#sprig swan

[trash-llama]

As per tradition, the Swans assemble. Clo is glowing with her baby bump and Sprig seems to have forgotten Owell. Oh well...

[talentforlying]

thinking about john's multitude of short-lived, often quickly-abandoned apartments for some reason, so a couple details:

although you might expect to find a very wizard-y interior to any place he's currently living at — you know, grimoires, skulls, dust, clutter, etc. — his flats actually tend to be fairly spartan in terms of decor; they've even been accused of looking modern, here and there. he just moves too frequently to really settle in & accrue Things, and has so often had to simply up & leave everything he currently owned behind (with very little chance of getting any of it back) that he no longer attaches much meaning to household objects.

besides the consistent presence of at least one bookshelf with at least 12 books on it, and a sad sprig of garden sage that miraculously hasn't died yet, the one exception to his lack of personal touch is his extensive collection of records + tapes, all of which he has repeatedly & methodically tracked down and bought / bid / traded / stolen / threatened for / blackmailed for / simply taken back whenever an enterprising landlord or new tenant left him the opportunity to do so. his record player itself has never needed to be taken back, since it has always mysteriously vanished from whatever flat he's leaving and mysteriously appeared wherever he's staying; it's convenient like that. his 10th anniversary walkman, however, frequently goes missing, only to turn up again later in a place he KNOWS he checked when he's least expecting it.

lack of home decor isn't to say he doesn't own much, mind: the bulk of his personal possessions — assorted occult paraphernalia, blackmail documentation, miscellaneous crap from his mucous membrane days, and anything he is able to take with him from past flats — are usually stored off-site, in a secure location that can't easily be tied back to him. this guy's been accused of being a satanic killer on multiple occasions, he knows better than to keep all the real shit out where anyone can just swan in and see it.

currently, this storage location (which i lovingly call occult shit central) is an abandoned inner london storefront + adjoining flat that was formerly his old friend ray monde's shop and home, called brick-a-brac antiques. it's decidedly cozier than the last place, (in that there are chairs, plural,) and has fewer bear traps laid out in anticipation of unlucky thieves; in fact, if a person were to visit without already knowing where constantine actually lives, it'd be easy to mistake it as his expectedly-wizardy flat. it's not an ideal location for an occult shit central, too close to the heart of the city and too close to people to avoid drumming up suspicion should constantine attempt any sort of ritual inside, but until chas finally quits ducking the paperwork and signs over his storage lot (which he may or may not be dragging his feet on out of pure resentment for having to do it at all) ray's place is the best option there is.

constantine's previous (and future) storage location was a lock-up in streatham that chas had been letting him use (see: all but surrendered to him entirely) since he got out of ravenscar, but after constantine's sister died, john decided he was done with magic and, in a spontaneous fit of rage, burnt the place down with everything but a few necessities still inside. he regretted this later, when he inevitably returned to the occult scene after just over a year away, and spent a lot of time calling in favors / hypnotizing arson inspectors to try and put together an inventory of everything he'd lost.

in the nearly 20 years since the fire, he's managed to replace or find substitutes for about 2/3 of what he had (occult-wise), and gather enough fresh dirt / do enough favors / orchestrate enough compromising situations to accumulate a little over 1/4 of the political / interpersonal power he once maintained. ( the lack of success in the latter being, in part, because people now in power aren't as familiar with his name & reputation as they once were; in part because people just don't believe in magic as much as they used to, or were otherwise bought by hell / heaven / other parties a LONG time ago; and in part because he's come to absolutely fucking despise most politicians / people in power more than he is willing to work with them, or more than he is able to plausibly believe they won't try to drop him at the first opportunity. )

you would be hard-pressed to find a landlady/landlord that speaks kindly of this man. if he wasn't kicked out for suspicious smells / disturbing noises / sudden infestations / suspected satanic activity, then it's likely that he abruptly up and disappeared in the middle of the night, with no warning and no rent. (on a few occasions, this vanishing act also coincided conspicuously with a gruesome death on the premises, sometimes of the landlady/landlord themselves, although no one's ever been able to prove anything.) frankly it's . . . magic, that people still rent to him.

due to these aforementioned bad ends, he's incredibly lucky if he gets enough time or leeway to take any sort of furniture with him from one place to the next. however, there is one incredibly comfy, wing-backed, sapphire-blue armchair that's miraculously managed to survive every move in the last ten or so years without being reported stolen — even though it has survived every move because it has, in fact, been stolen in the dead of night nearly every single time, by john and at least one of his buddies.

[disarmluna]

From Maison Margiela Insta

A pale grey thistle-washed boiled cashmere cardigan brushed to achieve a swan’s-down texture worn in a déshabillé gesture and draped over a corset made from an eighteenth century antique brocade fabric rewoven in jacquard silver threads and an ‘exfoliage’ skirt hand-wired in a ‘filigrading’ of silver metal formations of lace, flowers, leaves and sprigs interlinked with silver chain and floral motifs cut from mirror fragments, and bedecked with crystal pendants, pearls and clasped jewellery.   Created for Kim Kardashian by John Galliano for Maison Margiela, the haute couture silhouette was inspired by the symbiotic love affair between Elizabeth Taylor and her jewellery. Forged in the memory of gem-encrusted parures, guilloche-graved surfaces, cannetille and claw-set stones, brilliant-cuts and baguettes, and ornamented clasps and silver clips, it is imbued with the seductive spirit of the haute joaillerie of Place Vendôme in the golden age of haute couture. The look further reflects on the notion of ‘unconscious glamour’ (origin: Artisanal Collection Spring-Summer 2017), the evocation of iconography that resonates as glamorous in our collective awareness.   A new technique, ‘filigrading’ – a portmanteau of filigree and ‘retrograding’ – evolves, through hand-wired metalwork, the practice of ‘retrograding’ which denotes a dégradé of thread-work, appliqué or encrustation. Over a thousand hours in the making, the hand-embroidered form was crafted to refract the light in the manner of jewellery. The haute couture skirt advances the cutting technique of ‘exfoliage’ through which the top layer of a garment such as a dress is seductively déshabillé-draped over the front of a skirt, essentially exfoliating one garment to create a type of foliage within another.

[whimsicallyenchantedrose]

Christmas Reruns 2023 Day 9: Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas (2/3)

Merry Christmas if you celebrate it and happy holidays if you don’t!  One of the things I love about Christmas is watching reruns of all the old classic Christmas movies–Christmas is a big time for nostalgia.  A few years ago, I decided to incorporate that tradition into my fandom life and post my CS holiday reruns.  So here you go!  Enough holiday (mostly) fluff to get you to New Year’s Day. (With a new story posting on Christmas Day.)

Rating: G

Word Count: 2545

Other chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32

Notes: This story was originally written in 2014.

Walking in a Winter Wonderland

“Looks like your boyfriend learned about Christmas,” David said dryly as he pushed open the sheriff’s station door.           

Emma elbowed her way past her father to have a look and then barked out a laugh.  A veritable forest of mistletoe hung above her desk and chair.  David was right; it couldn’t be the work of anyone but her adorable idiot of a pirate.

“Although if he really wanted to get you to kiss him,” David continued, draping his winter coat over the back of his own chair, “he would have hung it inside one of the jail cells.  We left the station locked when we went on rounds, so I’m pretty sure this qualifies as breaking and entering.”

Emma grinned.  “Cut him some slack, Dad.  There are far, far worse things he could have done, don’t you think?”

“That depends,” David replied with a frown.

“Yeah?  On what?”

“Whether or not he makes use of the mistletoe when I’m around.”

Emma laughed again, still amazed at the happiness that was her life at the moment.  Seriously, who would have thought that Emma Swan, the unloved, unwanted orphan would one day have to deal with an overzealous pirate boyfriend and an overprotective father?

“I’ll make him behave,” Emma promised.  “At least while you’re around.”

David grimaced.  “You had to tack on that last part?”

“Yep,” Emma replied, taking a seat.  “Deal with it Dad; your little girl’s dating a pirate.  Bound to be some…um…misbehavior.  Probably on both our parts.”

David groaned.

Her dad put up a good show, but Emma knew that’s all it was—a show.  The bromance was strong with these two.  Emma didn’t know who was happier that her relationship with Killian was still going strong, her or her dad.

A month had passed since Gold’s sorcerer’s hat stunt, and they were all still reeling from it to various extents.  She’d had nightmares about it every night for a solid two weeks following the incident.  Nightmares where they didn’t make it in time.  Nightmares where she, her mom and Belle arrived at the clock tower a moment after Gold had finished crushing Killian’s heart into a fine powder.  She’d woken up shaking and bathed in sweat. 

If Gold had succeeded…she couldn’t even bring herself to finish the sentence.  The very thought scared her more than anything in her life had ever scared her.

It was in that moment when she was frozen in place, helpless to protect Killian, that she gave up the last bit of pretense.  She loved him; there was no denying it.  Just the sight of him was enough to make the butterflies start tap dancing in her stomach.

“What do you think of my first attempt at decorating for the season?” 

Speak of the devil. 

Killian strode in with the confidence (and looks) of a fashion model.  He leaned down, brushed a kiss against her cheek and then straightened with the grin she’d come to learn meant trouble.

“Not bad,” she said, “but you know people usually just hang one sprig of mistletoe, not a whole garden.”

He tsked, and frowned at her playfully.  “And where would be the fun in that?  I’d prefer to increase my chances of finding myself under it with a fetching lass rather than limit them.”

He pulled her to her feet and wrapped his arms around her.  “Speaking of which, it appears you and I are currently standing beneath a particularly hearty specimen.  Holiday traditions must be observed, darling.  Good form and all.”

She grinned and looped her arms around his neck.  “So what are you waiting for?”

His smile turned distinctly wicked.  “Not a thing in the world, love.”

A wildfire raged between them at the first touch of his lips to hers.  It was always like this between them; like someone had tossed a lit match on a mountain of dry kindling.  Emma tilted her head, instantly deepening the kiss, reveling in the feel of his hand in her hair anchoring her to him, his hook at her back urging her closer.

David cleared his throat.  Loudly.  Whatever adjectives could be used to describe her father, “subtle” was not one of them.  Emma pulled away with an apologetic look at her boyfriend, then turned to face her dad.  Killian reached down and laced his fingers with hers.

“You guys mind?” David asked with a hint of exasperation.  “This is a place of business after all.”

“Funny,” Killian said with a smirk, “you seemed to be singing an entirely different tune that night last week when I walked in to find you and your lovely wife similarly expressing your affection.”

David spluttered.  “That’s…that’s different!”

“Aye?  How so?”

“It’s different because…because…well, because it just is.”

Killian laughed with such good humor that soon even David joined in.  “Look,” her father finally said, “I’m glad you two are happy together, I really am, but could you keep the PDA to a minimum while I’m around?  Please?”

Killian sketched a bow.  “I shall endeavor to control myself, but confronted with your daughter’s ravishing beauty, I am, more often than not, unable to express my admiration any other way.”

Emma laughed and swatted him playfully.  “You are so full of it.”

“Aye,” he returned with a flirtatious wink, “but I noticed you failed to put up a protest at my ‘PDA’ a moment ago.”

“I’ll admit,” she returned, placing her free hand over his heart, a gesture she found herself making more and more frequently since his ordeal with Gold, “kissing you is kind of addicting.  So, what’s up?  We weren’t supposed to meet for lunch for another hour or so.”

“I’ve come to steal you away, love,” He said, giving her hand a squeeze.  “The snow has bathed the woods in a blanket of loveliness, and I wish to share it with my favorite lass.”

“I can’t just go take a stroll in the woods,” Emma said.  “For one thing, it’s cold.  For another, I’ve got work to do.  And did I mention, it’s cold?”

The look on his face was two parts puppy and one part wicked.  “If we don’t go, I’ll be forced to hang around and, no doubt, nauseate your father.  We wouldn’t want that, now would we?  Besides, I’m…more than capable of keeping you warm.”

“Ugh,” David said.  “Emma just go with him.  I’ll cover for you.”

“Well,” Emma said, grabbing her coat and hat, “if you both insist…”

“We do,” David and Killian said in unison.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Emma had to admit it was beautiful and peaceful out here. And with Killian’s arm draped around her, surprisingly warm as well.  On impulse, she reached up and pecked him on the cheek. 

“And what was that delightful gesture for, Swan?”

She shrugged.  “No reason.  Just…thank you.  You were right.  It’s nice to get away from the craziness of the town for a while.”

He smiled, making the crow’s feet stand at attention at the edges of his eyes.  “Darling, when are you going to finally realize that I’m always right?”

Emma rolled her eyes but couldn’t keep the grin from her face.  “Don’t hold your breath, pirate.”

“Thought as much,” Killian muttered under his breath.

Emma had never been a big fan of winter.  She hated the cold, and the snow drove her crazy—especially now that she was the sheriff and was called to every fender bender and slide-off in the whole damn town.  Killian, however, seemed to have an entirely different opinion on the matter.  His face was lit up with the wonder and awe of a child as he trudged through the ankle-deep snow and watched the flurries continue to drift down.

“You seem to be enjoying this weather,” she observed, reaching up to feather her fingers through his hair and dislodge the stubborn snowflakes that had evidently decided to take up residence there.

“Aye,” he said, looking down at her with a delighted grin.  “Always reminds me of a day I spent with Liam many, many years ago.”

Emma perked up at the mention of Killian’s brother.  “You never talk about him.  I always assumed the memories were too painful for you.”

Killian smiled tenderly.  “Aye, some memories are.  It seems no matter how many centuries go by, the sting of his passing will never truly fade.  I do, however, have many, many pleasant memories of him, and the day we spent in the snow is certainly one of those.”

“Would you tell me about it?”

“Of course,” he complied without hesitation.  “It was one of the last good memories I had of my family.  My mum died the following year, and my father was never the same after her passing.  At any rate, I was but a wee lad at the time, five, maybe six years old.  Liam was a good ten years my senior and I nearly worshiped him.  He’d just informed me that he would be leaving in less than a fortnight upon his first ship; I no longer recall her name.  He was to be a cabin boy and I’ve rarely seen a lad so excited.  I was, of course, devastated that my brother, my hero, would be leaving me in a matter of days.”

“I can only imagine,” Emma soothed.  Killian felt things so deeply; his entire heart and soul were invested when he loved.  Liam’s departure must have hit him hard.

“Aye,” he said with a grimace.  “Anyway, on the day in question, Liam woke me, excited about the newly fallen snow.  We two spent the entire day reveling in it—making snowmen and snow fortifications.  Engaging in a rather ruthless snowball fight.  It was a day I wouldn’t trade for all the rum in the Enchanted Forest.”

“It sounds great.”

“Aye, that it was.”

They lapsed into silence for a time.  Emma rested her head against his shoulder, and she felt him brush a kiss against the crown of her head.

“So how was your breakfast with Henry?” Emma asked.

“Informative,” Killian said, and Emma could hear the smile in his voice.  “The lad is a wealth of information.  He seems quite excited for this Christmas holiday.”

Emma sighed.  “Yeah.  Seems like it’s all he can talk about.”

Killian looked over at her.  “From your tone, I take it you don’t share his sentiments?”

“No.”  The word was definitive, emphatic.

“The lad told me as much,” Killian admitted.  “He was concerned that you seem unwilling to participate in this realm’s Christmas traditions.”

Emma grimaced.  “I was hoping it would be enough for him to get all the Christmas crap at Regina’s or my mom and dad’s.”

Killian stopped walking and turned her toward him.  “The lad didn’t come to me because he needs more Christmas; he came to me because he’s worried about you.”

Henry was worried about her?  Because of Christmas?  “He doesn’t need to be.  I’m fine.”

Killian looked at her skeptically.  “Swan, I’ve seen you ‘fine’.  I’ve seen you happy.  I’ve seen you content.  You are feeling none of those emotions.  This ‘Christmas’ is obviously a source of pain for you.  Please, tell me why that is.”

Emma sighed.  There really was no point trying to hide anything from this man.  “It’s just…I don’t know.  Christmas is all about family and happiness and being together and stuff.”

“And these are bad things?”  At some point, Killian brought his good hand up to cup her face, and he was gently caressing her cheek with his thumb. 

“No…”  Emma drew out the syllable.  “Not in general, but for an unwanted little girl in the group homes it was torture.  I mean, everywhere you turned you’d get assaulted with images of happy little families doing happy little family things.  Every time you turned on the TV you’d see commercials and movies and everything else where everyone was perfectly happy and enjoying each other’s company.  The songs talk about it being the happiest time of the year, or about how people love going home for the holidays or the love of family.  You know what it was for me?  It was a slap in the face.  It was yet another reminder that I’d never had that and probably never would.”

The compassion in Killian’s eyes nearly broke her.  He dropped his hand from her face and gathered her into his arms, holding her tight.  She clung to him, drinking in the love he offered her.

“Emma,” he whispered., “there are so many, many people who love you.  So many, many people who would do anything to make you happy.”

The tears rushed to her eyes.  “I know, and it means everything in the world to me.  It’s just—I don’t know.  Childhood memories die hard.  I don’t know if I can even do all the ‘happy family Christmas’ stuff.”

“But you said it yourself, love,” Killian reasoned, stroking her hair.  “Christmas isn’t about perfectly fulfilling the traditions you’re accustomed to.  It’s not about living up to the standards you believe the ‘perfect’ families attained.  It’s not about fulfilling a checklist of Christmas items.  It’s about being with the ones you love; showing them how much you care.”

Killian pulled away.  “Let us love you,” he said simply.  “Let us show you how much you mean to all of us.  Let us build our own traditions, our own memories.  Perhaps they won’t erase the pain of the past, but trust me love, the good memories, the beautiful moments—they shine as brightly as the star Leroy attempted to force me to place on the top of Granny’s tree—if you but let them.  They are like the sun that blots out the light of the stars.  Losing Liam to dreamshade—it was one of the darkest days of my life.  The pain of losing my brother, the man who was captain and brother and hero to me, was such that words cannot describe.  Even so, traumatic as that day was, it cannot hold a candle to the simple joy of that day spent playing in the snow. ”

“I wish I’d met Liam,” Emma said with a wistful smile.

“As do I love,” Killian said.  “He would have liked you—and would have thanked his lucky stars that I’d finally found myself a beautiful blonde savior to point me back to the man I wish to be.”

Emma stroked his face.  “He’d be proud of you, Killian.  You’re a good man; one of the best and most honorable I know.”

Killian turned his head and brushed a kiss against her palm.  “You can have no idea how sweet those words sound coming from your lips.  I have but one bit of advice for you, love: don’t run from the love of family and the joys of Christmas all around you.  Make new memories, good memories.  I can promise you; you won’t regret it.”

Emma reached up and brushed a soft kiss against his lips.  “Maybe you’re right.”

“Again with the skepticism, darling?  Didn’t we just establish I’m always right?”

Emma chuckled.  “Whatever.  I’m hungry.  Are you going to take me to lunch or not?”

Killian sketched a bow.  “My lady’s wish is my command.”

–Up next, Emma and Killian return to her apartment after the town’s Christmas Eve party.

NEXT CHAPTER->

[lavendaers]

a new starter call cause we’re entering spring and we’re heading into cherry blossom season in dc so get ready for my muses to talk about it. 

alhaitham     \    aware    \    (2/5) josh washington (purelybilateral) and sprig plantar (youllalwaysbemyporcelain) alina starkov    \    aware    \    (4/5) anna of arendelle (drvcxrys), kaz brekker (mvsicinthedvrk), sam giddings (svnlvght) and josh washington (purelybilateral) amberle elessedil    \    aware    \    (0/5)  anakin solo    \    unaware    \    (0/5)  bella swan    \    aware    \    (5/5) kate denali (papcrrings), jasper hale (wvsteria), rosalie hale (mastcrmiind), angel (mischiefxmuses) and victoria (mcrcki) belly conklin    \    unaware    \    (1/5) jeremiah fisher (lcxstsouls) bonanus    \    unaware    \    (0/5) clary fray    \    unaware    \    (1/5) max lightwood (youllalwaysbemyporcelain) crosshair    \    unaware    \    (1/5) hunter (mischiefxmuses) deena johnson     \    aware    \    (2/5) penelope park (wvsteria) and claire redfield (withinthem) edwina sharma     \    aware    \    (0/5) feng xiyun     \    unaware    \    (0/5) gale weathers     \    aware    \    (0/5) gina porter     \    aware    \    (0/5) gu mang     \    unaware    \    (4/5) marina nunier osuna (hiddenpxpercuts), jon snow (wvsteria), elliot alderson (purelybilateral) and drogon (youllalwaysbemyporcelain) hu tao     \    aware    \    (2/5) azula (wvsteria) and mai (infcinity) inuyasha     \    unaware    \    (0/5) jie li     \    aware    \    (0/5) jing qi/jing beiyuan     \    aware    \    (1/5) josh washington (purelybilateral) jude duarte     \    unaware    \    (3/5) five or bucky (wvsteria), sharon (drvcxrys) and chishiya (hiddenpxpercuts) kamisato ayaka     \    unaware    \    (4/5) morticia addams (hiddenpxpercuts), eleven (wvsteria), benjamin (purelybilateral), and wu si qi (youllalwaysbemyporcelain) kinn theerapanyakul     \    unaware    \    (2/5) elliot alderson (purelybilateral) and zoe rivas (nightwhispcrs) liu mingyan     \    aware    \    (0/5) lizzie saltzman     \    unaware    \    (1/5) niklaus mikaelson (lcxstsouls) lou le blanc    \    unaware    \    (0/5) matt taylor     \    unaware    \    (1/5) josh washington (purelybilateral) matthias helvar     \    unaware    \    (6/5) david kostyk (wvsteria), wylan van eck (grcycosmcs), jesper fahey (masqce), zoya nazyalensky (masqce), nina zenik (dcpravities) and inej ghafa (irresistiibles) mindy meeks-martin     \    aware    \    (4/5) amber freeman (softsliders19), noah foster (devilsmenu), billy loomis (mischiefxmuses) and kirby reed (mischiefxmuses) nancy thompson     \    aware    \    (4/5) tara carpenter (wvsteria), kirsty (withinthem), sam giddings (svnlvght) and jackie taylor (nightwhispcrs) ned stark    \    unaware    \    (4/5) sansa stark (papcrrings), lyanna stark (tragcdysewn), jorah mormont (mischiefxmuses) and rhaegar (rainbowmuses) nesta archeron     \    aware    \    (0/5) olivia harris     \    aware    \    (4/5) marcus flint (papcrrings), fred weasley (svnlvght), james potter (svnlvght) and rubeus hagrid (youllalwaysbemyporcelain) ouyang zizhen     \    unaware    \    (0/5) paige matthews    \    unaware    \    (4/5) parker halliwell (infcinity), piper halliwell (wvsteria), molly montgomery (youllalwaysbemyporcelain) and coop halliwell (i-trust-in-love) quan yizhen     \    aware    \    (0/5) rey skywalker     \    unaware    \    (0/5) rowan whitethorn     \    unaware    \    (4/5) godric (wvsteria), nikolai (svnlvght), dianna barry (hiddenpxpercuts) and bree (drvcxrys) sophie beckett     \    aware    \    (2/5) benjamin (purelybilateral) and neville longbottom (svnlvght) steve harrington     \    unaware    \    (0/5) tonia     \    aware    \    (0/5) xue meng     \    unaware    \    (2/5) mo ran (tragcdysewn), chu wanning (mvsicinthedvrk) xue yang     \    unaware    \    (1/5) jin guangyao (masqce) yue qingyuan     \    unaware    \    (0/5) yushi huang     \    aware    \    (3/5) ban yue (coreofgold), darren rivers (hiddenpxpercuts) and shi qingxuan (irresistiibles) zuko     \    aware    \    (9/5) toph beifong (irresistiibles), kiyi (tragcdysewn), a-qing (tragcdysewn), suki (mcrcki), ursa (infcinity), sokka (infcinity), katara (drvcxrys), azula (wvsteria) and ty lee (svnlvght)

[ellorypurebloodculture]

“I’ve secured you a duchy, Andromeda. Be grateful, child,” Druella stated when she swanned into Andromeda’s suite earlier solely to present the contract before leaving without awaiting a response.

It’s a betrothal contract between Andromeda and Humphrey Burke, Lord of the Ambitious and Most Ancient House of Burke, who’s easily three times her age. Lord Burke’s wife passed away a few years ago and Andromeda has no intention of being the dour witch’s replacement.

Andromeda will not allow that to be her future.

“This won’t stand,” Andromeda says as she calmly calculates the best way to render the betrothal contract invalid, even as her magic rages within her.

-- Quote from my story a sprig of greenery (in an exquisite garden of flowers).

[sheepwithspecs]

Playing to Win: Chapter 2

|| FFXIV || Rated M || (2 / 5)

Ao3 Link

The Final Days may be ravaging Thavnair, but the first ripples of despair’s swan song have yet to fully reach La Noscea. While others tremble in the wake of nightmares, life on the docks of Limsa Lominsa continue as normal. The same can be said for the eternal rivalry of the Sanguine Sirens and the Kraken’s Arms, as well as their obstinate captains. But as tensions rise alongside reports of monsters prowling the coastline, they will soon come to realize that the only thing more frightening than a Blasphemy is… a confession.

"Though she has her own place, Captain Rhoswen often dines at the Bismarck in secret." -Melkoko

If you wish to see something done right, you must endeavor to do it yourself.

As a child, Carvallain had often heard his father tout the age-old adage when dealing in trickier affairs of business. It was one of the few life lessons he’d taken to heart, and it had served him well in his thirty-odd years of life. At times, however, he was reminded of the lesson’s importance in the most inopportune ways, with minor grievances that might have easily been avoided had he taken matters into his own hands. These tribulations were often too petty to quarrel over, and yet they were also just aggravating enough that he could not let them go unnoticed.

A ruined meal, for example.

On those tedious days when he was forced to meet face-to-face with merchants from across the star, Carvallain often treated himself to a delicious—albeit pricey—private luncheon courtesy of the Bismarck. Although he considered himself something of a connoisseur, the dish he ordered was something more akin to comfort food. His cuisine of choice: Ishgardian beet soup, served fresh from the pot with a soft bread roll and a tall glass of wine. A hearty meal flavored by nostalgia, the rose-tinted reminder of bygone days.

Being a popular restaurant, the Bismarck was often booked for months in advance; in order to sidestep this waitlist, Carvallain usually made an effort to speak with Lyngsath personally. The Seventh Sage provided the Bismarck with a hefty discount on a variety of culinary imports, and Lyngsath was willing to pull strings and provide the occasional bribe in return. This time, however, their respective schedules had made it nigh impossible to meet before the appointed day. Desperate, he’d hastily scribbled down his chosen menu on a spare sheet of parchment before handing it off to one of the culinarians. 

Now, weeks later, he was reaping the unfortunate rewards of his split-second decision. The Bismarck culinarians had not, in fact, prepared him a piping hot bowl of Ishgardian beet soup. Instead, they had prepared him a piping hot bowl of Garlean beet soup.

“What does it matter?” Gerald had asked, upon hearing of the mix-up. “Beets are beets.”

“There is more than one variety of any given vegetable,” Carvallain had argued, angrily pushing away the offending soup. “Furthermore, it’s the principle of the matter. When a patron orders a meal from a prestigious restaurant, they are entitled to come away satisfied. I am not satisfied.”

“What do you plan to do about it, then?”

“For one thing, I will be marching over there to speak with Lyngsath on the sloppiness of his kitchen staff.” Gerald, used to his captain’s stringent demands, rolled his shoulders in a careless shrug.

“But are you not going to eat it?” Carvallain wrinkled his nose at the offending bowl, with its wine-dark puree and pale sprig of garnish. “Let me have it, then; I don’t care one way or another about the beets.”

That evening, Carvallain crossed the short breezeway between the Seventh Sage and the Bismarck. The sun hovered just above the horizon, coloring both sea and sky in vibrant shades of pink and orange. The air was lively with the clink of silverware and hum of conversation from the restaurant’s al fresco diners. Future patrons stood in a line that stretched along the upper walkways, waiting with growing impatience as they announced their reservations one by one to the attending hostess. 

He ignored the “No Entry” sign on the lower door, opening it to find the Bismarck’s crowded storage room. Crates were stacked here and there in the corners, their bulky wooden shapes broken only by the rounded curve of iron-rimmed barrels at odd intervals along the walls. Aging casks of wine stood ready along the far wall, stacked up higher than even a Roegadyn could safely reach. Ropes of onions and peppers were strung from the rafters alongside large linen sacks of flour and salt.

Near the entrance to the kitchens, a Miqo’te culinarian was busy tapping a barrel of ale. He approached with a polite smile, signaling with a wave of his hand.

“Excuse me, my good madam.” The culinarian looked up at him with wide eyes, her ears perking curiously before falling back to her skull. “Where might I find Lyngsath? I need to have a word with him.”

“Oh! He’s down cellar, but…” she trailed off uncertainly, eyes darting to the archway that housed the stone staircase. “I don’t think… that is, you probably shouldn’t—”

“Never mind,” he interrupted smoothly, with all the charm and grace he could muster. “Continue with your work, my dear. I shall go down myself and find him.”

“But sir—!”

Ignoring her continued protest, Carvallain descended the narrow staircase to find himself in the cellar. The vaulted stone chamber was full of perishables, shelves of aging cheeses and great vats of pickled vegetables, rows upon rows of jars containing jams and jellies, and several unmarked boxes piled high with ingredients used in the more tongue-tantalizing dishes served upstairs. His lips unconsciously pursed at the sight of katsuobushi, remembering how he’d once foolishly passed off an entire crate to the Sirens without knowing its true worth as a stock.

At the end of the long room was another door, this one covered in baize to muffle any sounds from inside. The door stood propped open with a barrel, allowing him a clear view into the cellar’s second chamber. This room appeared to be Lyngsath’s private galley, with all the tools needed for any culinary venture imaginable. A large stone oven had been built into the outer wall, as well as a stove like the ones used in the upstairs kitchen. Shelves of ingredients and solid wooden counterpanes lined either wall; beneath a free-hanging rack of pots and pans, a stone island stood sentinel in the center of the room.

He found Lyngsath in front of the stove, his broad face creased with intense focus as he stood over a bubbling stewpot. At his side, perched on a wobbling, three-legged stool… was Rhoswen. Carvallain did a double-take, barely able to recognize her without the trademark crimson garb and tricorne. Without them, she looked as unassuming as any other Limsan native in plainclothes.

Seven hells— Carvallain quickly retreated to the shadows, preferring to observe the scene without fear of discovery. What is she doing here? The galley was a far cry from a tavern kitchen, yet Rhoswen seemed perfectly at home on her little stool. And Lyngsath didn’t seem at all concerned to host a culinary rival in his workshop. In fact, the two seemed to make quite the cozy pair. Hmm….

A gentleman of high standing would not be caught dead listening to a private conversation. It was far beneath him to pry, but he simply could not leave the restaurant until he’d uncovered the reason behind this little rendezvous. By leaning just so against one of the shelves, he was able to see both parties while still remaining hidden from plain sight, one ear poised to catch any choice snippets of conversation.

Lyngsath gave the steaming contents of the pot one final stir before sampling it with a smaller spoon. He rolled the liquid experimentally around his mouth, tongue working in his cheek before his eyes lit up in an expression of pure joy.

“I don’t know how, but ye’ve done it again! This is damn near perfect!” He laughed, his booming timbre echoing in the vaulted ceilings. “Clever girl, using apples to sweeten the broth! I’d have never thought of it, meself.”

“Pshaw.” Rhoswen dipped her head, cheeks glowing with the compliment. “Ain’t nothin’ to it, really. I learned it meself from a long-eared Gridanian farmer when we took on that job for the Botanist’s Guild last summer.” She deftly pared another apple as she spoke, peeling the skin from a slice and popping into her mouth with a satisfying crunch. “I ain’t above takin’ advice from the professionals. I reckon if they grew the damn things, they oughta know how to eat ‘em too.”

“N’ it’s paid off, ain’t it?” Lyngsath chuckled. “Just last week I had two of my best culinarians going off their heads, tryin’ to figure out the secret ingredient in the Missing Member’s braised beef. It’s makin’ me wonder, now… could it possibly be?”

“Might be.” She winked. “Then again, might not. I gather me own herbs n’ spices rather than relying on the markets, so who’s t’say I ain’t got more than one secret ingredient?” 

Damn it all! Carvallain let out a low exhale, cursing his poor luck. This isn’t a chance encounter! It’s nothing more than a meeting of minds.

Clearly this was some sort of preplanned event; by the familiar way they spoke to one another, it might have even been a regular occurrence. While he firmly believed his opinions about the kitchen’s lack of quality service to be well founded, Lyngsath was in no position to hear them at present. Besides, he’d already endured countless merchants and their unending woes, with no consoling meal to bolster his mood. Any complaint on his part was not worth the trouble of fighting off that screeching she-devil. He turned to make a silent exit, swallowing back the bitter taste of lost gil.

“Y’know, lass, yer a true natural with flavors. I just don’t see why ye refuse to even think about striking a bargain with the Seventh Sage.” Carvallain froze, his head snapping towards the galley fast enough that the bones in his neck protested. “It’s a damn shame that pride o’ yers will keep ye from reaching yer true potential.”

“My pride?” Rhoswen scoffed. “Don’t make me laugh! Do ye honestly think that fop would bother cuttin’ me an honest deal? He’d have me head on a platter first.”

“Aww, ye don’t know that.”

Oh, yes she does! Carvallain sneered at the mental image of Rhoswen in the Seventh Sage, begging on bended knee for a single jar of Thavnairian ten-spice. He could humiliate her by parading her around as his personal servant, or force her to do menial tasks in the hopes of earning his favor, only to deny the request the moment his amusement finally waned. He almost wished she’d be foolish enough to try it, just to provide him with some much-needed entertainment.

“I mean, it’s a whole new era,” Lyngsath continued, oblivious of their observer and his cruel reverie. “Piracy ain’t what it used to be, after all, but ye found yer niches well enough. The Krakens have made a good name for themselves as tradesmen; I even heard that Carvallain brokered a deal with Ishgard, n’ I know good n’ well he used to avoid any mention o’ the place on principle.”

“N’ look at yerself!” he gushed, waving a mittened hand towards the stool. “Every night folks are lined up n’ down the balustrade, waitin’ to set foot in yer tavern. Not to mention this new seaborne guard-for-hire business on the side. Before long, ye’ll be up to yer neck in gil. So, why not let bygones be bygones? With yer talents and his spice, the Missing Member would be giving me and ol’ Baderon both a run for our coin!”

“Shut yer trap!” Rhoswen snapped, the blush spreading down her neck. She turned away from the open flames, fanning herself with the loose collar of her tunic. “Yer so full o’ it.”

“Full o— Why, I’m as serious as the plague!”

“Whatever. N’ anyroad,” she added, after a pensive moment, “the Missing Member was never meant to be fancy. We’re peasant folk makin’ food after our own ‘earts; that’s why everything on the menu is sourced from La Noscea, from the farm-grown ingredients down to the herbs we pick ourselves from the coastline. When ye eat, it ought to put ye in mind o’ yer ma’s food. If we started to use them fancy spices, n’ ingredients with names so long ye can’t begin to spell ‘em… it just wouldn’t be the same.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy it here.” Rhoswen picked up another apple, stripping the peel from its flesh with deft flicks of her wrist. “It’s peaceful-like, without everyone banging about n’ hollering at the top o’ their lungs. Ye can hear yer own thoughts, n’ I like that. I like helpin’ ye with all the newfangled recipe ideas ye always seem to have brewin’ away in yer head. N’ when them recipes get popular with yer customers, I ain’t never asked for recognition, on account of I don’t want any.”

“That’s true enough.”

“The fact is: I don’t come down here because I want to become a famous sooz-chef,” she declared, butchering the term in her usual manner. “I do it because I like to cook. But if Carval—if other people started to find out things like that, they’d start claiming that Captain Rhoswen’s gettin’ soft in her old age.” She scowled down at the newly cored apple, turning it over in her hand before slicing it neatly down the center. “All that to say: I wouldn’t be caught dead crawlin’ to that uppity whoreson, even if he were the last man on this star who could spare me an onze of salt.”

“Uppity, eh?” Lyngsath chuckled. “Now, now… ye weren’t saying such things when ye came ‘round askin’ for advice on chocolates not so long ago.”

“T-That—ugh!” Her face was turned so that Carvallain could not see it clearly from his current vantage point. Lyngsath could, however, and one look had him breaking into bellowing peals of laughter.

“Bwahaha! A face like that would turn milk sour—”

“That’s enough!” With a flash of steel, the paring knife was buried in a nearby cheese. Lyngsath jumped, eyes widening as he stared at her white-knuckled fist gripping the handle hard enough to hurt.

“Lass?” He ventured cautiously. Rhoswen’s expression took on a stricken appearance, releasing the handle as though burned.

“Oh… I didn’t mean t’—” She swallowed thickly, seeming to wilt on the spot. Before he could move she’d buried her face in her arms with a muffled sound not unlike a wounded animal. Carvallain all but clung to the shelf, equal parts curious and appalled as he studied the scene unfolding before him.

He’d seen Rhoswen angry before, blazing with fury. He’d seen her vengeful, willing to throw her own life away for one last bullet in a Garlean skull. But this was the first time he’d ever watched her lose control. A shock to the senses, but not in the way he would have imagined. It made her seem so… vulnerable.

The thought should have pleased him. It did not.

“Oh, lass….” Lyngsath seemed to feel the same, his gaze sympathetic as he reached out to gently pat her shoulder. “What’s wrong? Ye can tell ol’ Lyngsath. I won’t breathe a word of it to no one.”

“I hate him!” Her eyes were dry when she lifted her head, but each word drawn from her quivering lips sounded more like a sob. “He makes me ‘eart ache somethin’ fierce, n’ I hate him all the more for it!”

Her… heart? Carvallain averted his eyes, brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of the word. What did her heart have to do with anything?

“Don’t ye think it’s time to set him straight?” Lyngsath wiggled the knife free of the cheese, setting it aside. “With plain speak, not chocolates or challenges.”

“I don’t know… it just ain’t our way, I guess.” She flicked halfheartedly at the apple peelings, cheek pillowed on her fist. “Even if it was, we still gotta think about appearances n’ such. Krakens n’ Sirens, we’re still part o’ the tri… triad?” she guessed, making a face. “Y’know, the three powers. If somethin’ were to happen to either crew, the whole city-state would be thrown off-kilter. Pirates would be blasting one another off the Aftcastle left n’ right for the chance to replace us. Don’t ye think we’d have mopped the floor with those puffy-shirted man-boys ages ago, if that weren’t the case?” 

Rhoswen had a point. The rivalry between the Krakens and Sirens had been kept alive for years by the very idea that neither side could ever be allowed to overpower the other—the resulting imbalance would be far too great a blow to Limsa Lominsa’s shaky hierarchy. On land and sea, both crews set their behavior by a mutual understanding that today’s loss would become tomorrow’s gain, proverbial scales in eternal equilibrium.

“Anyroad,” she sniffed, rubbing her nose with the back of her palm, “Carvallain don’t seem like the kind what wants a truce. I’ve tried to play nice with him before, but nothing ever comes o’ it. Last ‘Eavensturn I even went outta my way to charm an extra cake from some no-name adventurer, n’ what does he do? When I go to give it to him, the blighter tosses the damn thing overboard! He went so far as to laugh in me face about it!”

“That’s not something I’d have expected from a man what calls himself a gentleman,” Lyngsath agreed hesitantly. “’Tis passing strange: the Carvallain I know would never turn down a Heavensturn cake.”

“Hmph. Probably thought I’d done som’mat to it. He ought to know better, though. Say I was fool enough to kill him. I wouldn’t bother with something as cowardly as poison. No, I’d just march right up to the Seventh Sage n’—” She mimicked cocking and firing a musket, aiming her finger at the far wall with a click of her tongue. “No need for underhanded tricks. I got me honor to think about.”  

“That’s so.” Lyngsath stirred the stewpot with a pensive air. “Clearly the way to this man’s heart is not through his stomach.”

“It ain’t that. It’s me.” She made a face that, in any other circumstance, might have given Carvallain cause to smile. “He won’t have nothin’ to do with me. I even went n’ invited him to that gaudy casino in the middle of the desert, n’ the bastard stood me up. Me n’ the girls still had our fun, o’ course, but… I thought after all we’ve been through, he might have at least humored me.”

But I was there! It was frustrating beyond measure to remain hidden, when he wanted nothing more than to charge into the galley and defend his honor. He seethed in silence, fingernails biting into the meat of his palms as he struggled in vain to pick apart her argument. Perhaps he had been rather hasty to dismiss her offer of a Heavensturn cake. But he had never failed to answer a challenge, written or otherwise! In this, surely, she had to be mistaken.

The letter had been very clear about when and where the duel was to take place. He had arrived accordingly, only to find the area empty of familiar faces. Then again, the noise and flashing lights of the casino had been admittedly taxing on his senses. And the crowd had milled thick around the designated meeting place. And she was so very small…. Was it possible that he had simply overlooked her? Even so, if you had but signed the note, I might have found reason to tarry overlong—

“Well,” Lyngsath remarked, sparing her a sidelong glance, “If ye ask me, I think he’s a bloody fool to ignore what’s right under his nose. A beautiful lady like yerself should have folk trippin’ over their own boots in their hurry to court ye. If he can’t see that, he must be blind.” 

 Court?! His jaw dropped, ears burning at the very mention of the word. Court!? What in the name of—since when was he—just who did they think—

“But ye see, the so-called gentleman likes his women refined.”

 “Pshaw!” He shook his head in clear disapproval. “He might say that, lass. He might even believe it. But Carvallain is a pirate at heart, no matter what fancy term he uses to describe it. N’ no pirate worth his salt would ever be truly happy settling down with one o’ them prim n’ proper types.”

“Them refined ladies are… well, they’re a bit like puff pastries. Beautiful to look at, n’ sweet as sugar on the surface. But if ye open ‘em up n’ take a look inside, ye’ll find that they’re full of air. They’ve nothing to satisfy yer hunger, n’ soon enough ye’ll be wishin’ ye had something a bit more filling.”

“A lass like yerself, on the other hand, is like a nice meat pie. Sure, some folk might turn up their noses at the offer of old-fashioned peasant fare. Ye might even look a little plain to some, seeing as how yer not all bedecked in spun sugar and fancy glaze. But we both know there’s nothing wrong with a simple homecooked meal. Underneath that crust is all manner o’ savory bits, just waiting for the right person to come along n’ appreciate it. Yer nourishing n’ hearty where it counts. Don’t forget that.”

“Seven bleedin’ hells! Is that yer way of cheering a girl up?” Rhoswen berated him sharply. “Calling her a meat pie?!” She crossed her arms, turning away with a huff. From his hiding place, Carvallain could see that her entire face had lit up in a deep blush. Even the tips of her ears were tinged red. “No wonder ye never landed yerself a missus!”

“Don’t be too harsh with me, lass. I was only trying to help.”

“Ah, well.” She shrugged. “Don’t go worrying about me. I ain’t never been the type to lose me head over a sweetheart, n’ I don’t intend to start now. Carvallain can stick a rod up his arse if he so pleases. There are more important things to worry about right now.” The corners of her mouth tightened. “Listen: I don’t want ye wandering the coasts for a while. If ye need something n’ ye can’t find it in the markets, come see me. Aye?”

“Is something wrong?”

“Dunno.” Rhoswen stood, reaching for her cloak. “I’ve just been hearing things, is all. Might be nothing. Might be something.”

“I’ll trust yer judgment on that. And I’ll be sure to pass the message along to the staff as well; don’t need ‘em getting any bright ideas.”

Carvallain did not wait to hear more, unwilling to risk being caught in a compromising position this late in the game. He needed time to think, his head awhirl with everything he’d seen and heard. He crept stealthily back the way he had come, thoughts tangling until he could not tell where one thread began and another ended.

Rhoswen and Lyngsath, their professional relationship that seemed to border friendship. How long have they known one another? How many dishes hold traces of her influence?

Rhoswen make an effort to be nice to him, of all people. Of course I would have no way of recognizing it, why would I ever presume she could be anything more than—

Rhoswen’s heart, broken, breaking. Why should I care? Why do I care?

Rhoswen. I’ve never seen this side of her before, so animated, so… so unguarded—

Rhoswen. In the lowlight, in that outfit, did she not seem almost—

Rhoswen. No pirate worth his salt would ever be truly happy settling—

“That’s enough!” he admonished himself, shaking his head as though the errant thoughts could tumble out of both ears. The fresh air outside the Bismarck helped to revive him somewhat, though his stomach seemed unsettled and his heart pounded a heavy rhythm against his breastbone. He no longer had any heart for the sunset or the lively dining atmosphere; he hurried across the breezeway, thinking only of the waiting comfort of his airing bed.

It was only when dusk gave way to nightfall that he dared to untangle the mess of his thoughts and lay them all out at once, examining each at his leisure until he was certain he could find a perfectly logical explanation for each. Once again, pragmatism had triumphed in the face of reckless emotion.

Of course, that was only if he didn’t account for bizarre dreams of Heavensturn cakes, laughing eyes, and a very strange sabotender.

[shinyasahalo]

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[derbykitchen]

Mastering the Perfect Table Setting: Tips from Restaurant Design Experts

Setting a perfect table is an art form that elevates any dining experience, whether it's a casual family dinner or a formal gathering. Restaurant design experts understand the transformative power of a beautifully arranged table, carefully selecting restaurant ware that sets the tone, creates a mood, and entices guests to savor their meal. Here's a guide to crafting the perfect table setting, drawing inspiration from those who do it best:

The Foundation: Linens and Tableware

1. **Tablecloth**: A crisp tablecloth creates a polished base. Choose a color and fabric that complement the occasion and the room's ambiance. White offers timeless elegance, while bolder colors or patterns add personality. Ensure the tablecloth fits your table properly, with an appropriate overhang.

2. **Napkins**: Opt for high-quality cloth napkins that feel luxurious to the touch. Coordinate them with your tablecloth for a cohesive look, or add a pop of contrast with a different color or pattern. Interesting folds can elevate your presentation (think swan, pocket fold, or a simple, elegant roll).

3. **Placemats**: When a tablecloth might be too formal, placemats define individual spaces and protect your table surface. Choose from a range of materials like woven textiles, leather, or natural fibers to match your style.

4. **Dinnerware**: Beautiful plates act as the centerpiece of your setting. Select a set that complements the overall theme. White porcelain provides versatility, while stoneware or patterned dishes inject personality. Layer with charger plates for added formality or a decorative element.

5. **Glassware**: Choose glasses appropriate for the beverages you'll be serving. A standard water glass is essential, with a dedicated wine glass if applicable. Coordinate the style of your glassware with your dinnerware to create a harmonious look.

Cutlery: Placement & Polish

1. **Placement**: The classic arrangement places the fork to the left of the plate and the knife to the right, with the blade facing inward. Additional silverware for different courses is positioned to the outside in the order of use. Place dessert utensils above the plate or bring them with the dessert course.

2. **Shine**: Meticulously polished silverware is a must. Remove any water spots or fingerprints for a sparkling finish that enhances the overall look of your table.

Centerpieces & Decorative Touches

1. **The Centerpiece**: Choose a centerpiece that complements your theme and the size of your table. Floral arrangements always add beauty (consider the height to avoid blocking conversation). Candles create a warm ambiance, or opt for interesting sculptures or bowls filled with seasonal elements.

2. **Finishing Touches**: Personalize each place setting with name cards, especially for formal occasions. Small favors or decorative sprigs of herbs add a special touch.

Tips from the Pros

1. **Balance**: Create visual balance with your centerpiece and place settings. Ensure items are spaced evenly and not too crowded.

2. **Theme**: Cohesive themes add charm. Rustic farmhouse? Elegant and minimalist? Carry your chosen aesthetic through your choice of linens, dishes, and decorative elements.

3. **Lighting**: Ambient lighting sets the mood. Overhead lights, dimmable options, and candles create a warm and inviting atmosphere for dining.

4. **Comfort**: Beautiful aesthetics are important, but don't overcrowd the table. Ensure guests have plenty of room to enjoy their meal comfortably.

Embrace the Art of Table Setting

Remember, there are no hard and fast rules in creating the perfect table setting. Experiment with colors, textures, and themes. Personalize it with elements that bring you joy. Most importantly, focus on creating a welcoming atmosphere where your guests feel special and eager to savor a delicious meal in beautiful surroundings.

[trash-llama]

Sprout is the officiant, Sprig is sim of honor and Kurt.... Well Kurt brought clay, but the Watcher remains zen 🙏

[kittykittyhunter]

[Circa July 2016] The Phoenix Pit The next time I visited the phoenix, I took as many dry twigs as my spindly arms could carry. There was a half-full matchbox in the right pocket of my coat. I’d thought about sneaking olive oil from the kitchen. In the end, I’d decided against it: I didn’t know if olive oil burned well and I knew that my father would notice that the bottle was missing. The phoenix was still siting on a nest of fire in the crater, the place I’d last seen her. She was as tall as me, but her claws were tucked under her body and her neck, long like a swan’s, was creased, so she appeared smaller than she would do in flight. She didn’t open her eyes as I approached. I fumbled my way towards her, trying not to slip on the icy slabs lining the crater’s crevices. I drew closer. Sprigs of heat rose from her feathers and licked at my skin. Up close, her ochre beak was polished and dangerously sharp. I hurriedly added the kindling to her nest. She opened her eyes. They were deep eyes, deep and dark. I stared at her for what may have been two minutes. She didn’t blink. I drew the matches from my pocket – The phoenix cawed. In one fluid motion, she spread her wings and shot at me: I dropped the matches and dove to the ground, shielding my head. Her great wings beat above me. I did not dare to look up and only moved once I heard her settle upon the nest. When my gaze met hers, she commanded, “Don’t ever insult me again.”

[swan2swan]

Everyone has different tastes.

[alfea]

one of the tattoo artists i want to go to is opening her books tomorrow and i know what i want but i don’t know where on my body i want it lmao

[whimsicallyenchantedrose]

Christmas Reruns 2023 Day 2: A Christmas Miracle (2/3)

Merry Christmas if you celebrate it and happy holidays if you don’t!  One of the things I love about Christmas is watching reruns of all the old classic Christmas movies–Christmas is a big time for nostalgia.  A few years ago, I decided to incorporate that tradition into my fandom life and post my CS holiday reruns.  So here you go!  Enough holiday (mostly) fluff to get you to New Year’s Day. (With a new story posting on Christmas Day.)

 Rating: G

Word Count: 1197

Other chapters: 1 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32

  ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Note:  This is chapter two of my 2013 story A Christmas Miracle.  It was written just before the end of the Neverland arc and it fits within my “A Wish Your Heart Makes” universe.  References to curses and Camelot refer to that verse!

Hook adjusted the collar of his leather coat and then stepped from the hallway into Granny’s dining room. The chamber had been utterly transformed. A huge pine tree decorated with brightly colored lights, tinsel and hundreds of ornaments took up an entire corner. Red and green streamers, sprigs of holly and huge paper snowflakes adorned the wall and ceiling. Several small tables had been pushed together to form one long table elaborately set for nine.

As he sauntered into the room, Hook looked over the gathered assembly. Baelfire stood with Belle and the Crocodile, talking and laughing. Belle gazed adoringly up at the Crocodile, and he raised a hand to tenderly stroke her face. Hook waited for the familiar burning hatred to steal over him at the sight of his erstwhile enemy, but it never came. For that matter, it hadn’t come in quite some time. When had he given up the last vestiges of his vengeance?

Hook looked past Snow and Charming, busy with last minute preparations, to Emma and her lad who stood talking and laughing near the booths. Suddenly he knew exactly when his hatred for the crocodile had vanished. It was the moment he had finally let go of Milah’s memory, the moment he had fallen deeply, passionately, irretrievably in love with Emma Swan.

The lass was beautiful this evening. She wore an ice-blue tea-length gown and a matching lacy bolero sweater. Her golden hair was swept up at the sides and fell in riotous curls down her back. Hook didn’t think he’d ever seen her in formal attire, and the effect nearly stole the breath from his lungs.

As though feeling his gaze, Emma looked up and caught his eye. She colored slightly at the look he gave her, and then dropped her eyes. Hook sighed and walked forward toward his lady and her lad. Would he ever succeed in scaling that well-fortified fortress that she had built around her heart?

“Hook!” Henry called joyfully when the pirate was a few feet away. “I didn’t know you were coming too!”

Hook grinned and tousled the boy’s hair. “Aye lad; that I am.”

“Cool!” Henry beamed at him. Hook had spent quite some time with the lad during their last adventure, and he found he genuinely enjoyed the boy’s company. It gratified him that Emma’s son seemed glad to see him as well.

The diner door opened, and Regina stepped in, brushed the snow from her dark hair, and shrugged out of her coat.

“Mom!” Henry called, walking over to the queen.

Hook looked back at Emma, and she looked suddenly shy.

“You’re stunning, love,” Hook said with a soft smile. Emma’s blush grew.

“But then again,” he continued, his grin turning wicked, “I’ve no doubt you would be stunning in whatever you wore…or didn’t wear.”

She rolled her eyes at that, but he noticed she couldn’t quite stop the grin that spread over her lips.

“Please,” she said, “You are so full of it, Hook.”

His grin was pure pirate. “Full of charm, charisma, astonishingly good looks?” he drawled. “Aye lass; that I am.”

She laughed and playfully shoved his shoulder. He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. He was making headway, he knew it. He was starting to see a slight crack in that wall of hers.

“Ok, everyone,” Snow called from the table where she had just placed a fragrant, steaming turkey, “dinner’s ready.”

“Shall we?” Hook asked, gesturing with his hook.

Emma nodded and Hook followed her to the table. She took a seat next to Henry, and Hook seated himself on her other side. The Charmings had procured a veritable Christmas feast complete with turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, steamed vegetables and cranberry sauce. Hook’s mouth watered at the delicious aromas. He suddenly remembered it had been hours since his last meal.

At the head of the table, Charming stood and tapped his wine glass with a knife.

“I would like to propose a toast,” he said, encompassing the whole group with his gaze. “It has been a rough year for all of us. We’ve dealt with difficulties, setbacks, danger, and heartbreak.”

Charming glanced at Regina, and the queen dropped her eyes. Hook felt a surge of pity for the woman. She had found Robin Hood, her true love, in the Enchanted Forest, and it looked like she would finally get her happy ending. Then they had found a way back to Storybrook…a way that couldn’t include Robin Hood and his little son. Hook knew all too well what it felt like to be separated from the one you love.

“But it has been a good year, as well,” Charming continued. “We’ve faced our challenges, and we’ve overcome them. We’ve succeeded in breaking not only one, but two curses, and we’ve succeeded in rescuing Henry from one of the most evil villains in any realm. Through it all, we’ve come to be a family. We’ve been able to put aside our grievances, our difficulties, even our hatred and work together toward some pretty difficult goals.”

Charming raised his glass higher and once more swept his gaze over the entire assembly. “So I ask you to raise your glasses. To family and friends and all those we love!”

Hook got to his feet with everyone else and raised his glass filled with ruby-red wine. Clinking his glass against Emma’s, he looked into her eyes. He held her gaze as he repeated “To family and friends and all those we love!”

Emma’s heart raced. She should look away, turn in the other direction, anything. But she simply couldn’t do it. His blue eyes were simply mesmerizing. That look on his face! What was she to do? There was no denying the attraction she felt toward him. After their kiss in Neverland, she couldn’t even pretend to herself that he meant nothing to her.

But he was a pirate! He flirted with anything in skirts. How could she possibly believe that he loved her and would fight for her? How could she let her guard down enough to give her heart to another man?

Besides, she was the savior, and, well, it seemed that meant she didn’t get her happy ending. She ensured everyone else had a chance at a happy ending, but it wasn’t in the cards for her. Hadn’t everything that had happened over the last few months proved that? As soon as one crisis ended another began.

“Uh, mom?” she heard Henry ask from her side.

The spell was broken; she was finally able to tear her gaze from Hook’s. Looking around, she saw that every single person at the table was seated but her and her pirate…and every single eye was on them. For the love of all that was holy, what was wrong with her? She dropped hastily to her seat and drained her glass of wine.

“You don’t happen to have an extra flask on you?” she asked Hook in a low voice.

“No, love,” he answered, laughter in his voice.

“Shame,” she said ruefully, “I have a feeling I’m going to need a whole lot of alcohol before this night is over.”

NEXT CHAPTER-->   

[korpikorppi]

"A world later, springs and autumns later, the events of my past life will eventually settle, leaving behind only traces."

曲尽陈情 Qujinchenqing

The texts and the quote above are from the lyrics of Qujinchenging, Wei Wuxian's character song on the CQL companion album, as translated and thoroughly dissected by the wonderful @hunxi-guilai here 🖤.

The song, like all the character songs, is fascinating, starting from the title's many possible interpretations. It is autobiographical, and in the chorus parts, Wei Wuxian reminisces about pines after Lan Wangji, referring to him as "Gusu's spring wind", "a startled swan" and "a single sprig of spring" (plum blossoms).

Hence, the inspiration.

[marvel-and-mischief]

A Very Merry Christmas

This is my Secret Santa fic for the lovely @hopeamarsu ! Merry Christmas and I hope you enjoy!

Pairing: Pero Tovar x F!Reader Summary: there's a mix up with the last available room, but you and Pero can learn to share, can't you? Warnings: only one bed trope! Food, meat, alcohol consumption, grumpy Pero but he cheers up when he gets drunk, fluffy at the end because it's Christmas Words: 2000

Fic Masterlist

Pero was used to traveling by foot. He quickly became accustomed to the squelch of mud that had poured through the holes in his old boots and the wisp of icy wind that whipped at the uncovered skin at his shoulder. The hunch of his back and the aches in his legs were familiar as he trudged through yet another unwelcoming village that wouldn’t take him in for the night. His last hope of a good nights rest was a town that he was pointed in the direction of, which he could see as he crested over the hill. The sun had set long ago but the town emanated its own light. A bright star amongst the blackened landscape, Pero was almost excited to see what was on offer. Lights meant people, which usually meant revelry which sometimes afforded to generosity.

Pero wasn’t one for celebrating tradition but he couldn’t help the small quirk of his lip at the sight of dancing and singing in the town square. Young women were being spun around to the rhythm of drums, flute players were skipping around one another whilst poets made up lyrics on the spot. However, Pero was more interested in the feast on display along the courtyard walls; platters of juicy fruits from around the world, vegetables cooked in a variety of ways, sauces thickened with chunks of bread, a whole boars head was the centerpiece on one side of the courtyard, a swan roasted in its feathers the centrepiece on the other side. There were barrels of wine and mead scattered everywhere, some thrown on the raging fire in the middle once they were empty.

Any other time of year Pero would have turned back the way he came from, the whole scene looking like something straight out of a Bible verse warning about what to expect at the gates of hell. Instead, Pero allowed himself to relax and enjoy the merriment. This would be a good place to spend the night. He just had to find somewhere to stay.

Usually, at times like these, the inns would be full but on asking a few of the more sober locals, Pero found that the Lord had opened up his manor to travelers this holiday season and Pero was hoping to be one of the lucky few to take him up on the offer.

On arrival the door was already open, welcoming everyone in to indulge in the Lord and Lady’s generosity. The fireplace was decorated with a wreath of mistletoe and sprigs of holly. The room was warm despite the lack of people and Pero wondered if he had arrived at the wrong manor.

“Have you come to rest, young man?” An elderly gentleman clad in a shroud of blue cloth descended the staircase towards Pero. On realizing he was being spoken to, Pero lowered his head in respect and cleared his throat.

“I am, Sir. I was told you may have rooms available. I can pay,” Pero shook the pouch of coins at his hip but the Lord waved off the offer.

“It is Christmas, there will be no such payment necessary,” the Lord smiled kindly and pointed to the stairs as he stepped off them, “we have one room left on the third floor at the end of the corridor. It’s at the back of the house, so no fire but there are plenty of blankets.”

Pero couldn’t believe his luck. He smiled gratefully and before he could remember his place he took the Lord’s hand and shook it, hoping to express in that one action how thankful he was to have a warm bed to sleep in this night.

-

You had traveled for the holidays this year, with nothing but your bag on your back you had eventually found yourself in a small town along the river you’d been following for the past two days. You had always had a lust for adventure, your parents had tried to steer you away from a life on the road but hadn’t been successful. You believed there was so much more to life than being forced to settle down and be someone’s wife until you died. So, going against everyone’s expectations, you saved up enough coin to leave the village you’d grown up in to pave your own way in life.

You found a room to stay in for a couple of nights, given by the kind Lady of the manor who plied you with handfuls of blankets and made you promise to let her know if she could do anything else for you. You shivered as you unloaded the blankets onto the bed in the corner, immediately taking out your journal from your bag. You would need to write home and let your mother know you were safe. But before you could do that a strange man was barging into your room, muttering under his breath about a ‘warm bed’ and ‘feasting for days’.

“Excuse me,” you announced your presence, jumping from the bed where he nearly collided with you. He jumped back in surprise, face twisting into wide-eyed confusion and then anger as he regarded you suspiciously.

“Who are you?” he demanded rather than asked, looking you up and down as if he could determine exactly who you were by the clothes you were wearing.

“Who are you?” you shot back, increasingly alarmed that he wasn’t leaving you in peace. He looked back towards the door he came through before grunting his disapproval at you.

“This is the room at the end of the corridor?” He phrased it as a question but there was no mistake, this was the only room at the back of the third floor, it was the one the Lady had directed you to.

“Yes. I was given this room by the Lady of the manor,” you kept your emotions in check, despite wanting to shrink under the man’s gaze. He had a fiery look in his eyes, no longer directed at you but at the predicament he had found himself in.

“The Lord told me it was free,” he muttered, hands flexing and un-flexing at his side. It reminded you of the nervous gesture your mother would make when she was working out a problem, except this problem had only one solution: it was your room first, and you weren’t going to give it up so easily.

“Well, I was here first, so…” you shrugged, breathing slowly through your nose as he shot you a thunderous glare.

“Clearly, idiota,” he pulled his bag higher up his shoulder and spun on his heels, leaving the room with nothing but a slam of the door behind him. You huffed out a breath of relief before collapsing on the bed. Hopefully, there would be no more surprises this night.

-

You couldn’t get him out of your mind. He was brisk and rude but you couldn’t help feeling bad for the man that simply wanted a room to rest his head for the night. It had you pacing across the bedroom, hands sore from where you’d absentmindedly scratched them in thought. You eventually paused in front of the large square window that overlooked the narrow path alongside the house where stragglers from the festivities in town were leaning heavily against tree trunks, uneasy on their feet after a day of drinking. That was when a particularly scruffy man caught your eye, sat atop an upturned bucket, a flagon of wine never far from his lips and a permanent scowl on his face.

You pried open the window with a small creak and offered a “psst” as though trying to catch the attention of an easily startled cat. He took another large swig from his drink but didn’t look up.

“Hey, you,” you whisper-shouted, suddenly aware that you didn’t know his name and trying not to catch the attention of anyone else. You side-eyed the drunks but they were unaware of your presence. It was on your fifth attempt that your stranger looked up at you with a murderous glare.

“You don’t give up, do you?”

You held back a gasp and swallowed your nerves. You were trying to be nice and you weren’t going to let him break your reserve.

“I’m sorry I took your room,” you began, and you think you saw his frown straighten but it was difficult to tell in the lack of sunlight.

“I am unbothered. I have spent many a night under the stars,” he grumbled. He stood, making to walk away before your urgent cry stopped him in his tracks.

“No, don’t leave. I feel bad and if you are willing, you can come up and sleep on the floor,” you closed your eyes as you spoke, not daring to see his reaction to your invitation. You heard nothing for a while, no answer but no footsteps running away either. You dared to peak through one eye to see him staring with a look of amusement. At least he isn’t angry, you thought.

“You are strange and possibly stupid…”

You raised an eyebrow, feeling your heart thudding faster in hope. “But you accept?”

He grunted something about inviting strangers into your room but you couldn’t quite hear, too busy watching on in confused shock as he took a run up to the house.

“What are you doing?” you leaned half your body through the window to see him pulling himself up by the vines that grew along the wall. As soon as he got within reaching distance you grabbed his hand and pulled him into the room, the two of you landing hard on the wooden floor.

You took a moment to catch your breaths. When you realized what he had done you poked him harshly in the ribs where he lay next to you.

“There are stairs you could have climbed,” you scolded.

“If anybody finds me in here with you there will be trouble,” he breathed, opening the flagon he’d secured to his hip and taking a messy swig. In that moment you realized what you’d done. Allowing an unruly, bad-mannered stranger into the room you were staying in. And you didn’t even know his name. You offered yours in the hopes he would tell you his.

“Pero,” he replied, offering you a drink which you accepted without hesitating. You would need it if you were going to get through this night.

It wasn’t long before the wine left you both loose-lipped and relaxed. You’d moved to the bed, sat cross legged and close to each other as you exchanged stories of your travels, of the troubles you had gotten yourselves in, of the close calls with authority that had you muffling your giggles into the blankets wrapped around you.

Pero surprisingly warmed up to you when he was full of drink. There was less scowling and muttering insults, and more of a twinkle in his eye. He offered stories that had you disbelieving, told tales of long lost friends, of family he wished to see again. You weren’t sure if any of it were true, or if he was simply finding solace in a harmless stranger. Whatever the case may be, you were entertained and felt the happiest you had been in your travels so far.

Before long you were growing tired, head becoming heavy from a long day on foot and an even longer evening drinking with Pero. He could see your eyes beginning to close and moved to leave you to the comfort of the bed. But the distance didn’t feel right and you refused to let go of the hold you had on his arm.

“Stay,” you demanded, voice slow and groggy. Pero wondered if you knew what you were saying, or if he interpreted your comment correctly, but he was too tired and lonely to deny you your request. He shifted on the bed until he was lying down and pulled you half on top of him, your head resting in the crook of his neck, his arm secured around your waist to keep you at his side.

The sun was peaking over the hill, welcoming in a new day when you both fell asleep to the distant sounds of festive revelry, and Pero’s last thought was that he hoped you wouldn’t be gone when he woke up.