? What beach house?”

He smirked, then shrugged. “What can I say? The meetings with the Legendary people went well. Really, really well.”

[serendipitousoracle]

zodiac shooting star mixtape & fragrance for Eg(any aus) & Ria & Sov plz

[ ♡OC ask meme ♡ ]

By question:

zodiac: what’s their sign? does it influence theirpersonality? do they care about astrology?                              

Egeire Mahariel & Egeria “Ria” Surana:

As Egeire is a derivative of Egeria and Egeria is originally aSelf Insert, both are born in the twelfth month, known as Cassusor Haring. Unfortunately if I ever nailed down a date fortheir birthday/s I absolutely cannot find it.They very likelystill both fall in the range for Sagittarius, though. I don’t thinkit terribly influences their personalities, though I am very biasedby years of being umimpressed with the common astrology babble of“Sagittarius is an extrovert who loves adventures and excitementand is changeable and spontaneous!!1!!1“ Ria would probably payastrology no mind and Egeire would probably mostly do the same but heis also absolutely the type to lowkey look up sign compatibility withpeople he gets crushes on.

In the Chinese zodiac, they were both born in 9:08 I believe,which if you translate that straight as 908, means they’re EarthDragons. I… think.

Soveliss Liadon:

yeah I’ve got 0 idea when Sov was born. soz fam. if it becomesimportant to his backstory or if aub develops any Cool Year Info NShit maybe I will figure that out but honestly I never come up withcharacter birthdays until it comes up. which is not often. I don’teven have any real vibes for seasons they all seem Fine.

shooting star: if your OC(s) could have one wish whatwould it be?  

Egeire Mahariel

Perhaps… peace, or maybe life depending on the timeframe. Peacebeing the ability to be cured of the Taint in his blood and live alife that makes him happy with the people who make him happy.Alternatively, life– namely, Tamlen’s. He feels guilty aboutTamlen’s death for a long time. Even if Tamlen isn’t his…Egeire wants his friend to live a full life and die a death not inagony.

(Egeire’s wish for peace extends to any Warden Egeire AU, but inWAW!AU imagine his life wish expanding. it would probably take quitesome rules-lawyering to keep it from being disastrous, but what ifEgeire could undo so much sorrow? Tamlen lives, and so does anybodyfrom Clan Sabrae who might have perished in the Blight. The Circle isnot ravaged, and so many mages who were locked behind heavy doors andleft to die have a second chance at life. Hundreds of soldiers, lostat Ostagar and beyond, return home to family and loved ones.Consultation is probably needed to keep his tongue from erring intosomething unwise, but what if the past year did not need to be soakedin so much grief? And, well… he has plenty of role modelsfor ambitious goals, now.

Royals AU Egeire would consider it, and… honestly find hedoesn’t want for much. He is happy with Denoreth, and unlike theother royals AU, this Egeire is not as scarred by Cyrron beforeCyrron is eliminated from his life. His training with Cyrron isultimately what allows him to keep Denoreth safe, in fact, and evenDen likes watching him fight. so Egeire would probably just wish forsomething like eternal prosperity upon both their kingdoms or somesuch.

Fugitives AU Egeire probably has an interesting wish: A life wherehe is never taken and broken by Cyrron, but still gets to meet andend up happy with Denoreth like he is now, without the trauma.Failing that, the follow-ups would be erasing the aftereffects ofsaid trauma, or him and Denoreth having a life of comfort where theynever have to struggle to get by again, like they did when they firstfled their past lives)

Egeria Surana

I think the big thing that would address a lot of Ria’s hurts inlife would be equality; if elves and mages and non-Andrastians wereon even footing with humans (etc), maybe then she and those who comeafter her wouldn’t have to worry about mages (some of themso young) leaping from high windows or choosing Tranquility,and elves wouldn’t suffer in alienages, and she would not feel socaught on a tightrope between Warden and elfmagegirl, the latter ofwhich also becomes a real threat to her relationship with Alistair.It is a gigantic scale wish, but it’s one concept, and itwould likely be hers.

Post-Inquisition, the wish she makes probably wouldn’tchange… but honestly, on the inside, she just wants Alistair backfrom the Fade.

Soveliss Liadon

There are two major angles Sov can wish for: past and future. Onthe one hand, he could have everything he lost back. The monks couldlive again, he could have a home, they could perhaps reconcile, andhe could spend like a week straight just crying and holding onto eachand every one of them for dear life.

But on the other hand, there is the future. There is him as anadventurer, a warlock, and a traveling acolyte. For the future, hiswish would likely be power. Knowledge, magic, and control farbeyond his current comprehension. With enough magic he could protectwhat few things he still cares about, and fulfill his duties toKelemvor in protecting others and striking down undead. With enoughmagic, he might not feel so small compared to his patron, though hewould not be able to fathom being on equal footing (or being morepowerful than?) his dear patron, an archfey. With enough magic… hecould perhaps bring his family of monks back himself, or at least putthem to rest so they no longer haunt the halls of the monastery. Sogiven the choice, Soveliss would probably wish for magic, power, andknowledge.

What could possibly go wrong?

Under the cut: mixtape & fragrance

mixtape: 5 songs that describe your OC(s) or songsthey themselves would like

Answeredhere for normal Egeire, Egeria, and Soveliss.

Royals AU Egeire:

1. “TheBest Is Yet To Come” - Frank Sinatra (once Egeire and Denorethfinally get to the point of being in love… things are reallylooking up)

2. “I Lived” - OneRepublic (being very suddenly thrown into an arranged marriage feels a bit like being thrown to the wolves, but perhaps by the end of everything, he will have finally lived a life of his own choosing.)

3. “Collide” - Howie Day (tentative, sweeter love song for boys gettin’ to know each other)

4. “Float On” - Modest Mouse (chill song about carrying on through setbacks, bc hey that’s p much all Eg can do at this point)

5. “Any Way You Want It” - Journey (surprise most of this AU rn is young princes falling in love and holding onto themselves despite the politics as much as possible)

Fugitives AU Egeire:

1. “TheOnly Exception” - Paramore (Egeire learned from Cyrron thatlove was fickle and fleeting and led only to hell and heartbreak, andDenoreth had figured out pretty quickly that getting attached topeople was a fool’s errand, but…)

2. “Be OK”- Ingrid Michaelson (Poor tol has spent so long being torn topieces and scrambled and he just… wants to have the partsof himself he lost back)

3. “Field of Innocence” - Evanescence (The sadder half of the above coin. Flip-flopping between wanting to Be OK again and just wanting to go back to before he was ever hurt.)

4. “Jump the Fence” - Mother Mother (Fleeing and freedom and not necessarily goodness, only looking out for themselves and going straight back to merc work and profiting (surviving) off of doing richer bastards’ dirty work)

5. “Give Me A Sign” - Breaking Benjamin (Just. Boys gotta hold onto each other and try to keep each other together through financial struggling and moral conflict and internalized shit and the scars will remain but they can too.)

Bonus: “Home”- Phillip Phillips (could apply to both AUs, really. everything is uncertain- and inFugitives AU especially even terrifying- but they will have a home.This new place will be home, one day.)

fragrance: what do your OCs smell like?                              

Egeire Mahariel:

Canon/WAW: Leather and sweat typically, from being out on the road, often with some measure of blood. When they get to Vigil’s Keep and there’s room for fancy soaps and shit, he would probably be particular to pine or herbal scents or smth.

Royals: really it’s going to be like soap and scented oil rubbed into his hair or halla and sweat and there’s not a whole lot of in-between

Fugitives: When Denoreth first meets him, it is the light, almost undetectable scent of salt water and ocean breeze. This lingers through most of their encounters, at varying degrees of intensity, until they make their break for it– that day is just sweat and fear, ironically as they are surrounded by the real sea and eventually have their final confrontation with Cyrron. After that, Egeire never smells of the ocean again. He likes apple and water lily and honey scented soaps, and the smell of flowers often lingers on him when he leaves his room. He also specifically keeps unscented soap around for when they’re working.

Egeria Surana:

Scents don’t cling to her much. Soap and books if anything, in the Circle. Sweat on the road. Likes flowery soaps once she can get her hands on them. Still only lingers for so long, though.

Soveliss Liadon:

Pre-adventuring Sov mostly smelled like old, old books and incense. Adventuring Sov probably smells of pretty little considering he is extremely ready and willing to basically prestidigitate off layers of skin to keep himself fairly clean. Dusk of the New Morning Soveliss probably smelled like dust and food, while Here There Be Kerbolds Soveliss (aka current Sov which is absolutely getting a The Adventure Zone reference name bc of the Abraca-Fuck-You quote) probably smells like either linen or faintly of swamp (bc grumblegrumble it takes /so much prestidigitation/ to get swamp water out and he’s probably still going to have to wash so much shit after this is over).