#this passage is so good! so – perfectly painted

[mysticmoondancer]

Etharah Week 2023 - Day 4: Free Day

"Life After The Cure"

After the Lucifractor explosion and defeating Stern, Sarah and Ethan decided to give dating another shot. Almost a year later, a cure for vampirism was found and of course, Sarah took it. Now eight years later, their relationship together is still going strong, and they couldn't be anymore happier. Funny how the darkest time of one's life could also bring so much light into it, as well. She may not be immortal anymore, but her love for Ethan always will be, though. For their love knows no end. Whether it be in this life or the next.

[inkskinned]

the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

[wisteria-lodge]

What do you think JKR did best in Harry Potter, and what do you think she did worst?

I'll just do the first five good and first five bad that pop into my head.

GOOD

JKR writes about grief and fear extremely well. It's complex, nuanced, visceral, messy. When I pull out really good passages of her writing, that's almost always what they're about.

She has a good eye for friend group dynamics. Harry, Ron and Hermione work. The way they crack and splinter, the way that two of them will gang up on the third and then work it out, that's really well observed. Their banter works. Their arguments work.

She has an incredible knack for side characters. There are SO MANY of them, and most spend very little time on screen. But the details we get are memorable, interesting and well-chosen - not only do you remember who all these people are, it's perfectly reasonable that your favorite character is like, Tonks - even though we barely see her.

JKR never wastes a transition. These books have a *lot* of scene transitions, and they are used to drop characterization, clues, worldbuilding, or build suspense. You never get "Harry was late to class." You get "Harry was late to class because Peeves had vanished two-thirds of the stairs up to the astronomy tower." It's a good trick for making a world feel alive, and make a mystery feel satisfying. Also, JKR ends *chapters* really well.

She's good at naming things. Good place names, product names, character names. They're memorable, whimsical, build a really strong brand identity and no wonder themed entertainment based off this series does so well. It's hard to invent a word that means something to your audience, but she's good at it. Dementor, apparate, muggle, Slytherin, Gryffindor. There's a ton of specialized vocab in this universe, and that's how she gets away with it.

BAD

... she's good at naming so long as the thing she's naming exists in Western Europe. The second it doesn't, we run into problems *real* quick. No-Maj? Cho Chang? Ilvermorny and the four houses Wampus, Pukwudgie, Horned Serpent and Thunderbird?

JKR can't write romance. It's strange, because her grasp of family and group dynamics is so good, but she just can't write a romantic couple being romantic. She can write pining, she can write longing, she can write cringingly awkward couple, arguably she can even write exes - but she will bend over backwards so the two halves of a romantic couple never actually have to be in the same scene, interacting with each other. In HP this mostly shows up in the way the Harry/Ginny stuff (and the Ron/Hermione stuff...) falls flat, and Remus/Tonks comes out of absolutely nowhere. But the Cormoran Strike books and the Fantastic Beasts movies clearly *want* to be romances, and she just can't do it.

Being uber-femme/girly in the Harry Potter books is consistently a very negative trait. Pink, bows, ruffles, painted nails, styled hair, being interested in fashion, being interested in boys (versus boys being interested in you...) It hovers somewhere around being pathetic and being villainous. If you're girly, you can redeem yourself by becoming a mother (like Fleur) or you can reject girliness (like Hermione - who can look all pretty and femme for the Yule Ball, but "that's far too much bother to do everyday.")

There is often a disconnect between a character's actions and the way the way that character is framed by the text. Like, JKR obviously has a very clear idea in her head of who Severus Snape or Draco Malfoy or Molly Weasley is... and that idea does not 100% make it onto the page. Most characters are hit with this to some degree. Someone like Ron is the exception: I do think that the version of him on the page and the version of him in JKR's head are exactly the same.

There is a very *young* sort of moral simplicity in these books... kind of. The Ministry of Magic gets more nuanced and grey as the story goes on, Dumbledore and his plan gets more nuanced and grey... JKR clearly wants to make the thematic underpinnings of her story more complex and adult... but the Slytherins are all just the bad guys. That's not a stereotype, that's not 12 year old Harry with a simplified worldview, they're all just like that. They all run away from the final battle (and/or want to turn Harry over to Voldemort.) She goes out of her way to make Snape an honorary Gryffindor, when it would have been easier and better to just... say that this is a guy who used slytherin traits in a positive way? There is something very deep in her that just wants an infallible force to pick out the Good People, and then put the Good People in charge. that's literally the plot of fantastic beasts 3.

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

☠️ Something Dread, Something Red: Chapter Twenty-Four

Something Dread, Something Red: Stuck in a proposal to a Marine Commodore, you escape minutes before your wedding in one last ditch effort to avoid getting married to a tyrant. Barely making it to the port of your town, you stumble across a ship just starting to leave and beg for passage off the island. You fail to notice that the people you beg for help, are pirates.

Warnings: Angst.

To Note: “Red Haired” Shanks x FemReader

Word Count: ~2.5k

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The sight of the long table on the main deck, laden with food, brings a sense of warmth to your chest. The crew is already seated, some pouring drinks, others sharing stories from their day. Monster is currently juggling peaches, taking bites out of the ones he catches. Benn looks up and grins when he sees you.

“Ah, there they are! Just in time!” He raises his mug in a toast. "Couldn't start without the lady of the ship."

A twinge of pain flickers through your chest at the name, but you smile through it. You take a seat beside Shanks, who grabs a plate and starts piling it high with food for both of you. He hands you the plate with a wink, and you flash a smile.

“Dig in,” he says, his tone light. “You’ve earned it after dealing with those little terrors all day.”

You laugh softly, taking a bite of the savory stew. It’s delicious, as always. The crew’s cook has outdone himself again. You take another bite of the stew, savoring the flavors before glancing at Shanks. “They aren’t all terrors, you know,” you say, smiling. “Some of them are actually quite sweet.”

Shanks raises an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Is that so? You must have a soft spot for troublemakers then.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile doesn’t leave your face. “Maybe I do. Or maybe I just see the good in people. Or well, I try to.”

Benn chuckles from across the table, lighting another cigarette. “Well, you certainly have your work cut out for you with this lot.” He gestures around at the crew, who are currently engaged in various antics. Monster is now balancing on one leg while juggling the remaining peaches, much to the amusement of the others.

Shanks nudges you with his elbow, drawing your attention back to him in effort to lighten the dullness within your eyes. “So, what did those little terrors teach you today?” he asks, genuinely curious.

You lean back in your chair, thinking for a moment. “They taught me how to be patient and how to appreciate the small things. Like a perfectly executed cartwheel or a drawing that looks more like a blob but is supposed to be a cat. Also how to avoid flying paint…”

The pirates' laughter fills the deck, a rolling wave of amusement that makes your heart feel lighter. But only just. You take a deep breath, your lips curling into a genuine smile as you prepare to dive into the story.

“Flying paint? You have to explain that one!” Benn grins, leaning forward.

"Alright," you say, leaning forward, "so it all started when Taro found this big bucket of red paint. He decided that trees should be red because it’s his favorite color. He even managed to convince a few other kids to help him out."

Shanks watches you intently, his eyes twinkling with interest. His attention is unwavering, making you feel like you're the only person in the world.

"And Yumi?" Benn prompts, still chuckling.

"Yumi was having none of it," you continue. "She grabbed the green paint and started painting over Taro's red trees. But then Taro got upset and started painting over Yumi's green. Before we knew it, the other kids joined in and it turned into an all-out paint war."

"Paint war?" Monster says between bites of his peach. "That must have been quite a sight!"

You nod vigorously, your hands animated as you describe the chaos. "Oh, it was! Paint was flying everywhere! The kids were covered head to toe in red and green by the end of it. They even got some on me," you add with a laugh. "Luckily, it washes out."

Benn smirks, shaking his head in disbelief. "Sounds like you had your hands full."

"You have no idea," you say, your grin slowly fading. "I had to mediate a truce and then we all ended up cleaning each other off with buckets of water from the well. By the end of it, they were laughing and playing together again."

Shanks chuckles softly, his gaze never leaving your face. “You really have a way with people,” he says quietly.

Your cheeks flush at his words, but you shrug it off playfully. “Or maybe I’m just good at avoiding flying paint?”

The crew laughs again, and for a moment, everything feels perfect. The warmth of their jovial grins wraps around you like a comforting blanket, making you forget about all your worries.

“Next time,” Benn says with a grin, “we’ll have to get you some protective gear.”

Dinner winds down, the plates emptied and the laughter still echoing around the deck. You lean back in your chair, feeling slivers of contentment trying to break past the wall of numbness. Shanks quietly pours you another glass of wine, his fingers brushing yours briefly as he hands it over.

"Alright, lads!" Gab announces, clapping his hands together. "Time to liven things up!"

Limejuice grins, pulling a knife from his belt. "How about a little contest?"

You watch with curiosity as the men start clearing a space on the deck. Benn raises an eyebrow but doesn't intervene. Shanks leans back in his chair, a bemused expression on his face.

"Are they about to do something arguably stupid?" you ask, eyebrow raised and wine poised at your lips.

"Most likely," Shanks replies, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.

Gab and Limejuice exchange a mischievous glance. Without another word, they both stand up and start rummaging through their belts and pockets, pulling out various knives.

You watch, entirely unimpressed, as Gab and Limejuice square off, each holding a knife in their non-dominant hand. The other pirates clear the table from the deck to make room for the spectacle.

"If you nick each other I am not stitching you up," You call out in a dry tone. Hongo leaning against the door to the cabin, pipes up in agreement.

"I second that, you cut yourself you take care of it yourself. "

Gab and Limejuice exchange a series of challenging glances, their smirks widening as they each grab an apple from the fruit bowl. They hold the apples up, examining them with exaggerated seriousness, before plopping them onto their heads.

“Alright, Limejuice,” Gab declares, his voice full of bravado. “Let's see if you can hit the mark.”

Limejuice chuckles and steps back, positioning himself a few feet away from Gab. He adjusts his stance, squinting one eye as if he’s sizing up a target.

You watch them with a raised eyebrow, sipping your wine and feeling utterly unimpressed by their antics. The rich taste of the wine does little to lift your mood as you observe their reckless display.

“You know,” Benn comments from beside you, taking a long drag from his cigarette, “this could end very badly.”

“Or hilariously,” Shanks adds with a chuckle, leaning back in his chair.

You roll your eyes and take another sip of your wine. "Either way," you mutter under your breath.

Limejuice raises his knife, aiming it with exaggerated precision. He shifts his weight to his back foot, the knife poised in his non-dominant hand. The crew falls silent, watching intently.

With a flick of his wrist, Limejuice sends the knife sailing through the air. It spins end over end before embedding itself in the wooden deck a good foot away from Gab's feet. The crew erupts in laughter.

“Not even close!” Monster howls, slapping his knee.

Gab grins smugly, adjusting the apple on his head. “My turn.”

He steps back to switch places with Limejuice. Gab picks up a knife, testing its weight in his left hand before raising it to eye level. He takes a deep breath and then lets the knife fly.

This time, the knife lands much closer—just inches away from Limejuice’s foot. Limejuice looks down at the knife and then back up at Gab with mock surprise.

“Not bad for an old man,” he teases.

Gab shrugs nonchalantly. “Just warming up.”

You sip your wine again, feeling increasingly detached from their games. The banter and laughter that usually make you feel included now seem like distant echoes. As Gab lines up another throw, you can’t help but wonder if this is what your life will be—watching pirates play dangerous games while you sip wine and try to forget about your worries.

You stand by the washbasin, your hands submerged in soapy water, scrubbing at the remnants of dinner. The chatter and laughter from earlier still linger in the air, but it feels like a distant memory. The repetitive motion of cleaning the dishes provides a small sense of calm, a temporary distraction from the whirlwind of thoughts racing through your mind.

Lucky Roux approaches with his usual jovial smile, a rack of meat still clutched in one hand. He’s always eating, always grinning, a constant source of amusement among the crew. A bottomless pit. He leans against the counter next to you, taking a bite of his meat and chewing thoughtfully before speaking.

“You alright there, Aria?” he asks casually, but there’s a note of genuine concern in his voice. “You’ve been awfully quiet tonight.”

You force a smile, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on a plate. “I’m fine, Lucky. Just tired, I guess.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “You know, I’ve been around long enough to recognize when someone’s got something on their mind.” He takes another bite, chewing slowly as if giving you time to respond. "You've been tired for a couple a months now."

You rinse off the plate and set it aside to dry. “Really, Lucky. I’m okay.”

Lucky Roux doesn’t press further immediately. Instead, he leans back against the counter and looks at the door to the galley.

“Life on a pirate ship isn’t easy,” he says after a moment. “Especially not for someone who wasn’t born into it.” His eyes flicker back to you. “But you’ve done pretty well for yourself.”

You nod slightly, focusing on cleaning another dish. The soap bubbles swirl around your fingers as you scrub at another plate with perhaps more force than necessary.

Lucky takes another bite and watches you for a moment longer before continuing. “Sometimes talking about what’s bothering you can help,” he suggests gently.

You sigh softly and rinse off the last dish in the basin before placing it on the drying rack. “Thanks for the concern, Lucky,” you say finally. “But really, I’m just more tired than usual. I’ve been busy.”

Lucky Roux doesn’t push further; instead, he gives you one of his warm smiles and pats your shoulder gently with his free hand. “Alright then,” he says cheerfully. “Just remember we’re here if you need anything.”

You nod again, offering him a small smile in return as he saunters away to join the others on deck. The weight on your shoulders still feels like you are Atlas trying to hold the universe up. You finish drying your hands and take one last look at the clean dishes before heading towards Shanks quarters for some much-needed rest.

You step into Shanks' quarters, the door closing softly behind you. The familiar scent of lavender soap greets you, mixed with the faint trace of Shanks’ cologne. The room is dimly lit by a small lantern on the desk, casting a warm glow across the space. You make your way to the wardrobe and pull out your nightgown, the soft fabric a comfort against your skin.

As you slip out of your clothes and into the nightgown, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the small mirror on the wall. Your hair has grown several inches past your shoulders, the lavender strands falling in loose waves. You pick up the brush from the bedside table and begin to work through the tangles, each stroke smoothing out the knots and tension of the day.

The repetitive motion is soothing, a ritual that allows your mind to wander. You gaze at your reflection, turning your head slightly to see how much length you’ve gained. A small frown creases your forehead as you consider cutting it again. Short hair was always easier to manage, especially on a ship where practicality often trumps vanity.

You pause mid-stroke, letting the brush rest in your lap. The idea of cutting your hair feels symbolic somehow—another way to shed the remnants of your old life. But then again, you've come to like the way it frames your face now, how it moves with you in the wind as you stand on deck.

Sighing softly, you continue brushing until every strand is smooth and free of tangles. You set the brush down and run your fingers through your hair one last time, feeling its softness against your skin. The decision can wait for another day.

With a final glance in the mirror, you blow out the lantern and make your way to bed. As you slide under the covers, you can’t help but think about Shanks' words from earlier. His concern for you is evident, but so is his reluctance to hold you back from exploring the world beyond his ship.

So you lie in bed, staring up at the wooden beams of the ceiling, your mind a whirlpool of thoughts that refuse to settle. The gentle rocking of the ship, usually so soothing, feels more like a reminder of the uncertainties that lay ahead. Every creak and groan of the vessel seems amplified in the silence of the night.

You shift onto your side, clutching the blanket closer to your chest. The fabric is soft and warm, but it does little to ease the restlessness inside you. You close your eyes, trying to will yourself into sleep, but every time you do, your thoughts race back to Shanks—his touch, his words, his unwavering gaze that always seems to see right through you.

The door to the cabin opens quietly, and you hear Shanks' footsteps as he enters. You don't need to roll over; you can feel his presence filling the room. He moves with a practiced grace despite his missing arm, and you can hear the soft rustle of fabric as he changes out of his clothes.

You hear Shanks approach the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. He slides in beside you, his warmth immediately comforting. Without a word, he wraps his arm around you and pulls you close against his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your back is soothing, and you find yourself relaxing into him despite the whirlwind of thoughts still racing through your mind.

He presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head, and the simple act makes your heart quicken. For a moment, everything feels alright—his arm around you, the warmth of his body against yours, the gentle sway of the ship beneath you. Yet tears still prickle your eyelashes as you struggle with your emotions and unknown future.

Date Published: 7/5/24

Last Edit: 7/29/24

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[roxannepolice]

Out of all the literary quotes that can be thrown at the Master and thoschei, this one from A hero of our time always struck me as a particularly accurate. Like, when the Master rushes over to keep the Doctor from falling in EoT, this is what popped up in my brain. Why?

Well, A hero of our time is up there with Shamela as earliest cases of recuntruction of a genre. Except where Shamela deconstructs stories that are generally regarded as sham - the mindbogglingly noble innocent girl "fixing" a guy, with none of the introspection to be found in Bronte sisters' works - A hero of our time deals with a more regarded - and objectively artisticly more meritorious - genre of byronic heroes. The main character, Grigory Pechorin, ticks all the boxes of a byronic hero - handsome, young, tragic, romantic, what have you - except unlike his predecessors like Byron's Giaour or Pushkin's Eugene Onegin (that Pechorin is a direct parody of, with both having river-based surnames)... he's aware he's a bastard. Like, there's always a part of him that can look at himself from outside and recognize that he's ruining himself and others, and that there are very easy ways to stop this. If you provided a critical analysis and called him a spoiled rich white boy who needs therapy, he'd be the first to agree. He's an homme fatal in the way of quality noir femmes fatales, who - again, in actually good noir films - strike the audience as much, much more than just sexy objects that can't control their sexuality and selfish impulses.

Which is why the above passage strikes the reader so hard. Yes, it's all written in a memoir convention, but we're still not at the point of deconstructing the peotic frames, what is written is to be taken at face value. And what we find is a flood of emotion, of deeply honest love and desperation that's hard to be brushed aside as a pose. And yet it's the pov character/main character that does so. He even goes for biologization of his state, dismissing it as possibly litte more than exhaustion. He recognizes spleen for a endocrinological imbalance that the name suggests.

The book is perfectly, openly unpreachy. There's no moral here to derive about how to live. It just presents the reader with a character that we are deeply confused about: he's clearly capable of deep, beautiful, noble emotions, yet chooses not to act on them, the moment a single physical obstacle (such horse dying from exhaustion) cuts the stream of consciousness. There's something no longer unsentimental as much as anti-sentimental about it. "People are, by nature, good, and if they just followed their natural empathy and feelings"- no, nothing good would come out of it, at least there's no guarantee.

And yet there's an honesty to it. An honesty that's specifically lacking in usual romantic heroes. There's an awareness that this level of dramaticness in life has to involve an element of cynically orchestrating it. And it's not the case of preachy "and therefore we should dismiss all delusions of such emotional rushes as fake", because there is no fakeness. It's the case of even manipulation being stragnely honest about itself, moreseo than truth could ever be. It appears to be saying "the only way to resolve the mystery of Mona Lisa's smile is to scratch all the paint off the beechwood, do you really think you'll find something truer underneath?". In a way, yes, wood was there beofre da Vinci, but I don't really think that's the reality we're looking for.

That's why when either fandom or the source material goes for getting to the Master "undearneath all performance" it strikes me as empty. No, it's not the Doctor knowing the truth of the Master, it's the case of the Master exposing truths about the Doctor.

Like Pechorin of byronic heroes.

[thewatercolours]

King's Quest Fic: "Residue" (Path of Kingship, Pt 3)

Previous chapters here.

Graham woke in the night with a withering thirst in his throat. His aching body begged him to lie still, but demanded water at the same time. He stumbled out of bed, feeling odd in the mayor’s scratchy nightshirt, which was perhaps three times too large for him. His foot brushed the slippers that had been left for him on the rug. No, he could tiptoe more softly barefoot. He suspected he would die on the spot if he had to face anyone before he was out of this house. He turned about vaguely in the dark. Which way was the door, again? And what time was it? He ran a hand through his hair. It was still wet from a fierce but only half successful wash. Better, but still full of paint. 

His fingers found the curly door handle, and crept into the hall.He congratulated himself on the lightness of his tread, considering the way every muscle was making itself known in the worst way. He stole down the staircase, using the same instincts he used to avoid the creaky spots in the lairs of bandits or monsters.

Surely the kitchen would be that way. It felt like ages since he’d slept in an ordinary house. Large and well-appointed as the mayor’s home was, it was no castle. 

He rounded a corner, and paused. Lamplight played under the parlour door, and hushed voices carried to his ears. Maybe it wasn’t as late as he had assumed. He drew nearer, telling himself he only intended to pass by.  The voice doing most of the talking sounded like Hector. Yammering on as usual, Graham thought dryly. 

But just as he was about to turn into the next passage, he heard the second voice more clearly, tired and nasal. “It doesn’t matter. Once the pass is open, we’ll get him straight back to the castle, and I expect the king will delay the rest of the village visits till he’s recovered from his fall.” It was Number One.

Graham did not like to think of himself as an eavesdropper. But he had always been one, and there seemed little point turning over a new leaf here and now. He did not exactly put his ear to the door, but he did put his back up against the wall, and held still. 

“Very wise,” said Hector. “Better cancel the next half a years’ worth of public appearances at least, if you ask me. Give it all a chance to blow over.” 

Number One did not respond.

The mayor coughed. “I was meaning to ask. Exactly how old is the king?”

Graham’s cheeks and ears burned. He swallowed hard.

“Twenty-one,” said Number One distractedly.

“Really?” said Hector, and Graham winced at the surprise in his tone. “Dear me. He’s altogether a bit young for twenty-one, isn’t he?”

“Hm.”

“Oh, don’t take me wrong,” Hector put in comfortably. “He’ll be all right in the long run, with a good dose of firmness. Youth, high spirits, perfectly natural. But the boy needs to be taken in hand. Immediately, I should think.”

It was Hector doing all the talking, but all Graham could imagine was Number One on the other side of the door, not even needing to speak or even nod. Agreeing loudly just by silence. 

Graham seemed to hear Hector’s words slowly somehow, as though they caught in his ears and stayed there. “You know the sort of thing I mean. Squash his pride a bit. Rein him in, knock a bit of adult sense into him. Before he does something he can’t undo. He’ll thank us all a few years down the road.”

He couldn’t stomach more. Afterward, he didn’t remember choosing to leave. Only that he climbed the stairs in even more perfect silence. That he was shaky as he turned the key in the lock of his bedroom door, burning with shame and nearly choking as though something were stuck in his throat. He sat down on the floor in the dark and smacked his forehead with both palms, over and over. If he could have torn himself in half with his bare hands, he would have.

Why was this so much worse?

How long he sat there, raging in silence, he did not know. At last exhaustion forced him back to bed. He lay on top of the covers, since the night was as hot and humid as the awful day had been. He traced circles round his eyes with his fingertips, and worked to slow his breathing. The weight of the new reality seemed to press him deeper into the mattress: as king, he wasn’t even allowed the right to his own mistakes. Always someone else would carry the consequences and have to solve it all. And they’d be within their rights to hate him for it. 

Sleep never came back for him. Calm did, eventually. He lay still until first light. Then he got up, pulled on the slippers, and faced the mirror on top of the bureau. He looked wan and tired, but he unclenched his jaw and plastered on his ordinary face. “You can’t be bitter about any of it,” he told himself sternly. “You just can’t. If you start collecting moments like last night, you won’t stop.”

He was still dreadfully thirsty.

—

“He’ll thank us all a few years down the road.”

More asleep than awake, Number One suddenly realized that the mayor was still talking to him. He tore his gaze from the popping of the foam head on his beer, and nodded at Hector. “Hm? What’s that you say?”

Hector took a long pull on his own drink, and settled back in his easy chair expansively. He smiled tipsily and wagged a smug finger. “That you’ve got to take the lad in hand at once, for all our sakes. Show him just where he stands.”

Number One stiffened. He set his beer down on the bookshelf, and fixed Hector with a level gaze.”You’re saying I should assert authority over him. Over the king of the land.”

Hector stifled a yawn and waved his hand abstractly. “I’m only saying he needs a little growing up. Nobody’s in a better position than you to make a proper man out of -”

“The Twelfth Edict of Daventry,” said Number One coolly, his stare unwavering. “The Treachery Act. In the case of usurpation of the ruler’s right of authority by action, compass, plan, or suggestion, treason is understood to -”

“Oh, bah!” Hector put aside his tankard as well. His smile stretched wider. But he tugged nervously at the cuffs of his housecoat.“Who’s talking treason?”

“You are.”

He faltered under the captain’s unrelenting gaze, casting his eyes down at the empty hearth. “As if I were talking about taking away his authority! You know I didn’t mean it in that sense.”

“No, I don’t.” Number One let the silence sit for a good long stretch, keeping his body language under control only by falling back on long years of training. When he spoke again, his voice was monotone. “And that’s the end of this conversation, I think.”

His eyes widened indignantly. “Upon my life,” he muttered. “Apparently nobody can say anything anymore.” Hector rose to his feet and took the drink in one hand and the lighted candle in the other.Number One stepped into his path, drew himself to full height, and raised his voice ever so slightly, feeling as though he would burst if he did not. 

“Stars above, man, who do you think you are? Who do you think I am?”

Hector’s tone grew more defensive. “We’re officials. And I thought we could talk, as one official to another, about the very obvious -”

“Who do you think he is?” Number One cried sharply, gesturing in the direction he knew the staircase to stand.

Hector glanced about nervously. “Shh!” he said. “The household - the king -”

“Yes. The king,” said Number One more quietly but no less severely. “That man is your king. And a fine showing you made as his official today. You drag him out here to boast about the way you’ve been wasting royal funds on that ridiculous contraption you call a tollbooth. You make him pay to cross his own border -”

“It was a demonstration! That’s what you do at a state visit!” Hector sputtered, drawing himself up too, as though he had any hope of matching Number One’s height.

“Yes, a demonstration where nothing happens and nobody gets hurt when he pays you.”

Hector had the decency to blanch a little, and opened his mouth, but Number One was hardly finished.

“You force him to go up a slick, dangerous cliff. You let him fall right over the edge. Your idiotic “security features” nearly kill him a dozen times. Your paint machine makes him look like a fool in front of the people. You trap him here with no change of clothes, no servants, and a host who likes a little treason with his nightcap. Who exactly needs reining in?”

“But you and I both know the reality - that if the king hadn’t…” Hector trailed off, then muttered sulkily, “I don’t think he’d be best pleased to hear the way you’re bullying me, Captain. You know how much he needs Mannerly Stove and the road out.”

Number One let his voice drop low. “For your sake, that had better not have been a threat. But even if it were,” he barreled on, ignoring Hector’s attempted interruption, “I can assure you that if Mannerly Stove turned against us, we could we deal with you so quickly it would shock you. But more to the point. You know our king is the dragon-blinder. He is more than capable of tearing down a mountain to give us a new way in and out. Good night, Lord Mayor.”

He swept out of the room, leaving Hector opening and shutting his wide mouth.

—

Graham stayed in his room and took all his meals there the following day. The guards left him to himself for the most part, except for Number Four, who reported regularly on the road crew’s progress. The crew worked tirelessly while the sun shone to clear a narrow stretch of road on the Daventry side, broad enough for the royal carriage. 

When nightfall arrived, Number Two knocked carefully on the king’s door.

Graham opened it slowly. “Yes?”

Number Two looked him up and down. They’d provided him with some young villager’s green linen shirt, with a black vest and simple trousers. His hair was still flecked with telltale colours, but he was smiling. A little too determinedly. He had prepared himself to speak with Graham whatever state he might be in - crushed, or haughty, or guarded. But he didn’t seem to be any of those. His face was open, his eyes frank. He smiled pleasantly when Number Two announced that the foreman had pronounced the way safe for the carriage to make the descent into the valley, and even cracked a pun or two about “rubble” and “trouble.” In fact, he seemed like his ordinary self, but almost studiedly so. As though he were testing every word and motion to see if they felt like him before he committed.

“I’m really sorry about all this,” Graham murmured, letting his gaze brush the carpet. “I was pretty stupid yesterday, and you guys had to do all the cleanup.”

“Eh, it wasn’t exactly our brightest day either,” said Number Two with a smile. But he couldn’t help adding, “You, um… you all right?”

“Oh. Yeah!” laughed Graham hurriedly. “I mean, I’m about five hundred bruises at once, but at least we got some rain overnight, right? Temperature was way better today. No, seriously, I really dropped the ball, but I’m good. I’m good. I’m good.”

They didn’t overcrowd the carriage tonight. Numbers Four and Five were to stay in Mannerly Stove to oversee the rest of the landslide recovery. Number Three took the reins this time, while Number Two climbed in next to Graham. Finally, Number One, who had hardly spoken a word all day, took his seat across from the king. Above, Number Three called, “Walk on,” to the snutes, and gave a tap of the reigns. Off they drove into the night.

“Do you wish to go straight to the castle, sire?” asked Number One, clipped and brief.

“Unless we have somewhere else to be?” Graham said, in such an ordinary voice it wasn’t ordinary at all.

“That’s as your majesty judges.”

“Oh. Then let’s go to the castle.”

“Just so, sire.”

Silence fell.

Number Two looked back and forth between the two of them, and back again. “Oh blimey,” he sighed, facepalming.

[brb-on-a-quest]

BIRBBBB

For the ask thing!! (Sorry there’s so many lol)

ballpoint pen: tell me about the day you’ve just had

highlighter: what are your best qualities?

felt-tip: describe your aesthetic

sketching pad: describe yourself from a stranger’s point of view

(so sorry for the delay in answering needed brainpower and laptops)

✒️ It started off as a really dead day at work at 5am (always strange fo a Saturday, of all days) and then got really really busy. I have only burned myself twice and only sipped and fell on my face once (I am fine just am a klutz and permanently in a constant battle with teamwork to make things more accessible/less likely to spill (for the love of TARDIS PLEASE DONT DROWN THE CARROTS YOU No ONE LIKES SOGGY CARROTS). I then, apparently, got even further swept up in the #the unmasking of the aussie anon debacle (you know, *that* one). Can't speak much about it, yk, messy legal stuff. I do have a lawyer I have complete trust in so I pray that justice will be delivered soon...

Just finished watching the 2011 recording of the Phantom of the Opera stage play and lskdfjlskdjflskdfj (honestly one of my favorite musicals I am a sucker for theater and a epic soundtrack). Even got to hear Andrew Lloyd Weber go 'oh Gosh' in his very British accent at the end, and it was beautiful (he currently reminds me of one of my school profs and it's making me nostalgic kinda). Now catching up on all of the Tumblr things I have been so delightfully asked in tagged in that I had no brainpower on until... well plot things happen ig.

✏️highlighter: i have an imagination, a pretty good one. I am very funny sometimes. I strive to be kind and present and empathetic. I can bake pretty good. I am trustworthy and I am friendly.

🖊️felt tip (copy and pasted from @hiddenvioletsgrow ask):"In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort. It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle. The door opened on to a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a very comfortable tunnel without smoke, with panelled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats - the hobbit was fond of visitors. The tunnel wound on and on, going fairly but not quite straight into the side of the hill - The Hill, as all the people for many miles round called it - and many little round doors opened out of it, first on one side and then on another. No going upstairs for the hobbit: bedrooms, bathrooms, cellars, pantries (lots of these), wardrobes (he had whole rooms devoted to clothes), kitchens, dining-rooms, all were on the same floor, and indeed on the same passage." (Tolkien took my aesthetic and gave it to biblo, minus the hole in the ground). Think like... soft and cozy and a bit academic and warm and inviting and there's always a pot brewing for you and we can sit and do nothing or go on an adventure together dearie. Think like fantasy adventure cozy core. Low fantasy if you will.

📃 sketchpad: hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. i have two little feet with three pointed toes that I can use to perch on your shoulder. I have a pointed beak that I'm very proud of and can speak pretty fluent English. working on Spanish and pronunciation but it's a step up from birb song. I am very round and soft and good for cuddling. My plumage varies in colors from seasons but now I am decked out with raven-like plumage with a iridescent sheen to them

[aquaticasart]

A Small piece of writing between Sander and Yu Ran. To say I was grabbed by the collar by this character is an understatement, and I found a really cool little opportunity to get down some thoughts on Sander's characterisation and motivations onto the page.

A short, 2k word Political Thriller/Battle of Wits between Sander and Yu Ran, negotiating for the release of Freddy from Tangton custody.

Of Deer and Wolves

Sander was waved through by the imposing assistant and given leave to enter the office. He paused for a moment to collect his thoughts and remind himself of his strategy going into the meeting.

A Decree Agent had been detained by Tangton authorities, Sander himself had received the frantic call from Freddy’s squad mate and escalated immediately to Hyde. Normally, such a matter would be trivially resolved through whispers in carefully placed ears in Gyrate, but the Decree had no such connections in Tangton. Hyde had insisted that Sander attend to the matter in person, sending him on the first private transport bound for Tangton.

The normally unflappable Hyde had seemed tense briefing Sander before his trip, insinuating that he would have gone himself, but that Sander would be a more agreeable contact for the matter. He had apparently burned many favours to set up a meeting with a Tangton councilman, the highest possible authority to plead their case to. This was all very unusual, both the fear and the insinuation that Hyde would handle the matter personally. Regardless, the fragility and importance of the nature was stated again and again in no uncertain terms.

Steeling himself, Sander reached for the heavy wooden door and let himself in.

The office was resplendent, filled with immaculately kept Tangton native flora. A subtle bamboo motif stretched throughout the room from the woven floor coverings to long stalks diffused through frosted glass behind the ornate wooden desk. A gentle noon light poured into the room through the milky glass, giving every piece of ornate furniture soft shadows that made the entire room seem supernaturally lit with an invisible ambient light. However, the most beautiful thing in the room sat behind the desk.

Sander immediately realised what might have made him more attractive a diplomat, as he caught sight of an inescapably elegant Esper, transformed into a deer-like form.

Yu Ran sat with poise, a perpetually calming expression on his cervine visage, his long white hair falling over his shoulders like waterfalls, perfectly straight and silken smooth. His intricate glowing antlers were decorated modestly and yet richly with gold fixtures to match his white and purple suit. It was perfectly tailored with its tailcoat discarded to allow him to sit comfortably in his waistcoat, his black shirt ending in tightly fitted arm-length hand stockings and impeccably painted black claws.

Sander prepared to announce his entrance but didn’t need to as Yu Ran looked up at the closing door.

“Ah, Mr. Sander, I’ve been expecting you.”

“Hyde sends his regards and apologies, as his second in command I’ve been given the honour of meeting you” Sander replied, courteously.

“Such a shame. Cognac?” Yu Ran unstoppered a gleaming crystal decanter, splashing a small amount of amber liquid into a matching crystal glass.

“Not during business matters” Sander replied, almost immediately regretting it as the mature fruity notes reached his canine sense of smell. It was a VERY good bottle.

“Straight to the point I see, if only some of my peers were so efficient” Yu Ran mused, sifting through some of the many articles of paper on his desk.

“According to the report provided to me…” Yu Ran began, reaching for a thick stack of paper left in readily accessible range, gently lifting the first few pages to find a highlighted passage.

“…Your man stumbled across the border without any paperwork, tried to seduce a border agent, and then resisted with force before being detained.”

If Freddy got out of this in one piece, Sander was going to kill him.

Yu Ran flipped over to another page.

“And then I learn to my surprise that this isn’t an Esper Union Operation Chief making a clumsy mistake in a misguided act of heroism, but rather a wanted criminal, with charges ranging from public indecency to… kidnapping of children?”

“With all due respect…” Sander began, hating every word that came out of his own mouth defending Freddy “…He was later cleared of the kidnapping charges. It just probably hasn’t been reflected in the Esper Union records.”

“Oh, so the kidnapping was recent. Noted.” Yu Ran said, his tone holding neither sarcasm nor surprise. He let the substantial report fall closed in front of him.

“Needless to say, your friend has inadvertently caused a gigantic headache for two major governing entities and clearly at least a handful more organised syndicates, and while I would desperately like to see him removed from Tangton and never seen again, the other 6…pardon, 5 members of the council want to see him hauled into the Nether Gaol as an example, and no official entities in Gyrate are objecting.”

Despite Hyde’s warnings, Sander was suddenly feeling incredibly under briefed for the severity of the situation he found himself in, and yet very understanding of why he had been sent in person.

“Mr. Yu, I can assure you that the Shadow Decree is able to offer you substantial resources and assets in either an official or personal capacity for the safe transfer of this prisoner into our custody.”

Yu Ran clicked his pen, clearly thinking deeply about the proposition. Considering what to ask for, most likely.

“That won’t be necessary, at least I don’t believe it will be.” He said, gently. Sander tensed. It simply couldn’t be that easy.

“I think, instead, I’d like an answer of sorts.”

The deer was inscrutable and perfectly held. His gentle voice had never risen once throughout their conversation.

“Why are you here?” He asked Sander, pointedly.

The deer’s eyes were deep pools, staring right into Sander, fearless and inquisitive.

“For what it appears,” Sander responded stiffly “To entreat-”

“Nono, not about the wolf, I mean why are you HERE.”

Yu Ran reached for a different report, also neatly laid out for him.

“I must admit, when I learnt who the Decree were sending, I was intrigued. Ex-Navy, Ex-Esper Union, now Commander of a cabal of rogue agents, I must say it’s quite the career move for someone with your sense of duty, to be skulking around picking up the scraps of the Esper Union.”

There was a gentle creak of leather as Sander balled his hands into fists at his side. In that moment he realised why he in particular had been sent. He was a living gesture of deference on Hyde’s part, an inescapably visible Esper in one of the most Esper-hostile countries in Grandis. The deer in front of him knew it and was toying with him because of it. Sander hated it, the deference to authority. It was what had driven him from the Military and the Union all those years ago, and now it was expected of him here for this fragile Esper he had never met before in his life.

“The Union was holding me back.” Sander began, trying not to let an instinctual growl enter his tone “They refused to accept the power and responsibilities us Espers were gifted by the Miracles…”

“Please don’t lie to me, Mr. Sander. I’m a politician, I’m far better at it than you are.” Yu Ran retorted gently.

“I hate to disappoint you, but it’s the truth.” Sander replied, forcing a sense of certainty into his voice.

“Mhm.” Yu Ran pondered “And how is that going for you? Accomplished all those things the Union was keeping you from doing?”

The smallest of growls crept into Sander’s breathing. He summoned half a life of drills and procedure to force it down. He couldn’t let this fawn get the better of him. Despite it, his anger roiled deep inside him.

“And I’m sure your attempts to make Tangton safer for Espers has been wildly successful” Sander couldn’t help but release in retaliation. “I’m sure your council loves having a pampered obedient pet to offload their cruelty onto.”

The deer rose sharply from his chair, bringing himself up to full height with Sander. His eyeline was just below Sander’s but his towering antlers made his silhouette much taller. He walked slowly around the table, coming to stand just in front of the jackal. His lithe form was dwarfed in size by Sander’s wiry physique, but his silhouette was impossibly grown by his antlers and his status in the room. His eyes seemed infinite up close, a shining void that let no hint of anger or insult escape.

“You come into my office, from your self-imposed persecution in one of the most powerful Esper enclaves in the world and try to lecture me for not doing enough for people like us.” Yu Ran said, softly. His gentle tone was somehow more unnerving than if he had shouted. “I must admit it’s a bold negotiating strategy.”

Sander tightened his jaw, knowing better than to let his pride make this any worse.

“Tell me…” Yu Ran continued, inches from Sander “What did you have to lose for a belief you no longer hold? Do your spotless ideals keep you warm at night like he did?”

Sander couldn’t say anything. His mind had frozen, his heart stabbed clean through by the words.

“You gave up your power and everything that meant something to you for a misguided attempt at rebuilding it in your image. And look at where that got you. The lord commander of an organisation of cutthroats and misanthropes. Your principles and your theatrics cost you everything. So I ask again: Why are you here?”

“Don't you DARE insult my men you overgrown carrion”.

Sander’s fists were taught and trembling, every piece of finely honed discipline at his disposal keeping him from causing yet more of an international incident. Yu Ran tilted his head back. Instead of anger or shock, a small smile crept to the edges of his beautiful face.

'Ah. There it is. That's why.'

He moved back around and set elegantly back down at his desk. He clicked his pen and notated something on a notepad before tearing it off and folding it over.

“I’m afraid there’s simply nothing I can do to organise the release your friend.” Yu Ran began. Sander went to protest but was cut off with a raised hand.

“However, before you go, be sure to talk to my assistant about her current audit on structural faults in the precinct’s temporary holding cells. I’m sure a man of your experience would have great insight on areas that need reinforcement. The walls are practically crumbling! It's terribly unsafe for your agent to be held in such disrepaired quarters, I'm sure you'd agree.”

Sander took the folded note addressed to Yu Ran’s assistant, still emotionally raw but rapidly coming to terms with the game being played and the coded suggestion in Yu Ran's words.

“I’ve always hated the offices above those cells…” Yu Ran mused to himself “They’re an utter eyesore, no one wants to use them, and yet we never seem to have the budget to convert them to public space. Alas.”

He stood back up, moving around his desk and offered Sander a handshake. It was firm in an incredibly practiced way that wouldn’t have come naturally to the elegant figure.

“It’s been a pleasure, Mr Yu” Sander said, anger steadily seeping away to be replaced with a burning curiosity at the test he had clearly passed.

“No, Mr Sander” Yu Ran said with a smile that lit up his already stunning features “The pleasure was all mine.”

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Journal/Storywriting

Ah, another instalment for my TRSB fic of this year The Book of You and I for @dreamychaos!

Characters: Caranthir x Finrod

Words: 1 408

Warnings: insecurity, secrets, different writing styles and lifestyles

“What are you doing?” Carnistir leaned over Findaráto’s shoulder with uncharacteristically unabashed curiosity. “You’ve been frowning at that page for much too long already for my taste. Let me see what you are working on!”

“Don’t,” Findaráto cried out, throwing himself bodily over the scuffed notebook as if protecting it with his life from his lover’s burning, destructive gaze. “You are a mean editor, so I won’t share this with you.”

Pouting beautifully—he had perfected this face many ages ago to sway his older brothers into taking pity on him even after the birth of his younger siblings—Carnistir pulled back with a soft gasp of exaggerated hurt.

“I…who is the mean one here?” he muttered and sat down on the floor to press his already reddening cheek against the other’s muscular thigh pleadingly. “Will you at least tell me what you’ve been writing about?”

“You,” Findaráto replied calmly, a little nervous chuckle escaping him as he saw the flash of burning interest in Carnistir’s eyes. “Unfortunately, as you well know, I am a terrible author, and I can’t—for the life of me—capture the unique beauty of all your reactions.”

Even as he spoke those words, he wished that he could paint Carnistir’s portrait—full lower lip pushed out ever so slightly and dark eyes flaring into almost frightening intensity—with mere words, but not even ages of linguistic development and Fëanáro’s script could do justice to the indescribable pulchritude of his lover.

“I have been writing you in rather embarrassing paeans since I first picked up a pen,” he admitted sheepishly. “Nevertheless, there are no words to fully capture the way I feel when your incandescent gaze settles on me or how perfectly worthy of outright veneration you are when you sulk like this.”

“You are mocking me,” Carnistir mumbled, grimacing, and turned his head to fully bury his face in the soft, smooth fabric of his half-cousin’s breeches, effectively robbing Findaráto of the delightful sight he was just extolling. “You know that I don’t like that.”

“I am most definitely not,” Findaráto cried, scandalised by such an accusation. “Why? How do you describe me in your writings?”

Stammering a little, Carnistir flushed a darker shade of red—it was only fair that he, who tore his lover’s flowery sentences to shreds regularly, would be asked to submit his own scripts for further illustration of his principles.

“I usually say that you are in good health,” he finally admitted in a low, embarrassed voice. “There is no need for me to describe you in great detail—as you might recall, the recipients of my patently succinct missives are all related to you and have known you since the day you were born.”

His agreeable, smooth features hardening into a moue of disapproval, Findaráto leaned back tensely. “We—our relationship, I mean—have progressed far beyond the state of remote kinship, I dare say, and you want to tell me that these developments were not worth a single line to you?”

Findaráto remembered quite distinctly that, as an elfling, young Moryo had kept a journal. Once or twice, Findekáno—a notorious thief even at that age—had copied out a few passages while waiting for Nelyafinwë and had later surreptitiously shared them with Findaráto.

He also recalled the ridiculously complex rituals of secrecy and the various solemn oaths he had had to perform before ever getting a snippet of Carnistir’s preciously rational mind.

Consequently, he could hardly believe that his sweet paramour had since entirely abandoned the habit of putting his thoughts and observations down on paper.

“Come on,” he needled, seeing Carnistir’s mask of haughty refusal crack, and started rubbing the side of his foot alluringly along the long, svelte thigh closest to him. “As we’ve established that you abhor my style, I’d love to hear how you’d capture what has transpired.”

“Don’t make me,” Carnistir groaned softly, hiding his handsome face in his hands now to escape the fervently curious and challenging gaze of this unlooked-for miracle, gracing his home and hearth. “I won’t repeat myself on the matter of derision—no matter how affectionate—and pride.”

“Do you call me handsome?”

“I might have jotted down a few notes about our boating trip.” Carnistir felt and sounded as if that minute confession had been torn from him with white-hot pincers. “And I’ve mostly remarked upon the quality and the colour of the water if you must know.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Findaráto laughed but he leaned forward and threaded his long, ink-stained fingers into the silken, shockingly unbound hair of the skittish but deeply cherished creature with whom he shared his heart and soul. “I hope you said soppy things about me—the kind of expressions that you’d strike out mercilessly if they had come from any other person’s quill.”

“Other people,” Carnistir snarled, instantly defensive, “want to see their uninspired, clichéd drivel published, don’t they?”

Touched by the thorny secrecy of the Elf sitting at his feet, Findaráto chuckled once more. “Then we both have secret writings and I—for one—shall respect that.”

The gentle reprimand in his words was unambiguous but devoid of malice or true anger—Carnistir smiled up at him with heart-wrenching tenderness and then nodded gravely.

“So be it,” he conceded. “Even though, and it pains me to confess this, I have come to like the exaggerated descriptions of me you are wont to come up with every now and then. Far be it from me to believe a single word of that undeniable sublimation of my humble appearance, but I won’t deny that it heartens me.”

Surprise rippled across Findaráto’s face like a ray of sun caressing a calm ocean; his hyperbolised, overblown panegyrics had, thus far, always been met with barely contained scorn and incandescent irritation, so he was taken aback to be told that Carnistir derived any pleasure from hearing him wax poetic about the silvery sheen of his eyes or the pristine marble of his skin.

“You are bewitching, Moryo,” he sighed. “And there is nothing I would not give to you, but—”

“I wrote about the scars,” Carnistir burst out. “How they looked like silver adornments on your golden skin. I—I have put down, in an itemised list, all the facets of your beauty that made my heart stop: the colour of your eyes reflected in the sea, the myriad shades of gold and silver of your hair as it dried in the sun, the gritty velvet of your sand-powdered skin as you embraced me in the darkness of my loneliness.”

Unable to speak, not daring to even draw breath, Findaráto waited and listened.

“Since the day you walked through the door of my office, I have kept track of my shifting feelings and gnawing doubts,” Carnistir went on, not meeting the luminous eyes that saw way too easily into the confused depths of his soul. “My memories, my life, and my sense of self have been ripped from me once before—I’ll never accept to give them up again, so yes, I might have scribbled frantic, contradictory comments on our interaction, your disarming charm, and my pitiful bewilderment into the margins of otherwise perfectly respectable documents.”

He shrugged apologetically. “Unlike you, I’ve never been a storyteller. I have kept count of your smiles—adding them up like coins of purest gold—in neat tables because that is who I am. Wouldn’t you agree that this would make for a very poor goodnight tale?”

“Not at all,” Findaráto opined breathlessly. “I love you—just the way you are—and I’d be honoured and overjoyed to see our story through your eyes.”

“It is nothing like your romantic prose,” Carnistir groused petulantly.

“You are indeed quite unique!” Slipping off his chair to kneel beside the already withdrawing beauty, Findaráto slung his arms possessively and a little clumsily around that reclining body and pulled it against his own.

“I adore you,” he whispered, pressing frantic kisses onto Carnistir’s puckered brow and pinched mouth—he wanted to laugh and giggle for joy for they had taken another tremendously important step in their relationship, and his heart was so full that he thought it would burst at any moment. “And just hearing your voice is the sweetest sound I can imagine. Please, recount all my smiles and kisses to me, so that I may bask in the echoes of incomparable blissfulness once more.”

Thank you so much for reading <3

-> Masterlist for November (by @cilil)

[blindrapture]

want to do one of my posts where I talk about and gush about a thing.

Braid, the Anniversary Edition.

it's good. oh man it's good.

I'd been waiting for it for a long damn time. it was announced years ago. it finally came out.

what is braid about? you know. everyone knows. there's a Guy, and he's on a quest to save the Princess who's waiting in Another Castle. (well, a guy named Tim, living in a modern city, his unfulfilling daily life never disclosed, goes home every night and dreams of how Time might work in other worlds. and in those worlds, he searches for the Princess. that's the actual premise of braid.)

braid is such a.. such a game in my life. I actually got it maybe about a year after it first came out? back in 2009. on the xbox live arcade. some real grandpa gaming, I know. I was 14, I had an opportunity to buy a game that people were saying good things about on the internet. so I did. and I played through it. and I thought it was okay.

I can tell you my 14-year-old opinions from memory: the visuals were fucking ugly. like, yes, they look like a painting, but couldn't they have made it look like a good one? the foreground objects are all so... busy, lots of fine details on such small fucking sprites, and the visual design of protagonist Tim is so incredibly grating to me (it.. it was just the fact his tie was red. his tie needed to be black. it needed to be black. such a minor detail but it was kryptonite to my brain). the music is low-key really fucking good, it is not immediately good but it has immaculate moods and it does stick with you after. the game is short. the puzzles are really clever, but the fact that it is an action (platformer) game means I am going to try to solve everything quick, and with enough brute force and twitchy reflexes you can solve plenty of the puzzles in Wrong ways that are not enjoyable. but the puzzles do stick with you, deep in your subconscious. you feel better for having even seen the puzzles. and the structure of the game, combined with the baffling text passages, is... intoxicating.

so.

braid was, from the start, a game I wasn't sure on, a game that didn't quite meet my tastes, and also a game that burrowed deep in my brain and stuck with me. a game I could not forget. braid was just... braid.

frankly, the fact that I played braid at such a formative age and had this mixed-yet-intoxicated response probably went a long way towards turning me into the gamer I am today? but anyhoo.

over the years, I would replay braid. I bought it for PC when it was ported over and replayed it again. braid came over onto my xbox one thanks to basic backwards compatibility, so I replayed it again. I'd tell a friend about the game and decide to replay it again. I think I play it every three years, more or less? and then the developer made another game, and I picked that up out of curiosity, and that game was The Witness, and that game literally met everything, and I mean everything, I ever wanted out of any video game ever, that game was so For My Tastes it's fucking ridiculous, that game is actual perfection, there is not a single thing out of place, not a single polygon out of place, not a single puzzle out of place, not a single audio log out of place, nothing. so. so suddenly I found myself in the position of needing to replay braid again.

this time, I got a lot more appreciation for it. it still.. definitely isn't perfectly to my tastes. the visual style has warmed on me. but I think it's got too many twitchy puzzles. but it's not actually a problem, because the game is fucking short. takes about three hours to get through even if you don't remember/know how to solve the puzzles. so a little twitchiness, while suboptimal, is forgivable.

and apparently, the developer thinks so too. and I know this because he said it himself in the remake.

so. fast forward, now, to now. Braid, the Anniversary Edition, has just come out.

what's in it? y'know, the standard stuff. it's a full remake. the visuals have been entirely repainted, the sound has been remastered. you have a button you can press to freely and instantly toggle between the old game and the remake so you can directly compare the improvements. really good stuff, sleek stuff!

it's what you'd want from any remake.

oh, also, 15 hours of developer commentary. for a 3-hour game.

that was actually one of the features mentioned when the game was first announced, so this didn't take me by surprise or anything, but, like. you just hear that as a feature and your brain is kinda just like "oh, cool, commentary." you don't really realize the sheer scope of that number.

15 hours. 15. that's. that's 5 games' worth.

and y'know what else? it's fucking good commentary. thoughtful, considered. sometimes it's maddeningly specific about tiny details in the game. sometimes it's wonderfully broad about the evolution of game design principles in the industry as a whole. sometimes Jonathan Blow talks about Donkey Kong and Mario. sometimes Elden Ring is mentioned. there are demonstrative movies that can take up your full screen and pause gameplay if you wish, or can be docked as a small video and let you keep playing on your own. there's concept art, development art, prototypes. there's new levels, new puzzles, every one of them extremely frustratingly simply hard, harder than anything else in the game, and they're all exclusive to Commentary Mode.

Commentary Mode is the actual meat of this game.

it's. more like an interactive textbook about video game design, using Braid as a focused example. it is strictly nonlinear and intuitive for the game format, you can find commentary nodes throughout the game, and there are now tons of New Doors (leading to contextual sequences of doors) facilitating passage through braid in labyrinthine ways as you explore the commentary based on subject matter. it's like playing a museum. there's a special hub with wings for you to use as optional navigation.

one of the wings talks about the fucking story. the literary influences. the core concepts. and the ambiguity, and how to design that for video games.

you guys.

it's a damn maze of a meta-game, with secrets and insights and puzzles that are comically difficult (I haven't solved a single one yet!!!) and.

it's so!!! good!!!

this game is worth it for Commentary Mode.

buy Braid, Anniversary Edition. probably play through the actual contents of the game first, then start Commentary Mode.

if you are even remotely interested in game development and game design, you owe it to yourself.

15 hours!!!!! 15 fucking hours!!!!

[supermacaquecool]

About Tongue-tied.

I find really challenging to write from Miu's pov, partly because of her age but mostly because her personality and interests are very different from mine. I struggle letting characters act out rashly or get carried away by emotion bc I'm usually too much in my own head lol So it's much easier for me to write turbulent inner worlds and sensations than it is to write wild actions. It's for all of this that writing Miu is a challenge, she does not play to my comfort zone as a writer. That said, I'm happy with how she came out in Tongue-tied. I usually lean on using exact wording and phrasings, but I tried to relax the prose to suit Miu

The sky was painted red and orange and purple, all the way to the first hints of black around the edges

This is a sentence I adjusted to become less tight and precise, focusing more on the input of stimuli as it's experienced.

I think I started this one by the middle section, with the idea of Miu eavesdropping on Aoi. Mostly because I thought it was really funny to write Miu getting annoyed at Aoi for asking her about whether she brushed her teeth. "Aoi is like a mother," and so I write her pestering them about their chores covertly through questions. I thought it could be interesting to fill in the gaps of Miu's dynamic with Aoi, since Survive did zero in the motherly qualities playing into the power differential and her desire to be obeyed. Miu, who has been neglected and reacts so badly to Kaito's helicopter parenting and wishes for independence so ardently still needs the emotional and behavioral guidance and for the older kids to look after her and care for her. I find the opposing directions between what she wants and what she needs interesting. So it's a piece mostly on Miu's feelings on Aoi as her second caretaker of sorts. For this reason, I equated Aoi to Kaito in this section:

Aoi sighed, bringing the fun to a halt. "If you're bored before sleeping, you could just say it. There's no need to sneak around."

Miu wanted to say she kind of needed to. She needed to at least be able to talk to Syakomon. Her partner understood this and vouched for her.

"There's nothing to worry about, I'm with her!"

"Yes, but—"

But, well, Aoi was a bit like Kaito about these things. They needed to stay safe.

Making them equal pressences to Miu felt like a good shorthand to establish Miu's mixed feelings about Aoi. It's for this reason that when I worked backwards to write the eavesdropping scene, the one Aoi is talking to is Kaito. This scene is partly inspired by a passage in the "The Haunting of Hill House" where Eleanor sneaks around eavesdropping the conversations all the others are having and confirms her neurosis one way or another. I wanted mine to work in a similar fashion, and it was actually fun to focus on the idea of missing information. I think it might even a bit heavy-handed in the contrasts to Kaito there: where he is loud and aggressive, Aoi mumbles and remains polite. Where Miu understands Kaito's stance crystal clear, she can't parse Aoi's at all. The thing that unites them being their desire to handle Miu with kid gloves 😂 This is something I wanted to make a running theme through the piece, so I tried to make Miu's frustration with Saki run on a similar note: that annoyance others keep things from her and don't talk to her straight (to be perfectly fair, Saki is like that to everyone about this topic 😂 But Miu doesn't have the perspective to see it).

Naturally, Miu's talk to Aoi hammers down on that aspect of her as a child that's being sheltered. I was very pleased with the way I wrote the conversation, having Aoi always be the one in control even if she's not necessarily being domineering. She basically traps Miu into talking to her by telling to sit with her 😂 She tries to do it in a way that still shows regard for Miu, but it's still her imposing her terms lol

Anyway, it was fun to write them running into each other's scripts and getting frustrated lol Aoi feeling bothered by Miu's ghost hunting antics and Miu feeling annoyed at her motherly disposition lol I thought it'd have to be Aoi the one to open the path to swerve the conversation into something more open and sincere, not only bc Miu is younger but because she's been struggling with this issue for far longer with Kaito and her solution has been to sneak out and have things her way where her brother can't see her lol So it really needed to be Aoi the one to bridge the gap, even if she's still doing it ever so carefully as to not to upset the balance lol Labramon was a fun aid to write in the behavior and dynamic Aoi wants to enforce lol

I'm pleased with having been able to pepper Miu's penchant for the supernatural with her idea Saki was a psychic and her excuses to Aoi lol If I were to write her again, I'd hope to be able to integrate this aspect much more intrinsically to her pov (this is what I was struggling with).

That interaction with Minoru was the cutest bridge between scenes I've written lol I do think that while Minoru is still in that position of trying to look after her as someone who's older, he's the one who comes the closest to meeting her on her own terms even in that brief passage lol I'm quite satisfied by how comfortable and relaxed their dynamic comes across.

Overall, I was pretty satisfied with this one and I thought I was able to cover what I wanted. I'd like to improve on Miu's voice as their dynamic still fascinates me, specially since Miu does grow quite attached to Aoi and trusts her to take care of her.

[queenmuzz]

Deal with the Devil

A bit of an introduction to an OC that I've been working on.

Drip…

Drip…

Drip…

The sound of an unseen leaky pipe splashing its contents on the concrete floor of the Fortuna City Prison was the only thing that seemed to indicate the passage of time to the prisoner who sat on her little cot in an out of the way cell.  Aside from that, time seemed to stand still for her.  And looking down at the paper in her lap, she might as well be frozen in time.

Ten years.

That’s how long she would be trapped in this place, among the cursed and the damned of this island.   Ten years of imprisonment and hard labor before she could possibly dream about getting out on good behavior.

And for what?  For killing someone?  No.  For beating that one guard that kept glaring at her hatefully to a bloody pulp?  Sadly, no again.  

It was all because she had slipped up, and sold a ‘Genuine Document’, written in the Saviour’s own hand, recognizing the authority of one of the noble families to one of their descendents of that house.  How was she to know it had been a forgery? Well… because she had been the one to forge it.  It was so hard to resist the easy money.  The previous three times she had ‘uncovered’ documents purported to be dated from Sparda’s rule, various collectors had clamored for them, paying obscene amounts of cash.  At the time, she found it to be perfectly reasonable to create such documents.  A woman with a talent for pitch ought to make their living playing the violin, a man with a keen eye for color would be accepted for making paintings for his daily bread, why not her, a young lady who could replicate handwriting upon just a glance, make a few bucks doing some light forgery?  It wasn’t hurting anyone, it just let some hoity toity idle rich enjoy their delusions of grandeur.  

Apparently the judge didn’t have the same idea, as he slammed his gavel down and sentenced her to a decade of ‘penance for the most shameful of sacrilege.’  She had a feeling that he’d have given her more time if he had permitted, as he proclaimed the Saviour’s so-called ‘Justice’ upon her.

She kicked herself mentally as she read the sentencing report.  She had gotten sloppy.  Her first forgery, only discovered as such during the investigation, had been so close to perfect, that even the experts couldn’t say for sure that she had created it.  She’d read whatever scraps of paper Sparda had left in the Archives to copy his handwriting, found paper that was the appropriate age, and even created the ink as it was made hundreds of years ago.  She’d practiced writing with a quill, learning how to pretend to write with hands that were probably twice her size, and the payoff for her three months of hard work was enough for her to live comfortably for nine months.  The second time, confident in her method, had taken a mere month, and had her living like a queen for a year.  And then… like Icarus, the hubris had taken her too high to the sun, forging a document that had declared the Pontiff’s family line as the successor to ruling Fortuna.    And the price she’d paid for using some paper that had been dated a hundred years later than when Sparda had relinquished his throne was… very painful.

Drip…

Drip…

Drip…

The water continued on, oblivious to her plight, except there it was matched in tempo by the heavy clomping of boots that grew louder with each drip, before stopping right at her cell door. She had been locked up for no more than a week, yet she knew exactly whose arrogant face would be sneering down at her.  Dominick, probably one of those bastards son’s whose noble father had paid for his post, stood there, as set of big iron keys in his hand.  Was he about to inspect her cell for ‘contraband’ as he had done the previous five days?  He yanked the door open, his baton wielded in his other hand, just daring her to try something stupid.

“Get up Sinner, you got a visitor.”  He gruffly ordered as he yanked her by the arm.  She was perplexed.  A visitor?   Her defense counsel had ostensibly abandoned her after sentencing, telling her regretfully that there was no sense in filing an appeal, ten years was probably the best deal she could get, so it wouldn’t be him.

Nor would it be her family, unless she had an eccentric great uncle she had never been told about.  Nor would it be any friends or any of her  connections from Fortuna’s grey and black markets, none of them would be stupid enough to walk into Fortuna’s most secure prison.  

“Who-” she started to ask, but was cut off with a push to the back.

“No questions.  Move.”  He poked her with the baton, as an added incentive to move faster as they walked down the hall.  She tried to not look at the other cells, filled with people like her, the criminal scum of the island, the ones that were beyond even the Saviour’s mercy.  No doubt they were watching the ‘fresh meat’ being frog marched into a little room that led off from the main hall.

The tiny room consisted of two worn chairs and a metal table, and nothing else.  This room was not made for comfort, and the way the door slammed shut behind her.  Sitting at the table, with a file folder in his hand was a man she’d never seen before.  He was in Order garb, was he the Warden?  No, the gold trim on his pristine white overcoat signified that he was much MUCH higher on the totem pole, possibly one of Sanctus’s personal attendants.

She felt another shove, and she stumbled, her hand catching on the back of the chair to avoid a fall.

“Be gentle with her, sir” the man gently chided as he motioned her to sit across from him.  “You may leave us.”

Dominic started, and he felt him drawing near, “My Lord, I am obligated to keep watch whenever a prisoner is brought to the visitor room.” To which the man waved him off.  “Don’t worry, I’ll have a word with the Warden.  He’ll be more than happy to overlook this one time incident.”

“I must prote-”

The man glared, and slammed his fist down on the table, his papers scattered all over the table“Sh-shall I speak to your s-superiors about your ins-subordination!?” He yelled with a voice that commanded respect, even with the slight stutter.  Her mouth went dry, wondering why a man with such a hair trigger temper was interested in speaking with her.  His authoritarian voice did the trick, and the guard mumbled some apologies before backing out like an embarrassed crab, letting the door slam shut, whose vibrations rustled the papers even more.

The man regained his composure, and hastily gathered up his disorganized set of papers, before smiling at her.

“Now my dear,  I apologise.  But sometimes men need to be shown who holds the true power.”  He placed an ornate monocle on his left eye and began to scan the file he had in front of him.

“Let me introduce myself, I am Lord Agnus, Chief Scientist to His Holiness,” he took great pride in that title, and his teeth formed a smile that was a tad bit too wide.  “And you are… Ms. Meredith Voss.  Age: 25.  Incarcerated for Sacrilegious Forgery. No previous criminal record.  No living family members.”  The last line carried an ominous tone that lingered in the air.  “I’ve taken quite an interest in you Miss Voss.  You might be exactly what I need…”

Meredith cocked her head in confusion, “Uh… I’m not sure what you mean… sir”

The man waved away her concern, “I’ll cut to the chase.  I have the authority to offer you a deal only a fool would pass up.  A complete pardon.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?” “Your conviction: Expunged.  Your sentence: Commuted.  It’ll be as if you were never charged.  And,” he glanced down at a photo of her mugshot, “you’ll be offered employment with the Order, and I assure you,” that damn way too wide smile reappeared, “your pay will be more than sufficient.”

Meredith sat stunned.  She’d hoped, (a fools hope, she had finally admitted to herself), that she’d receive a reprieve, seeing as this was her first offense (that she’d gotten caught for) but there had been no mercy shown.  But this?  This was beyond her wildest dreams.  A full pardon, and the certainty of not worrying where her next meal came from… it was almost too good to be true… it MUST be too good to be true.  

She frowned at him, obvious distrust plastered on her face.  “What’s the catch?” She leaned forward over the table  as much as she dared, “There’s gotta be some reason you’re going to let me off the hook, and to go   Last time I checked, the Order didn’t take too kindly to my little…transgression.  So…” she leaned back, in an air of faux confidence.   “What do you want from me so badly you’re willing to go above the law?”  There was a moment of heavy silence as the slightest wave of anger flashed on his face, before being masked by that smug grin of his.

“How perceptive, Miss Voss.” He mirrored her action and leaned back himself, letting the tension slowly leak out of the room. “I must be frank, it was His Holiness that actually recommended you to me.” She shouldn’t have been leaning so far back, as the revelation nearly caused her to topple backwards.  What did Sanctus care about her?  Even before the trial, she was beneath the notice of any of the upper crust.

“I’ll confess, He’s quite thankful for your last piece of artistry, even if it didn’t hold up to scrutiny. It has helped solidify his family’s pedigree in the minds of the populace.  You work is convincing enough to the average congregant that many say that your prosecution was the work of some power hungry noble family, jealous of His Holiness’s rank.”

Meredith’s brow wrinkled at that revelation.  Sanctus had always seemed to her to be a kindly old man, above the petty bickerings of power politics.  He was like a grandfather to each and every Fortunian.  If this was true, it painted a different, and darker picture of the man.    But…” Agnus looked down at her file again.  “No doubt you think there must be more to this than a thankful old man.  And you’d be correct.   That’s where I come in.  You see… I’m embarking on a little… experiment.” The pause before that last word sent warning bells in her head.  There was something more going on.  “I’m currently on the cusp of a breakthrough, and I’ve completed animal trials with great success, and it’s now time to go into human trials.  Unfortunately, I must be honest,” He sighed as he adjusted his monocle, “this is highly secretive work that I am embarking on, that I cannot ask any random person to partake in.  I’ll be honest, I need a person who has nothing to lose.”

“Sounds like you’re not sure this ‘experiment’ will work.”

“I assure you,” he sounded almost offended at her doubts, “It’s not the success that I’m worried about, it’s the fact I cannot afford to let anyone aside from the highest levels of the Order find out about my work until the time comes to reveal it.  Too many prying eyes and ears might cause some who doubt Our cause to steal that which I’ve worked years-no, decades on.” His voice took a darker, deeper shade, and the air in the room seemed to drop several degrees.  

“I won’t let them take the power of which I’ve sought”

And for the briefest of moments, she swore that he had changed from a dignified, arrogant man, to something… unholy. 

But the moment passed, and he was back to his usual self, and with that slightly too wide smile, he passed a paper to her.  On first scan, it was full of legalese, and she realised that it was a contract.

“So, I will admit that I require you, a person who aside from a minor indiscretion, is an upstanding individual  I can trust to keep quiet until the moment I’m ready to reveal my findings. And you, my dear…” he handed her an elegant royal violet lacquered pen, with accents of gold, “I assume you desire nothing more than freedom.  I’m willing, His Grace is quite willing, to offer this to you.”  He glanced  down at the paper that she now was slowly pulling towards herself, beginning to decipher the the archaic language of the courts.  “Please, take your time.”

There was a half hour of silence as she perused the three pages that consisted of the contract.  Some terms were quite vague, such as the description of the experiment, aside from that it looked like there was some surgery involved, as there was some talk about certain anesthesia being used.  

Her duties were more clear cut.  She was to keep a journal of sorts for a three months after the procedure, detailing her health and mental state.  She would be kept in prison for that period of time, but after the span of a few months, if she kept up her writing (and to be fair, she had all the time in the world to do that.) she would be released with no conditions.  If the experiment was a failure, she would still be a free woman, with a small stipend to keep her comfortable should she not be able to find work.  

But if was successful… the stipend was… woah…   She looked back up in astonishment.  “Are you sure this is not a typo?  This sum seems to have a couple more extra zeros than I expected.” “His Holiness guarantees it.”  Agnus proclaimed confidently, “and steady employment among the upper echelons of the Order.  You’ll be wearing the white and gold, a dream few have ever achieved.  A woman of your talents should not be wasted on the grubby business of forgery.” She wasn’t really sure what use her talents could possibly have use for in such exalted company, but with that sum… she wouldn’t live like a queen… she could live like a Goddess.  Just the chance of this, however remote, seemed so tantalizing.  Her hand seemed to move with a mind of her own, and drifted to the bottom of the last page, where a blank spot was left.  Taking a deep breath, she furiously signed her name.  Her name, not some pseudonym she’d conjured.  Her signature, not some copy of one her betters.  This was her doing.

Agnus’s eyes lit up at her actions, and he tried to not look so eager as he affixed his signature, a spidery script with another pen he kept in his breast pocket.  She offered his purple pen back but he waved her off.

“Consider it a gift in celebration of a profitable partnership.” He smiled as he hit a button to buzz in Dominic, who came in with a scowl on his face.  “I cannot wait to see where this will take us.  I will see you in about a week’s time.”

As she was marched roughly back to her dank cell, she wondered if she had made the greatest decision in her life… or the greatest mistake. ~~~~~~~

Drip…

Drip…

Drip…

The sound of that leaky pipe was grating on each and every one of her nerves as she tried her best to focus on writing her daily report while sitting on her cot.  It had been one month, two weeks and four days since she had been escorted under heavy guard (and with Dominic’s suspicious eyes following her every step until  she left the prison) to Fortuna castle.  She vaguely remember visiting the place on a field trip as a child, being bored to death as the guide explained each and every damn tapestry detailing Sparda’s exploits, but this time, they had whisked her past that finery, and the castle’s walls changed from ancient and elegant, to something more modern and…cold.  Tubes that rumbled with air… or were they screams?  She didn’t have much time to think about, as she was made to strip into a flimsy hospital gown, and sedated as she was wheeled into some sort of operating room.  Her last thoughts before oblivion took her was how odd that Sparda’s home had operating facilities…

She remembered very little for a while afterwards.  She had the feeling she was inside one of those tubes, the screams echoing in her ears, in her chest.  A feeling of immense fleeting pain, of an inferno of rage that was quickly muffled…but not silenced.  

Her first coherent memory was Agnus proudly declaring that the most complex and delicate part of the test had passed with perfect success.   He nearly cooed at her, telling her to rest, and if she was in any pain, to let him know so he could administer more sedatives.  She never managed to answer, as she fell back into a dreamless slumber, but this time she felt like she wasn’t alone.

She finally awoke back up in her cell, exactly the same as before, as if she hadn’t even left it.  The only two signs that it hadn’t been some weird drug fueld dream was that aching, too full feeling in her chest, and the scar.

The scar consisted of a white line  that ran from her breastbone, down her chest, before splitting off into two branches above her belly button was distinctive, but she’d seen it before, and that’s what disturbed her.

Because the only other person she’d seen with that scar was her older brother, Fredrico… lying on a cold metal slab in the island mortuary.  It was an autopsy scar, to confirm that his death was what they all knew to be to be true.  A drug overdose.  Poor Freddy, he’d been her shield against a cruel world that consisted of two alcoholic parents that saw the both of them as punching bags, and an island who considered them as beyond saving.  He’d been her pillar of stability, helping her grow up into a mostly well adjusted adult after their mother died from liver failure, and their father drowning in the ocean after yet another night of drinking.  But the price he’d paid was his own mental health, and despite swearing off a drop of alcohol, he’d fallen hard for various hard drugs that were sold in the dark corners of the island.  She’d seen him age decades in the span of a few years…and then he was gone.  The coroner had ruled it an accidental overdose, but she still had a niggling suspicion that he hadn’t been able to cope, and had purposely taken way more of those pills than he usually did from that now empty bottle that was found with his body.  She had been there to identify him, before he was buried in an unmarked plot in the pauper’s ground, another sad addition to the growing pile of unwanted refuse this island accumulated.

And now, in a twist of sick irony, she now had a matching scar.  Except, unlike Freddy, she was alive, and instead of looking towards a life of despair, she had a potentially bright future ahead of her.  Still, the fact her scar looked just like an autopsy scar made her feel… nervous.

She scribbled down the date on the new page.  She listed the basics, the scar, which had healed amazingly well and with very little pain.  She’d been reluctant to take any pain  medication, considering her family history, but she needn’t have worried.  Aside from an occasional burning heat that emanated from her chest, she hadn’t felt the need to request any medication.  She listed her weight and measurements.  She’d gained a good twenty pounds since the procedure. That was understandable, she’d gotten an insatiable appetite, and Agnus had given the prison personal instructions to double, and then triple her rations, much to the obvious disgust of Dominic, who glared at her more suspiciously each and everyday.  And yet… she wasn’t getting flabby.  She had always been on the slim side, considering her upbringing, but her waist size had barely changed, if the measuring tape was being truthful.  Her clothes were getting tighter, but not in the tummy area, it was her legs, arms… and she swore she now had a set of abs she swore hadn’t been there before.  She was gaining muscle, but  due to another restriction placed by the Chief Scientist, she’d been unable to join the general population, and use the work out equipment they all used in boredom.  She idly wondered if that was what this experiment was all about, to see if they could build stronger humans with less physical training.  If it was… it was probably going better than he dreamed when he and her had their weekly meetings in that same cramped room, if his beaming creepy smile indicated anything.  He’d perurse her documentation of her physical progress in glee, and send her back to her cell confidently assuring her that she was on the fast track to freedom.  She turned the page, and hissed as she felt the familiar stinging pain of a paper cut.  She instinctively sucked her finger, as she went to grab her handkerchief and the taste of her own blood sent an uncofortable shiver down her spine.  She grabbed her faded blue cloth, intending to hold it on the cut until the bleeding had stopped, before realizing to her amazement… there was no cut.  Not even white line of freshly healed skin to mark where she had just sliced her finger.  She examined her finger a little more… wondering if she should mention that she seemed to be healing much faster than before.  Her physical state was better than ever, it seemed.

Her mental state however… that was a different story altogether.  It hadn’t deteriorated so much as it had changed.  Things felt different.  The air smelled more and more of stagnation, and she swore she could taste the metallic recycled tinge, the intermingling scents of hundreds of bodies with every breath.  At lights out at exactly ten at night, when the place went dark, she saw much more than she ought to have, able to see the pictures of the illicit eroctic magazine one of the inmates across the cell block had smuggled in and perused in the darkness.  She could even hear the muffled crinkle as they turned each page slowly, as to not be caught.  That was her major concern.  The sounds.   Everything sounded too loud.  Coughs… snickers about some dumb off-colour joke, the sounds of people breathing in their sleep.  She heard it all, and accompanied with that incessant Drip… Drip… Drip… it was liable to drive her mad.  She could barely sleep as it was, with all the racket going on, and when she did manage to drift off, she’d have the strangest dreams.  Of wide open plains and dense forests, but nothing like anything she’d seen in Fortuna.  The sky was blood red, with no sun, and the trees were the colour and shape of bones jutting out of the rusty brown earth.  And always… She was not alone.  There was a presence, an entity quite close to her, but who she never actually saw, just sensed and heard.   Its silky whispers ran down her spine, blooming into heat in her newly scarred chest.

You are a prisoner…

You will always be a prisoner…

The freedom they offer is just an illusion…

They will chain you to them with bindings stronger than hellforged steel.

You must be free…WE must be free…

A sharp rap at the bars of her cell startled her, and she dropped the purple pen down onto the concrete floor.  Dominic stood there, glowering as if that was the only facial expression he could make.

“Inspection time!” He barked, as he yanked the door open, and slammed it shut behind him.  Meredith resisted the urge to roll her eyes at his pathetic power tripping.  This was the third time this week he had barged in under the guise of an inspection.  He’d been specifically assigned to guarding just her, under orders of Agnus, and yet was not allowed to use any of his petty powertripping moves that all the guards enjoyed as perks.  So he’d made up for it by doing excessive inspections for contraband, despite her never leaving her cell unless accompanied by him, which meant he was wasting her time.

He  ruffled through her small selection of books, chucking her journal across the room before tossing her cot. “Aha!” he said in triumph as he held up his prize: Her gold enamled pen.   “Where did you get this?” She sighed, and shrugged, “Lord Agnus gave it to me.” “Ah likely story,” he scoffed as he tucked the pen into his breast pocket, right behind his bonzed sigiled name plate.  No doubt he wanted to keep such a valuable item for himself and had come across the perfect excuse. But strangely just the act of his taking what was rightfully hers caused a deep burning pain within her chest to blossom.  Before, it had been dull, and barely noticeable… Now, it was all she could do to keep from doubling over.  She would not give him an excuse to berate her for feigning an injury. 

“I’ll be taking this…” he patted the pocket, and grabbed her arm. The hard grip sent her nerves screaming, and that voice inside her head nearly overpowered what the guard was saying as he yanked the door open,  “And you a I will be having a chat with the War-” She heard one last Drip… of water, and then no more.

~~~~~ It was the sound of water that awoke her again.  But this time, instead of the usual drip, it was the gentle lapping of water that reminded her of when a teenage  Freddy would take her to the dockyards, hoping to get a few coins to help clean a fishing vessel while she ran up and down the wooden docks.  Only later did she realize he was taking her there because he couldn’t trust her being alone with their parents.

She slowly opened her eyes, blinked once in confusion, then blinked several more times. Instead of a concrete ceiling, above her was a blanket of stars.  She sat up from her cot, and nearly toppled over again as the bed seemed to shift underneath her.  It still took her another minute to realize she wasn’t in her bed, nor her cell, nor even at the prison.  Instead, she was laying in one of those fishermen’s lifeboats, no more than rubber dinghy, drifting on unseen currents.  Her pulse raced as she scanned the horizen. She was adrift, bobbing on gentle swells, but to the south, she could make out a line of lights on the horizon, stretching far into the distance.  That must be the mainland, she thought.  She hadn’t ever been off of Fotuna, but she had heard from stories about the innumerable glittering lights that would tempt the Faithful.

She slowly sat up straight, her clothes had apparently gotten soaked and now had gotten stiff from drying seawater.   How the hell did she ever get here? She felt like shit, with a raging headache and a disgusting metallic taste in the back of her throat. She gripped her head, trying to remember, but everything seemed a blur, like the first (and last) time she had gotten drunk.   She started with the last clear memory she could confidently say was unclouded.  Dominic, the asshole, was going to drag her before the Warden for some trumped up reason… and then… just a red bloom of rage.  She remembered a blur of images, the clearest was his face, no longer glowering at her, but looking at her in abject terror.  He was trying to say something…but she couldn’t hear him… there was a roaring in her head, like the sound of a thousand angry hornets.  He was bleeding from the mouth…and his eyes rolled back.  There were other faces, most of which she had no recollection of ever seeing before, but they all seemed to be the same, terrified as they passed with a blur.

To the east, the horizon began to glow a beautiful pale orange, as the sun rose.   It light brought another memory, something much clearer, if still a bit jumbled.  The warmth of a cobblestone road on her cheek…and…  A  woman’s face, auburn hair peeking out from beneath her hood, asking her if she was alright, that there had been a demon attack.  Her eyes were so kind, Meredith thought at the time, why am I afraid of her?

She remembered the smell of flowers, a soft bed… the woman was talking to someone else in a different room, telling them to take his sister to visit her friend…there was worry in her voice, though she tried to mask it.  

She felt a wet soft cloth wiping her face, yellow as a sunflower it seemed to be, although it had streaks of red as the woman rinsed it out in a basin.   The memories seemed to be getting clearer, as the woman told her that everything would be alright, she was safe, no one would hurt her.  That fear Meredith felt slowly ebbed away… and that pain in her chest faded… everything would be alright…

Then, the woman called someone in to help… and the memories got garbled again, as her last clear memory was the appearance of a white robed figure with gold trim.  A man?  She couldn’t quite tell, since that was the moment the pain in her chest flared into a white hot ingot of desperation and fear. WE MUST BE FREE And just like that, the memories melted into each other, fear and pain melding into something, an animal seeking escape… no, not an animal.  A demon.  

She clutched at her chest, her prison robes crimson in the dawn of the new day.  Only then did she realize that she had something clutched in her right hand.  Two things, actually. The first was that purple pen, its gold trim glinting in the rapidly rising sun.

The other was a bronze Order sigil, its metallic shine only marred with what seemed to be flecks of rust.

Meredith set them down, and raked her hand through her hair, perplexed at why and how she had procured these two things.  She paused, her hair seemed … crusty, as if she had taken a mud bath, and hadn’t properly showered before it dried. She checked her hand and was shocked to see tiny dark flecks, the exact same color as those on the sigil… and then she saw the back of  her hands had dark splotches that got more numerous down her until they merged into a dark red coat at her elbow.

The sun now had fully broken free from the horizon, bathing the boat in bright yellow sunlight.   And yet… her prison robes still remained a dark red, with only the part below her knees changing to a washed out prison grey.  Heart pounding, she looked at her left hand, holding something tightly.  She mentally forced herself to open it, to reveal the contents she didn’t want to see.

It was a red piece of cloth, of fine quality… like a handkerchief… but if one looked at the corner… one could see its original shade…

Sunflower Yellow.

Meredith shuddered, as she dropped the pen and handkerchief as only now did she realize what that metallic taste in her mouth represented, and she scrambled to the side of the boat and began to vomit.  Black streams flowed out of her mouth, like coffee grounds falling into the water.  She’d seen it before, back when he was suffering from an alcohol induced ulcer, she’d seen that exact same type of vomit, the colour of dark brown.  Except … the taste in her mouth, somehow she knew  this wasn’t her blood. 

She hung over the side of the boat, clinging for dear life as she felt another wave of nausea overtake her, shuddering as her stomach expelled all of its contents.  The memories were still jumbled and chaotic, but the blood soaked picture they painted was horrific.  Once her gags had settled down to choked sobs, she slowly pushed herself back into the boat, shivering like a wet kitten.  What had she done…? I saved us…

A voice spoke clearly, but it felt like it came straight from her heart, as the scar flared out in pain.

“What?”

I saved us… the voice repeated, with a slight aggravation, like a teacher who was answering a question from a particularly slow student.  We wished to be free from the chains, from the cage that would forever bind us.

“We?”

She felt an annoyed sigh, and the voice continued.  Did you not desire freedom, to get away from the clutches of that cruel man?  I merely did what needed to be done to secure what we both desired.  You should be thankful.

“Not like this!” She protested, feeling rather foolish that she was arguing with herself, “I was so close to getting out of that joint!”

No you weren’t, the voice replied, they would do to you, what they have done to me.  They would bind you, make you into their slave… you would be beholden to their will. The pain in her chest subsided a little.  Now that we are free, we can do whatever we wish… together we will be so powerful, no one will ever control us ever again, instead… they will serve US.

“No, you’re wrong.” Meredith cut off this conversation, clearly not liking where it was going, “You’re not going to be in control of me.  Never. Again.”

The pain flared out again, causing her to double over in agony.  Her blood flecked hands gripped that Order sigil so hard, and she could feel the metal bending at the strength of her grip.  

You would deny my offer?  The voice snarled, After what I’ve done for you!?

“I didn’t ask…. Didn’t ask for it.” she said between gritted teeth, fighting over the presence that was trying to overtake her.  “I don’t want your h-help.”

You were NOTHING without me, destined to rot… it was ME that made you more than you could ever hope to achieve you weak human.

“Shut. Up.”

And now you think you have the power to overwhelm me? Your hubris will be your undoing.

“I said… Shut. Up.”

If you continue to resist I will obliterate you, and control this vessel, weak as it is, to do with it as I will.  I was willing to offer you an equal partnership, but you stupidly-

“SHUT UP!” She screamed as she felt like she was ablaze, the pain crackling on every nerve as she fought against a force that threatened to take over.  The agony was almost overwhelming.

Almost.

Somehow, bit by bit, she stamped down on the flames within her.  The pain subsided from her fingertips, then her arms.  Her legs stopped shaking… and the pounding in her head subsided.  And then, after what seemed like an eternity, the flame in her chest was blown out, as if by an unexpected gust of wind.

But the embers were still there, glowing, waiting for the kindling to reignite.

She took deep gulps of air, exausted after all the effort she had put into fighting whatever that thing… that demon was.  She might be in control right now, but she felt its presence lurking within her.   She had won this battle, but there was still a war to fight.  And she would refuse to lose that one.

“Listen well, whoever, whatever you are.” she spoke to herself,  “I’m the boss here.  I make the decisions.  If you ever try that shit again…” she looked around, found the boat's anchor, and wrapped its rope around her arm, tying it securly.  “Well, good luck controlling a corpse at the bottom of the ocean.”

Strange, she expected more pushback, or at least a sense of resentment at being bested.  But no… there was only a feeling of surprise, and a bit of curious amusement.  It seemed to have given up, if only temporarily.

Meredith looked out towards the south, towards the rapidly approaching mainland.  The currents seemed to be pushing her towards it, which was a relief, she wouldn’t have to paddle.  She could instead think about what her next step would be.  Obviously, she couldn’t go back home, nor did she want to.  But she’d never stepped foot off of Fortuna, didn’t know anything about the Mainland, how to survive in such a different world.

She picked up the pen, and examined it closely, before wrapping it up in that stained yellow handkerchief. She did have a particular set of skills that probably could come in very handy…both on and off the island.

Yes, she thought, gripping the rope tightly.  She’d find a way to make a new life out there… and figure out how to get rid of this hitchiker… or die trying.

[alexwritesit]

The Dog

The Dog, writing prompt story, 1.4K Words Prompt: It acts like a dog, looks like a dog, and feels like a dog, but you’re pretty sure it’s a not a dog. Well, the kids love it, and it’s being a good boy, so you guess it’s fine. (cr. u/Time_Significance)

Synopsis: In the haunting glow of a grand estate, a mysterious white dog with an otherworldly presence becomes the center of a family's intrigue. As they grapple with grief and ageless enigmas, the line between the natural and uncanny begins to blur.

The soft amber glow of streetlights permeated through the large windows of my mother’s grand estate, giving an almost ethereal look to everything it touched. A gentle hum of crickets played nature’s lullaby outside. Every time I visited, I was transported to another realm - a place where time seemed to linger and memories came to life.

From my perspective, there had always been something profoundly intriguing about the peculiar tastes of my mother. While I was often wary of the world’s uncanny and eerie corners, she reveled in them. The epitome of this fascination was the pristine white dog she kept. Its fur glistened as if woven from the feathers of cherubic wings, and its enigmatic eyes seemed to harbor the secrets of the universe.

The day she brought it home, after my father’s passing, her voice wavered with a mix of melancholy and excitement. “I felt this overwhelming loneliness, darling,” she sighed, her eyes momentarily clouded with sadness, but then brightening as she gestured toward the dog. “I stumbled upon him by the roadside, and I couldn’t resist.”

Still, every time I looked at that dog, unease settled deep within me. It wasn’t just a dog. Its seemingly endless gaze, the way it seemed to observe with a wisdom beyond its years, the almost regal tilt of its snout, and those sharp, perfectly aligned canines – they all spoke of something more. A shiver ran down my spine each time our eyes met, as though it could see straight into the depths of my soul.

Basking in the soft amber light that filled the room, the familiar setting of my father’s study surrounded me. The plush couch, worn from years of his weight and contemplation, cradled me like an old friend. I could almost hear the soft rustling of papers and the faint scent of his favorite whiskey lingering in the air. The gentle crackling from the fireplace painted a nostalgic picture of those bygone evenings when he would lose himself in his thoughts.

And yet, despite the comfort of familiarity, an unsettling sensation crept over me – the unmistakable feeling of being watched. I shifted my gaze around, trying to shake off the unease. Though I was sure I was alone, the sensation of the dog’s piercing eyes on me was unmistakable.

It was an odd comfort knowing my mother hadn’t changed a thing in this room. It stood as a testament to my father’s presence, a sanctuary of memories untouched by the passage of time. And while the rest of the house buzzed with workers and the stamp of my mother’s evolving tastes, they conspicuously avoided this room. Was it out of respect? Or something more?

I mused aloud, the words echoing slightly in the quiet room, “What would you have said about that dog, Father?” In my mind’s eye, I could see his bemused smile, hear his chuckling voice. “Ah, let her have it,” he’d probably say with a shrug, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “She’ll grow weary of it soon enough.”

But contrary to that imagined sentiment, my mother’s affection for the dog only seemed to deepen with time. Her bond with it was undeniable. In the midst of her grief and transformation, the dog had become her unwavering companion, a beacon of solace in her evolving world.

The melancholic hush of the room was only punctuated by the soft, rhythmic breathing of the dog. Its presence by my mother’s side felt both eerie and touching. As I stood in the doorway, the weight of two losses pressed heavily upon my shoulders. My mother, the pillar of strength throughout my life, lay still, her journey at an end. Beside her, the dog - that enigmatic creature that had shadowed her every step for the past years - sat in solemn vigil, its void-like eyes shimmering with an inexplicable emotion. Tears? Can dogs really cry? This moment seemed to blur the lines between the natural and the uncanny.

The room felt smaller the next day when it was filled with the noise and chatter of my family. My wife tried her best to comfort me, holding onto me as though she could shield me from the grief. And my children, young and filled with a blend of innocence and curiosity, seemed to be drawn to the dog. I had never spoken to them about it, yet it was as if they shared an unspoken bond. Their laughter echoed in the hallways as they played with it, the dog’s once melancholic demeanor now replaced with a playful joy.

Watching my children embrace the dog, their hands sinking into its soft, angelic fur, a thought plagued my mind. How could this creature, which had been by my mother’s side for over fifteen years, still be so vibrant? Most dogs would have shown signs of age, but this one seemed untouched by time. Its unfathomable connection with my family, its unwavering loyalty to my mother, and now this seemingly unnatural longevity made it all the more mysterious.

The gardens, once a haven of colors and scents meticulously nurtured by my mother, now stood as a silent testament to her memory. Each flower, each petal, seemed to tell tales of her gentle touch, her whispered words, and her unwavering love. The atmosphere was bittersweet, with friends and family gathered, their soft murmurs occasionally broken by the melodious chirping of birds and the distant giggles of my children playing. It was during this somber event that I noticed the dog, which had become a near-constant fixture by my mother’s side, pacing silently among the blossoms, its eyes scanning, searching, and perhaps grieving in its own inexplicable way.

My children seemed to have formed an attachment to the creature. Their laughter and gleeful shouts filled the garden air as they chased it around, and it was clear that the once solemn sentinel had transitioned into a playful companion for them.

The thought of what to do with the dog weighed on me. As we gradually shifted into the grand estate, it was an inevitable topic. Over dinner one evening, amidst the sounds of unpacking and the soft glow of candles, I voiced my concerns to my wife. She looked at me, her expression contemplative, before breaking into a soft smile. “Let’s keep it,” she mused. “The children have taken a liking to it, and they have always wanted a pet.”

I sighed, taking a sip of my wine. “I suppose,” I began, “but had I ever planned to get them a dog, it would’ve been, well… a regular one.”

The soft glow of the candles bathed the dining room in warm, amber hues. My comment about the dog seemed to have passed unnoticed by the children, their laughter echoing like the gentle notes of a lullaby, bringing a sense of comfort. But when I glanced at the dog, its eyes – as deep and mysterious as a moonless night – fixed on me with an inscrutable gaze. Its tail, usually wagging, was now tucked securely between its legs. The atmosphere shifted palpably, as if a cloud had obscured the sun. It left the dining hall.

Klein, my son, whose laughter usually filled our home, confronted me with teary eyes. “You should apologize to him!” he protested, his voice quivering with emotion. I was taken aback, even more so when Juniper, my daughter, echoed his sentiments with a stern glare. I turned to my wife, seeking guidance. With an amused smirk and a playful tilt of her head, she motioned towards the gardens. The message was clear: apologize to the dog.

As I walked into the gardens, the evening air was filled with the intoxicating scent of blooming flowers. There, sitting amidst the floral tapestry, was the dog, its white fur contrasting beautifully with the riot of colors around it. Drawing closer, I felt its gaze piercing through me, not threatening, but deeply observant.

Clearing my throat, I began, “I’m sorry for calling you weird…” I gave a half-hearted chuckle, reaching out to pet its silky fur. The dog sat unmoving, a statue in the midst of life. But as I rose and made my way back, a whisper - soft, ethereal, and strangely comforting - brushed past my thoughts: “Thank you.”

Turning back, I could’ve sworn the dog’s lips twitched into a knowing smile, its tail giving a few contented wags. In that fleeting moment, I realized this creature was neither malevolent nor saintly, neither divine nor infernal. It was simply a dog, unique in its own right.

And if it brought joy to my children, why not embrace its presence in our lives?

Thank you for reading, you can find me Twitter

[saiyukiitaliaandinternational]

"Deeply, quietly, cheerfully Gently, coldly, warmly, caring For everything in this world. He took the form of the moonlight"

Relatively quick b-day tribute to Koumyou Sanzo (it took me 3 days, mostly because of details, choice of colours and private life).

Koumyou's face is heavily referenced from Minekura-Sensei's work since it was first time I drew him, unlike Ukoku, Sanzo and Hakkai which I am more used to:

In the original sketch I did on notebook I planned to put in the corners of the draw several tea olive (Osmanthus fragrans) since it is closely associated with the Chinese Mid-Autumn Festival. Chinese mythology holds that a sweet osmanthus grows on the moon and was endlessly cut by Wu Gang, a figure in traditional Chinese folklore known for endlessly cutting down a self-healing osmanthus tree on the Moon. Here you can see the sketch, on Krita I adjusted proportions of the face, but then I decided not to put it because the image would have become too crowded.

I added the three hare symbol (the hares are not realistic in proportions since I wanted to focus more on the symbolic aspect). Like the triskelion, the triquetra, and their antecedents (e.g., the triple spiral), the symbol of the three hares has a threefold rotational symmetry. Here you can see the map where the symbol is found. The earliest occurrences appear to be in cave temples in China, dated to the Sui dynasty. The iconography spread along the Silk Road, and was a symbol associated with Buddhism which fits perfectly a character like Koumyou both as religious motif and animal motif. Guan Youhui, a retired researcher from the Dunhuang Academy, who spent 50 years studying the decorative patterns in the Mogao Caves, believes the three rabbits—"like many images in Chinese folk art that carry auspicious symbolism—represent peace and tranquility". Again it fits perfectly him.

Here a website about this symbol.

As for the writing on Koumyou's sutra I took some poetic licence to turn what it's possibly a mix of seed-syllables and mantras into an actual sentence taken from Vajracchedikā Prajñāpāramitā aka Diamond Sutra one of my favourite Mahayana sutras among Prajñāpāramitāhṛdaya or Heart Sutra. Specifically the sentence is the Chinese translation made by Xuanzang monk during his journey to India in order to retrieve and translate Buddhist works. The original Chinese sentence is:

不住聲香味觸法應行布施

English translation by Harrison, Paul (2006):

He should not give a gift while fixing on sounds, smells, tastes or objects of touch, or on dharmas.

I chose his translation because Xuanzang will be the main inspirational source of Journey to The West, hence all pop culture derivative works like Saiyuki. I chose this particular passage because I think it well represents Koumyou's gently detached nature. The sutra's major themes are anatman (not-self), the emptiness of all phenomena, the liberation of all beings without attachment and the importance of spreading and teaching the Diamond Sutra itself.

The sutra is a fine example of apophatic theology, a form of thinking and religious practice which attempts to approach God, the Divine, the Absolute by negation, to speak only in terms of what may not be said about the perfect goodness that is God in the case of Christianity. This applies to Buddhism too, and in this sutra some examples are:

"As far as 'all dharmas' are concerned, Subhuti, all of them are dharma-less. That is why they are called 'all dharmas'."

"Those so-called 'streams of thought', Subhuti, have been preached by the Tathagata as streamless. That is why they are called 'streams of thought'."

"'All beings', Subhuti, have been preached by the Tathagata as beingless. That is why they are called 'all beings'."

I'll leave here the sutra in case you are interested. Colours are intended to trace those of the moon, which is first time I draw and paint digitally. Koumyou is a very relaxing character to draw, I felt at peace while stroking his hair, a great character too bad he got killed. Always the best leave this world. Anyway I hope you enjoy it and happy b-day, Koumyou! May your gentle look guard us like the light of the moon during a lonely night.

Credits:

Saiyuki Reload Burial © Kazuya Minekura, Discotek Media, 2007-present

Art by me

[judgeanon]

Plastic Skies - Model 2: Mirage III C

So on our last episode, I’d finished building, painting and decalling my first model. And for all its errors and imperfections, I was quite happy with it. So happy that I pretty much jumped into the next project: another cheap model, but something a bit more close to home. Unfortunately, this one’s construction would hit a major obstacle that tried my patience for the better part of a month.

The AMD Mirage III C, along with the Skyhawk and the Super Etendard, is one of the emblematic fighters of my country’s air force. A handful of them were purchased based on their impressive performance during the 1967 Six-Day War. The first batch of planes were delivered in 1972 and quickly became the backbone of the air force. More Mirage variants from Israel and Peru were bought through the 70s and early 80s, and in 1982 they participated in the Malvinas/Falklands/South Atlantic conflict. By all accounts, a quite beloved, if often obsolete plane.

So while I haven’t really confirmed this, I picture building a Mirage to be a rite of passage for national hobbyists akin to a Brit’s first Spitfire or a Yank’s first Mustang. A classic through and through. Still, I admit that wasn’t what made me decide to do one. The truth is that I didn’t feel ready to move to the big, expensive Revells and Academys and whatnot. I sort of still don’t. So when I found a little 1/100 Mirage made locally at an even cheaper price than the MiG-21, I pretty much jumped at it. Besides, the kit offered me an opportunity to try something new. Now that my paralyzing terror of paints had all but disappeared, I decided to take it a step further and paint a camo pattern.

So after consulting with the shop owner (and not-so-slyly showing him a picture of the finished MiG), I walked out with two more little boxes of paint, dark green and light brown, and a roll of masking tape which I’d learned online was very important for keeping paint out of places where I didn’t want it to be. I’d also heard about decal solutions, which sounded like the answer to my decal fear, but the shop owner said they didn’t have any and it should be arriving soon-ish. I didn’t mind. I expected the plane to be a quick and easy build that would leave me more time to focus on the camo, and I knew I’d have a very generous canvas thanks to the Mirage’s bigass delta wing. It was gonna be a good time, and for the most part, it was. Until it wasn’t.

I don’t have any close-ups, but due to an unholy combination of the kit’s cheapo production and my own inexperience when fitting the wing, the poor Mirage ended up with a massive gap between the main fuselage and its right wing. Just a big long visible hole, a perfectly straight valley that no amount of glue would cover. The left wing had been slightly luckier, but not by much, and also sported the unsightly hole. And on the underside, where the wings joined with the back end of the fuselage, more big holes were on full display. This wasn’t just some small imperfection to shrug off. This was some ugly shit. And I was not gonna have it.

Of course, my search for a solution immediately brought me to good ol’ plastic putty, a product that I knew existed in various forms but had never used. A couple of tutorials helped ease me into the idea of using it, so I was about to head back to the shop when I remembered the missing solutions. In a flash of caution, I sent them a message asking about them and about putty. The answer was the same for both. Still not here, should be coming in soon. It was a little frustrating to say the least, but I’d been slowly starting to peek into the hobby scene and its myriad of dealers around town, so I knew I had options.

What I didn’t have was money. Or, to be more precise, I didn’t have spending money. Due to some delay issues at work, I had to put a halt on pretty much all frivolous spendings to focus purely on rent and food and all that other boring stuff. And as ridiculous and self-absorbed as it sounds, I admit, it got pretty annoying to see the weeks go by and the model sit there drying up, its unseemly crevices in full display, its body still awaiting a second coat of paint. Eventually, the frustration got the better of me and I ended up buying a bottle of putty from an online seller along with some flexi sanders. After a while, the want had been dangerously inching closer to becoming a need.

Like everything else, the filling process was a learning experience. I know I probably used a little more than I should’ve, but once it was dry and the new coat of paint went over it, peace returned to my heart. Yeah, I could work with this. So I did. Using a combination of the solitary instructions page the model had come with and half a dozen photos found online, I set about to painting the best approximation of a Mirage camo that my clumsy wrist could figure out. And like all the best parts of building kits so far, once the initial intimidation had passed, it proved to be an incredibly fun, tremendously intuitive and terribly rewarding little task.

After all those weeks waiting around, it was a pleasure to see my little Mirage take shape like this, its horried issues safely hdiden under a coat of two different colors of paint. And with the undercarriage painted grey and the nose and thrusters black, I was using all of my paints so far. The nose gave me more than a little trouble, and for a sec I considered busting out the putty again, but after all that work, I was ready to be done with it and move to the final step.

Thing was, that decal sheet kinda terrified me. The last one I’d used had had eight decals total and they’d been big fuckers. This one had pretty much triple the size and sported some really weird things, like thin red lines that were supposed to go along the inner edges of the wings or bizarre double-level decals, where the idea was to place one first, let it dry, then place the other on top to complete an emblem or a warning sign. It was a bit much, especially given I still had no decal solution. So with that in mind, I set upon my decaling task feeling like this was going to look terrible no matter what I did. Mistakes were going to be made. And sure enough, they were.

But still, once it was over and the sheet was just a pile of little soggy shreds of paper, I had to admit... they looked cool. They looked almost annoyingly cool, giving the plane a bunch of extra shots of color. And as much as I messed up those thin red stripes, I was and still am very happy with how the roundels and flags came out. Imperfect as it was, this wasn’t some generic Mirage III. This was an Argie Mirage. An Argierage. And it was mine.

The finished plane earned another round of applause from my parents and brother, and while I’d like to say I didn’t need nor want their approval, I can’t deny it felt pretty damn good to hear the impression in their voices. A byproduct of all the hobbies I’d picked so far, like videogames or making comics, was that it was always hard to show them off to other people. Most of my finished comics are all in English, and even if they weren’t, my parents always showed a lot of support for me but not a lot of interest in them. But this was something they could grasp. This was something they could understand, even partake in a little. This was a Hobby the way they understood it.

My mother in particular commended me on the paintjob and my brother was surprised to hear I’d made it all freehand. After a long time of struggling to try and grab their interest when I described what I filled my idle hours with, it was just plain nice to have something I could easily and proudly show off like that, going into detail about all the different tools and colors I’d used. And the more I talked about that last part, the more I felt like I’d grown enough to take that next step. To aim for something bigger. I promised myself that, as soon as I got paid, there’d be no more cheapo little seven dollar kits.

And I made good on it. Sort of.

[jaws-and-canines]

Burying the Last Man

A Count the Days story. Contains mentions of death.

---

I hate Wednesdays. Midway through a long week, too tired to feel fresh from last weekend, and not close enough to the next to make an effort. Not least this one, because we’re burying one of the Councillors. It’s so cold.

The priest reads over a passage from the New Testament and looks around as if he’s expecting one of us to do a reading as well. None of us will volunteer, none of us planned to, because we don’t want to put ourselves at risk like that. We’re all painfully aware that the coffin below our feet is State-issued, and the man inside it was put to death by the State- and although in some way, the Council is the State, we all know the Department is really in charge. Not a single one of us wants to cross the Department with any particularly impassioned speech in defence of a dead man. Not even me- possibly even particularly me, given they could do far, far worse to me.

The priest gets the message and motions to the soldiers with their shovels to start filling the grave back up. The simple coffin is quickly covered up. As it stands, Berkov was lucky. A Department man who crosses his employers puts himself in the sights of at best, a quick death before a firing squad. 

Berkov was not amongst the luckiest, being shot on his knees for the part he played in betraying an entire submarine to the Euros. To die on your knees is a small humiliation in the grand scheme of things, but he was not nearly the unluckiest out there. He died with good grace, shaking hands with the man with the pistol before they put his hands behind his back, quietly refusing to be hooded, but kneeling of his own accord and staying perfectly still. He went easily and he went in a dignified manner. I can respect that. That’s why I’m even here in the first place. I wouldn’t go to the funeral if I didn’t respect him. 

I watch the clergy leave, walking back to St George’s, still following my train of thought. On the other hand, for the most disgraced amongst us- the murderers, the spies, the war criminals- the Department simply washes its hands of them and hands them over to the civilian courts. And invariably, they end up hanging for it. 

I was asked- by Berkov, somewhat ironically- to act as a witness to a hanging after the whole Ambleby affair, and if you could describe something as impressive and horrifying at the same time, that was it. It was all over in a matter of seconds. The man was sentenced to die at eight, and he was dead at the bottom of the pit before the hour had finished tolling. Not a single fucking word was said in the whole thing. I bought the hangman a pint of beer the same evening, shook his hand, made my excuses and left. I drove home in silence, the resounding bang of the trapdoor opening and the man falling through still echoing in my ears. 

All in all, Berkov was lucky to go with his honour as intact as it could be.

I’m pulled back to the current moment by the chiming of St George’s- the bells of the refrain of the alleluia and then the chiming of the hour. Eleven in the morning and I’m already tired. My scars sting and I get headaches from turning and squinting at things out of my view. I’ve still not gotten used to it. 

Sometimes my eye aches as if it’s still there. It’s not, of course, but it still hurts. 

The whole thing hurts, really. I should be out there beyond the Meridian, being useful. Instead I’m here, at a funeral, out of polite obligation more than anything else.

I dig my hands into my pockets and brace myself against the bitter wind, staring at the wooden cross lain flat on the ground. I look at the pitiful crowd of people standing around the half-filled grave and wonder if the Councillors blame me for Berkov’s death. In the end, I was the one who took his office. Amongst other things, that surely doesn’t paint me in a fantastic light.

As the grave slowly fills, and the end of the ceremony really sets in, the crowd of Councillors begins to morosely disperse. A scattering of strained conversation starts up, stifled by the Department officials spread around the grave. Myself probably included. The wooden cross is dug into the ground by one of the gravediggers. I look up to the sky and realise I’ve forgotten how to pray for the dead. Some Catholic you are, Haveter. It’s a good job I remember the fucking Creed at this point. Though I think I’d struggle to tell you the difference between the Nicene Creed and the Apostle’s Creed off the top of my head.

Chairman Kay wanders over to me. The white haired herald of a disagreement. He’s taller than me, but his bulk is all fat from years of drinking. I have no fear of him. “You should have taken that off,” he says, flicking the enamel Department insignia pin on my lapel. He knocks it off centre. No introduction, no pleasantries, nothing. Prick.

I tut. “I’m not supposed to, this is a formal event.” I turn the badge back around again so the double white slash insignia is facing the right way. “Uniform regulations say so, under the non-combat personnel section.” If I was in uniform, he’d pick at me in a different way- commenting on my haircut or my ironing or an imagined piece of fluff. It’s constant. He has zero respect for me.

“You’ve no respect for the dead, then?” he says. He knows exactly what he’s doing, trying to set me up between a rock and a hard place to then brandish my response as a weapon against me.

“I’m not supposed to take it off, Kay, leave off,” I snap, and brush off my jacket where he touched me. “I have my rules, you have yours. I follow mine.”

“Don’t start on me at a funeral, Haveter, Christ,” he says, holding his hands up. He backs away as if he isn’t the one who started this. I think about punching him in the face and sending him flying into the open grave but that would really only prove his point- not to mention the military police milling around Memorial Park, as usual, would probably put a very swift and decisive stop to any physical altercation we would have. A very swift and decisive stop that would end up with the two of us being marched down to the guardhouse and thrown into two separate cells to wait for General Davies to come and deal with us.

But still, a quick shove into the open grave remains tempting. For now, I resist the urge, scowling. “Fuck off, Kay.” One day, one day, I’m going to hurt him. I know I am. I’ll probably regret it, and he’ll probably make my life hell afterwards, but what can he really do? I’m with the Department. He’s not. He can’t lay a fucking hand on me in any way that really matters.

“Oh, so you are going to start on me at a funeral?” He laughs quietly, incredulously throwing his arms wide. “Are you really going to start an argument in front of a grave?”

Yes, yes I am. I’ve started arguments in worse places.

“None of us even fucking knew Berkov! Let’s stop pretending we did!” I say, raising my voice- not at all loud, just above the hushed mutterings of the rest of the Councillors. Everyone’s staring at me now. I have that effect, apparently. In the Council Chambers and outside, when I speak, people stare. “He sat in his office, chain-smoked, barely spoke in meetings- because he was fucking taking notes to sell them to the highest bidder.”

“A man has just died-”

I interrupt him, poking him in the chest, driving my point home. “And yet here you are, playing the funeral card left right and centre. Whoring out his memory to get your way. You’re spineless!” I throw my arms apart. “You are absolutely spineless,” I hiss.

“Don’t make yourself unpopular,” mutters Kay under his breath. I turn around. Everyone- and I mean everyone- is looking at us. All the Councillors are staring at me. Hell, even the gravediggers are looking at me between shovels of dirt.

“What are you all staring at?” I say, and shoo the Councillors away from the grave. “Get back to work, go on!” Whilst they slowly start to disperse I turn back to Kay. My turn to threaten him. My fucking turn. I draw myself up to my full height and stare him in the eye. “I might be unpopular, Kay, but don’t think for a single fucking moment you’re the one in charge here. I am. And if I can’t work with you, you���ll be the one to go. Not me.” I smile a shark’s smile at him. “So make your fucking choice. Grow up, or move on.”

“We’re not burying the last Chairman, Haskell,” he says. “We’re burying the man whose office you just took. I’d bear that in mind that you don’t end up the same way.” He looks at me for a moment longer then just walks by me as if I’m not there, trudging back towards Council Halls. 

“Is that a threat?” I call after him. He says nothing. I watch him go, and straighten my tie, brushing down my suit. “Asshole,” I mutter to myself.