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storm-leviosa-fanfics · 1 year

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car ma vie, car mes joies, aujourd’hui, ça commence avec toi

It's finally here!!! My fic for the @batfam-big-bang!!! I got to work with my brilliant beta @enchantingruinscandy and the amazing artist @jube-art on this. Best team!! Thanks a million guys <3

Rated: Gen

Summary:

Maybe, he dared to think, Goliath couldn’t do it yet, but certainly he could with time. With effort. With training. Damian knew all about time, and effort, and training... Damian was going to be the first person to train a dragon-bat in dressage. or, Damian falls in love with dressage. How could he not? It is a beautiful, elegant sport, one that rewards control and accuracy and precision. The problem is that Damian does not have a horse. But that’s okay - he has Goliath. The dressage world will never be the same. Certainly some of the judges are never coming back.

Chapter 1 - starting from zero

The stables out back hadn’t been used in decades - well, except when Drake had lived in them for some god forsaken reason, but that didn’t count - which was why Damian was inspecting them. And it was a good thing he was: cobwebs so old they were thick with dust hung heavily from the rafters, the hinges on every door were rusted near to disintegration, and to top it all off, the rat holes made the stable floors themselves unstable. He didn’t dare inspect the hayloft. If the main stables were this bad, he dreaded to think what the upstairs was like. Most likely, it was more dangerous than swinging across Gotham’s rooftops.

In other words, the stables required intensive work to make them inhabitable. And making them inhabitable was the bare minimum really; Damian would not settle for any less than perfection.

He tapped the pen against his chin, scribbled another note. He could see how the stables would look once restored to their former glory. The high ceilings with strong wooden beams stained to keep out the rot, the dirt floors covered with concrete, rubber matting, and a thick layer of fluffy shavings, the hinges, kick bolts and stiff sliding bolts replaced with top-quality sliding doors, the shutters on the back windows replaced so the outside world was visible. It needed far more than a fresh coat of paint, like father had claimed (though a fresh coat of paint was also sorely needed) but all was not lost.

Damian’s newest project had come to him early in the morning in the form of a letter slotted into his window frame telling him in no uncertain terms that Goliath could no longer be kept on the island. Alternative arrangements must be made for him. Damian had put the letter down, gone to eat breakfast, and mentioned it to no one.

When, later on, he had passed a TV showing a sports channel inexplicably playing a video of horses dancing, he had thought to himself ‘Goliath could do that’, and then stopped. The rest of the morning passed in a blur, as Damian was slowly sucked into this sport he had not known existed until that very moment. Maybe, he dared to think, Goliath couldn’t do it yet , but certainly he could with time. With effort. With training. Damian knew all about time, and effort, and training. Damian needed to find a new home for Goliath. The connections were made and there was no turning back.

Damian was going to be the first person to train a dragon-bat in dressage.

… He just needed somewhere to keep him first.

The supplies Damian needed to fix the stables could not all be bought from a hardware store, or a farm supply store, nor could he do the fixing himself. It chafed at him, the need for outsiders, but there was no getting around it. Pennyworth was insistent. He could take a long-handled broom to the cobwebs though, so that was how he spent his Saturday afternoon: bandana firmly tied around the lower half of his face and broom in hand as he attacked cobwebs that had been spiderless before he was born. By dinnertime he had cleared one stall. It was the slowest of slow progress.

He came back the next day with a new bandana and a leaf blower and no adult supervision.

All the stalls were clear of cobwebs but Damian was grounded. This mattered not at all because now the cobwebs were cleared, Pennyworth’s favoured handyman could come in to replace the doors and windows. By the time he was ungrounded, the stables would be almost ready for their newest occupant. In the meantime, Titus needed walking and if he just so happened to swing by the stables while doing so, well, that was just a coincidence.

By the time he’d finished painting the stables, everyone had figured out something was up. Grayson had asked, Drake had made comments, Father had narrowed his eyes suspiciously and hummed. Pennyworth knew everything of course, but it would not be down to him whether Goliath came home. He would have to ask Father, and that made him nervous.

Asking made him nervous, so he didn’t ask. He simply told Father at breakfast that Goliath was coming home.

“I will require the Batplane this afternoon,” he said, solemnly, “the one with the large cargohold.”

Father asked no questions, so he told no lies.

“You know what happens if you don’t bring it back in one piece,” he warned instead. Yes, Damian did know what the consequences were if he destroyed the Batplane. Luckily for him, this was not any kind of mission, merely a transportation need.

“I’ll be back in time for patrol,” he told Father, and Father grunted, then returned to his tablet. WE had been…difficult lately, and taking up far more of Father’s time than he would like. It boded well for Damian though, that Father was distracted. A distracted Father was one less likely to complain about another pet that Damian had acquired.

Goliath did not want to get on the plane, did not want to stand in the hold, did not want to leave the island, or eat treats out of Damian’s hand. He was scared by the movement of the plane, by the sound of the engines, by the strangeness of his environment. And Damian did not have Maya with him this time, did not have Jon to call on to help, or Colin to regale his adventures to. He was alone, with a terrified beast and a plane to fly and he may be just a little bit out of his depth.

But Damian Wayne does not give up easily. Damian Wayne did not need help. He could fly a plane and placate Goliath and keep everyone safe and Father would never know about this brief set-back. Except Goliath was well and truly panicking, tugging at his leadrope and pawing at the floor, whites of his eyes showing as his eyes rolled in his head. Damian looked at him, looked at the controls of the plane, looked at the med-kit stashed in the cubby, looked back at Goliath. He had two options here: one, he could ditch the plane, fly Goliath home, miss patrol and face the consequences, or two, he could see how much sedative was in the med-kit. There were no other safe options.

They did not have enough midazolam to be particularly useful, but Damian wasn’t looking to knock Goliath out completely, just relax him a bit. If he used all they had, it would probably be enough - there weren’t exactly textbooks about anaesthetising Goliath’s species, but he could guess based on size. Sure enough, a quite frankly alarmingly large injection of sedative later and Goliath was no longer hysterical in the hold of the Batplane. Damian was cleared for takeoff.

It was time to go home.

When Damian returned, Father was a fuming, fussing volcano in the middle of the batcave. Damian’s hackles raised, and he had scarcely landed the plane before he and Father were arguing. Sharp, barbed words and vicious insults flew and Damian did not have it in him to regret. He knew Father likely would not either. This was a fight for Goliath, but in the heat of it Damian forgot about the beast, still tied up in the belly of the plane, the midazolam wearing off. By the time Father had stormed out of the cave, Damian had received a thorough tongue-lashing and a grounding and benching that he barely cared about. Goliath would be allowed to stay in the stables. All would be well.

Unable to leave the house, Damian poured himself into research - equipment, dress, exercises, tests to learn. A rule book was in his sights within hours. He found a database of instructors specialising in dressage in the state, did more research, made a pros and cons list for each, short-listed them, emailed several, and waited impatiently for replies. None were Gotham natives, but that shouldn’t matter over much. Dressage was dressage after all; these instructors had to teach only him. He could handle the rest alone.

Only one of the instructors replied to his emails, around the time his jodhpurs and helmet arrived. He answered all his questions in the same curt, business-like tone that Damian had emailed with to begin with. He seemed the type to take no nonsense, which he appreciated. His prices seemed reasonable, his credentials were significant - regional and national champion to prix st georges level, a longtime trainer of his own horses, a student of an Olympian that Damian, with only his new knowledge, did not know - and he was willing to travel to Gotham, which was only an added bonus. Pennyworth had approved the visitor for a week from now, though with pursed lips and a suspicious frown about his forehead, and so Damian’s first lesson was written into the family diary.

His name was Stephan and he arrived dressed to impress. Stepping out of a sleek black Land Rover in a tweed suit did not earn him respect from Damian or his family, but he was not to know that. Damian took him round to the stables, which he declared ‘quaint’, explained their lack of menage, which he claimed would not be an issue until the back end of the season, provided they had a field to ride in, and then showed him Goliath, tacked up and ready in shining new gear. Stephan’s nose wrinkled. His lip curled. Damian resolved to hate him. He also resolved to prove his first impression wrong.

In the field, Damian mounted and awaited instruction. Stephan told him to warm up, but Damian had never done that before. He did not know what he needed to do. He did know that dressage was not an aerial sport - Goliath would need to stay on the ground - and so he would need to use his legs to get him to go and not a flick of the reins. He dug in his heels and, with a brief lurch of surprise, Goliath set off at a marching walk.

Damian thought he was doing quite well really. He’d seen the horses walking on the TV and they didn’t go fast or slow, they picked their feet up in a short, eager stride, or else they had a long step with their head lowered. It wasn’t that hard really. Stephan urged him into a lurching trot, which had Damian bouncing all over the place no matter how hard he tried to remain still and serene, and then something akin to a canter. Poor Goliath’s legs didn’t move quite right for it to be a true canter, and Stephan’s face was not a happy one when Damian eventually stopped.

“Well he’s never going to be good,” he said, bluntly, “but we can work with what we’ve got I suppose.”

They worked on the canter because that was the bit that Goliath got most wrong, it seemed. Stephan barked orders from the middle of the arena for Damian to get him “rounder. I said rounder,” or else to “use your legs; I know you’ve got them.” By the end of the session, Damian was exhausted and Goliath was drooping. They still could not canter well.

“Practice,” Stephan said. “I’ll see you next week and I want to see that canter looking halfway decent.”

And so it went on. During the week, when Damian was not at school, he would practice just like Stephan told him to, until he and Goliath were sweating and trembling with exertion. On weekends, Stephan would come, shout at him for an hour, and then the whole cycle would begin again. He learnt how to tuck Goliath’s head in and get him to pick his feet up like the horses on TV. He learnt the drama of it all, the hard word and pain of popped blisters that hadn’t yet turned to calluses on the soft sides of his ring fingers. He learnt how to hold tight, and how to push so even Goliath’s thick skin could not ignore him.

He hated it.

There was something miserable about the endless nagging and tugging and fighting, something wrong. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Damian had watched so many videos, had seen so many pictures, and the riders at the top? They didn't battle with their mounts every day; they didn’t struggle and chip away at their horse’s will until it submitted. They didn’t move , some of them. Watching them, Damian had never felt further from his goal.

Finally ungrounded, Damian started patrolling again. It was…a manageable schedule. If anyone asked, he was not exhausted and didn't get up before 6am to feed Goliath and then shower before school to get the "stink" off, and then get driven to school by Pennyworth for half 8 and then surround himself with plebeians for 7 hours before getting driven back from school by Pennyworth, then down to the stables to train and feed and do whatever jobs he hadn't done in the morning, and then dinner, and then patrol until whatever time Father brought them home. He fell into bed and slept like the dead until his alarm went off at quarter to six. It was never enough sleep, but who in the world was going to notice? Certainly not Ffather, who only rarely had the time in the day to look at his face without a mask. Not his brothers, absent in mind and body. Not his teachers or classmates, who all had similarly deep bags under their eyes. And besides, it was worth it, the exhaustion, because Damian and Goliath were finally making progress. Stephan was almost pleased with them at their last lesson, and had suggested a competition to announce themselves to the world. “Just a small one,” he had promised, “no need to be nervous.”

Nervous. Hah. What a joke. Damian had never been nervous a day in his life.

His hands were sweaty, but it was a hot day - nothing at all to do with his upcoming competition. Training took priority and the exercise made him sweat even in cold weather, which late spring was not, and his hands definitely were not slipping on the reins. Surely not. What a ludicrous suggestion. There was nothing to be nervous about and he had all the time in the world.

He did not have all the time in the world. A week from competition day, entries submitted and test sheet printed, Damian abruptly realised that he was not prepared. It was perhaps the first and only time in his life that this had occurred. His test sheet remained in the bottom of his desk; he had not checked the start times or list of entrants since entries had closed; he had not given Father or Pennyworth directions to the venue. He hadn’t even checked the rule book. And this was where he came unstuck because Damian, in all his reckless bullheadedness, had disregarded even the most basic rules of dress. He had jodhpurs and boots and gloves and that was enough, yes? Evidently not.

At the level he would be riding at, tailcoats like what were seen on TV were not only avoided, they were outright prohibited. Likewise, there were strict rules about the colour of the jodhpurs and gloves and shirts he was allowed to wear. He needed a special kind of jacket, boots and chaps, or else tall boots that took months to break in. None of these he currently owned, and a week was far too short a time to procure them. No tailor worth his price would agree to a show jacket made and altered in under a week, and the boots Damian knew from experience would take far longer than expected to get used to. Could he wear his Robin boots? He didn’t see why not. They were, after all, the least recognisable part of his costume, and ticked all the boxes: large enough heel, tall, black leather, provided the correct support. He would raise it with Father after a good patrol, he thought.

The jacket was more of a problem, and Damian began scouring the rules for some kind of loophole, spending hours that he did not have looking for something that did not exist. He wondered if League dress would count as cultural attire for the sake of this. As little as he wanted to remind himself of those times, the clothing still fit and it might as well be useful rather than collecting dust and mothballs in his closet. Surely a tailor could alter the outer robe to look like a short jacket given a week to work with.

They could, as it turned out, and Damian soon had a beautiful coat to wear. Emerald green and smooth as silk, it was a perfect fit. One problem down, so many more to go. He consulted the rulebook again and ordered some jodhpurs in a pleasing cream colour. He already owned gloves, because he valued his hands far too much to damage them being an idiot and dragging Goliath around without something to protect them. He practiced his test over and over and over again, until Father or Grayson no longer had to stand at the fence and call it for him, and he could see the pattern in his sleep. He memorised everything he could, read the rulebook cover to cover, checked his tack, his dress, trotted Goliath up to ensure he was not lame, found a blue ribbon to indicate that Goliath was a ‘stallion’ and to be avoided, though he couldn’t imagine many people venturing close to him.

And then the morning came. Stephan rattled up the driveway before most of the manor’s inhabitants were awake with a large horsebox and invited himself in for coffee. Then, it was time to groom, boot up, and put Goliath on the box.

Goliath did not want to go on the box.

This was entirely understandable but still frustrating.

“I thought you said you were prepared,” Stephan fumed. Damian said nothing, just tugged on the leadrope once more and offered Goliath’s favourite snack. Goliath did not move. He continued to not move until Stephan grabbed a nearby broom and swatted him gently on the hindquarters, upon which Goliath shot up the ramp like he’d been lit on fire. It was an alarmingly effective method.

They pulled into a large grassy field and parked beneath a spreading tree. His excitement growing, Damian hopped out of the truck and, as he made his way around to lower the ramp, caught sight of the warming up arena. Everything seemed to stop, just for a moment, as he watched the pristine horses prancing. He had wanted to prove everyone wrong, show them that anyone can do dressage, but now… he found he did not want to take Goliath out of the truck, did not want to get on and join the other competitors. He was not unprepared, was the thing; Stephan had said that he was “as ready as you’ll ever be,” which was high praise from him, and Damian had memorised the test, brushed Goliath until he gleamed, polished his tack and boots and mutilated his League clothing to make dressage-legal attire. He was more than ready for this. But he suddenly felt very small and very scruffy, when faced with all these people on much more typical specimens. It struck him then, with all the force of Killer Croc on a rampage, that he was not going to win this competition.

Stephan saw him staring, and stood next to him. He said nothing, but Damian knew he could see his uncertainty on his face.

“They are all much better than me,” he said, quietly.

“If you think that, you’ve already lost,” Stephan replied. “Now get that beast of yours off the wagon and tacked up. We’re on a schedule and your dawdling is going to put us behind.”

Damian lowered the ramp.

His nerves followed him through tacking up, through signing in at the secretary’s office, through the walk to the warm up arena, and would not let him be. His hands did not shake - they never did - but his knees had no such restrictions. They twitched, as if a nerve had been trapped or a reflex had been tripped, and Damian could only hope it would not have an effect on his aids. In the warm up ring, near every horse was driven wild by Goliath’s approach. It did not make him grin, but it did make him wonder if, maybe, he stood a chance after all. It was not a very sportsmanlike thought but then, Damian was not always a very sportsmanlike person. He ignored them, the shouts and whinnies and stamping feet, and mounted. Goliath blew air through his nostrils and reached his head round to look at Damian. Really, he seemed to say, you’re making me put up with this. Damian rolled his eyes. Such drama.

The thing about horses is that they are cowards but they are equally forgetful, and so within a few minutes, the warm up arena was back to normal. This unfortunately meant Damian had to pretend to ignore his fellow competitors riding perfect canter circles and square halts for far longer, but also meant that none of them were looking at him. This was, he thought, a positive, considering he had very little idea what he was doing and was trying his utmost to hide it. Twenty minutes later, Stephan was calling him to the gate. Damian took a breath and did not stiffen. He was the combined strength of both his families. Damian Al-Ghul Wayne did not get nervous; he did not tremble or stiffen or gulp; he was completely unfazed - cool as a cucumber, as Grayson would put it. He rode into the ring, white boards gleaming and banners fluttering lightly, and stayed carefully still and poised. First impressions counted here more than anything. He held Goliath in something akin to collection: neck arched, feet picked up cleanly, ears flicking back and forth. He saw the judge look up, do a double-take, stop speaking to her writer, leave the box. Damian did stiffen then.

“Young man,” she called, voice tremulous. She was an elderly woman, Damian noted, evidently with many years of experience. Stephan had seen her name listed as the judge and nodded, saying she would be fair. Not kind, but fair. Damian was as grateful for it as he was confused.

“I am afraid I may have to disqualify you under DR119 section 1, if you do not provide me with some kind of identification. I am not certain that your mount is, in fact, a horse.” Damian was lucky. Damian had prepared for exactly this scenario. He turned to her and said, voice far more level than he was expecting,

“My coach has Goliath’s passport to hand. If that does not suffice, please be aware that your stated rule declares that dressage classes are open to ‘horses, mules and/or ponies of any origin’, and that ‘a horse is an animal over 148 cm without shoes, and 149 cm with shoes.’ Thus, as Goliath is over 148cm without shoes, and is an animal, he is a horse.”

“That,” she blustered, clearly trying and failing to regain her composure, “is completely besides the point.” She then stalked over to where Stephan was standing, hands on her hips ready to give him a piece of her mind. After a few moments of wild gesticulation, she returned to the judge’s box without so much as a glance in Damian’s direction. Goliath flicked an ear and snorted. It was the first time in a long time that he had been actively ignored. People being scared of him? Pretty par for the course. People wanting to cuddle him? Weird but sweet; Damian could relate. Ignoring entirely? Goliath wasn’t the only one to take that as an insult. He leaned forward and scratched the fluff behind his ears, just the way he knew Goliath liked it.

“Let’s go show her how it’s done, hmm boy?”

The sun was in his eyes as he rode down the centre line. He tried not to squint, while also smiling, because he’d already ruined his first impression and whatever he could salvage by smiling was worth it. The combination of the sun, the smile, and the squinting most likely resulted in a pained grimace instead, but an attempt was made. He turned right, kept trotting, held himself steady, felt Goliath’s mouth down the reins, his muscles flexing beneath his legs. He squeezed with his right leg and opened his left rein to bend onto a twenty-metre circle. He changed the rein across the diagonal and held Goliath in as he tried to plunge his way across the arena. Another circle. Another change of rein. He gently heaved on the reins and Goliath came back to a walk. Lumbering and laborious, tThey made their way around the ring, and it became worse as Damian released his hold on the reins for a free walk. Goliath was not good at free walk; they had not practiced and Goliath did not have the long and elegant neck of the fancy dressage horses. He tried, and Damian tried, but it was never going to be perfect and this was worse than usual. Damian was relieved when the time came to trot again. Picking up his reins and trying to hold Goliath in some kind of shape, he squeezed him into a trot that had at least a little swing, before asking for a canter. It had come up very quickly, and the movements within the gait would only come more quickly still. A circle, up the long side, another circle, return to trot over the centre line. Breathe, Damian, you have survived. Time to change the rein and once again hold Goliath back, then repeat the canter movement again. By the time the canter was over, Damian was so tight that he was almost almost trembling with exertion. Now, however, was the final centre line. Damian needed to smile again, he needed to pull himself together, except the turn was coming up far too quickly and…

He overshot it by maybe a metre, and salvaged the line by hauling on his inside rein. It pulled Goliath off balance, but he at least made it to the centre line. After a scrambled, embarrassed, halt-immobility-salute, Damian gave Goliath a pat on the neck and removed himself from the arena. He dared not look at Stephan’s face; he dared not think about the scores.

It took far too long and not long enough for the scores to be out. Long enough to have lunch, certainly, long enough to receive a thorough tongue-lashing from Stephan, not long enough to redeem himself.

Sixty-three percent.

That was… Damian wanted to say it was terrible, but looking at the scoreboard he was, surprisingly, far from last place. Out of a field of about ten, he was solidly middle of the pack. Fourth was not where he had wanted to be, was not an acceptable position, but when put up against what he had seen in the warm-up? Those beautiful, elegant animals performing like it was the Olympics themselves? Fourth place was not so bad really.

It did not matter what he tried to tell himself. Fourth place was not going to be showing anyone anything about his, or Goliath’s, ability. It would not win him any ribbons or championship qualifications. It was just…in the middle. Average. Average was not good enough, when you were Damian Wayne.

They drove home in silence. Damian had nothing to say, and Stephan had got his disappointment in Damian’s performance out of the way early. There was nothing he could say that Damian had not already told himself. He was disappointed, yes, but also furious, also confused, also mortified. From birth, he had been the very best: the best heir, the best son, the best Robin. And now he was merely average. It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried: he’d tried so hard, practiced so much, been as prepared for this as Drake had to be for patrol, but it had amounted to nothing. The entire hour drive, not a word was spoken, and it felt stifling.

At home, Father hung the green ribbon in pride of place and Pennyworth picked out all the positives on the scoresheet Damian had been too outraged to look at and Grayson demanded to see the professional photos that had not yet been made available. Drake, on his way out the door, patted his shoulder and said “better luck next time, squirt,” as if Damian were a normal little brother and not a trained vigilante who could kill him five different ways with just his shoelaces. It grated on him, that they were being so positive when something was wrong, when he had done nothing to deserve their praise.

He had done badly, there was no kind way to say it, except Grayson told him well done for trying and Pennyworth thanked him for coming home with no broken bones or lacerations and Father? Father had smiled that small, secret smile that was just for Damian and said he was proud of him. Why? There was nothing to be proud of, no congratulations to give. Commiserations may be the more prudent action. But Father was proud, and Damian wanted so badly to accept that without thinking about it that he ached.

Another week, another lesson, and this time Damian had read the scoresheet and knew exactly what he needed to work on. Except that wasn’t what Stephan wanted to work on.

“Rounder!” he barked, “rounder, more hand…not like that - I said rounder, not slower, are you deaf?” Damian, feeling Goliath fight and pull against his hands, feeling him chomping uncomfortably on hard metal, found that he hated Stephan a bit. This was not what they needed to work on and it was making Goliath unhappy and Damian wasn’t particularly happy either.

He did not ask Stephan to come back the next week.

Without Stephan, he drifted a bit. He practiced what he knew, worked hard on the things he thought he needed to work on, but he had no goals in mind. Goliath seemed happier, and that was important to him, more important than ribbons, but still that score grated on him, that fourth place ribbon. He didn’t want it to end like that, but he refused to go crawling back to Stephan and admit defeat. Stephan was wrong, and Damian would prove it…somehow.

#batfam big bang 2023 #batfam #fanfic #damian wayne #working title: usef rules are bullshit #dressage #goliath dc #fluff #light angst #lots of emotions #look the title is from an edith piaf song that is the most dressage song of all time #just trust me

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mounishamarketing · 1 month

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Whether you need a simple repair, a custom-built piece, or a complete renovation of your wooden fixtures, finding the right “carpentry service near me” is crucial for achieving the desired results. With expert carpenters, you can enhance the beauty, functionality, and value of your home, ensuring that every piece of woodwork is crafted to perfection.

For residents in Dubai, Aafiyah Technical Services offers a wide range of carpentry services tailored to meet your specific needs. With their commitment to quality, customer satisfaction, and sustainable practices, they stand out as a top choice for anyone looking for reliable carpentry services near them. Contact them today to transform your living space with exceptional woodwork!

#carpentry #dubai

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bhaskarinterior · 5 months

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Essential Cleaning and Maintenance Tips for Lasting Beauty for Laminated Wooden Flooring

For a truly deep clean every few months, consider using a manufacturer-recommended laminated wooden floor polish for Wooden Flooring Near Me Greater Noida. This can add a layer of protection and restore the shine of your floors. Remember to follow the product instructions carefully and ensure proper ventilation while applying the polish. For more info visit- https://bhaskarinteriorsblog.wordpress.com/2024/05/03/essential-cleaning-and-maintenance-tips-for-lasting-beauty-for-laminated-wooden-flooring/

#WoodenFlooringNearMeGreaterNoida #LaminatedWoodenFlooringGreaterNoida

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ideasthailand · 9 months

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https://ideasthailand.com/professional-hardwood-floor-polishing-thailand-cost/

Hardwood Floor Polishing Service Near Me

Welcome to our blog, where we address the top FAQs about professional hardwood floor polishing in Thailand including the cost. Whether you’re looking to enhance the beauty of your hardwood floors, curious about the costs, or seeking expert guidance, we’ve got you covered. Discover essential insights to make informed decisions for your flooring needs in the tropical Thai climate. Professional hardwood floor polishing in Thailand is a specialized service that involves the restoration and enhancement of wooden floors. It typically includes sanding the surface to remove imperfections, applying a protective finish, and buffing for a smooth, glossy appearance. This process revitalizes the wood’s natural beauty, improves durability, and can address issues like scratches and wear, making it a popular choice for maintaining and rejuvenating hardwood floors.

#Hardwood Floor Polishing Service Near Me

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furniturephysicianco · 1 year

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Furniture Physicians Co.

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Address: New Albany, Ohio, United States

Furniture Physicians Co. is a family-operated refinishing business, proudly serving the Columbus, Ohio area since 1984. With over 110 years of combined expertise in stripping, repair, and refinishing, the team, led by Darrel and Annette Kestner, along with their daughter Lora, specializes in Wooden Furniture Restoration. The company also provides Metal Stripping, Brass & Copper Stripping, Polishing, & Lacquering, and Refinishing & Repair Supplies. Offering both in-home and on-site services, which include repair and touch-up, they are also available nationally for restoration consulting and planning. Recognized as the largest restoration shop in central Ohio and the 3rd largest in the United States, Furniture Physicians Co. is dedicated to preserving the life and beauty of furniture with a commitment to quality and craftsmanship.

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blue-opossum · 1 year

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Surreal Fire Rescue (with Jimmie Walker)

Friday morning, 25 August 2023.

2 minutes and 15 seconds to read.

Dream #20,703-01.

Jimmie Walker, Bernnadette Stanis, and a young Janet Jackson, as they appeared on the 1970s television series "Good Times," appear in my dream. My dream self does not perceive them as celebrities or associate them with television. My real-world self is wholly absent. We are all on the porch of an unknown house, which I associate with being near the northwest corner of the intersection of Loomis and Sill Street in Wisconsin in America (unseen since 1994). A big fire is engulfing the neighborhood. I sense that most people have left their homes.

Bernnadette talks about a law regarding fires in the neighborhood. She tells me residents must use "backburning" when a fire approaches. I mentally create a small fire on the wooden floor of the porch, but it quickly fades with the essence of a hologram.

Janette's face inexplicably catches fire over her nose. I sense it does not hurt because the fire quickly fades. She only seems to need help for a second or two.

I choose to leave through the back door, but the others decide to stay. The fire is everywhere, burning trees and bushes in the backyard. At this point, my view seems to be as if I am performing a summersault (without a defined feeling of physicality or motion, only the imagery turning, becoming upside-down for a short time). I become more aware of my imaginary physicality - as I take command of the illusion - as I integrate into the illusory experience and fly above the backyard in a figure eight.

I see a Caucasian family of five entering the house (through the back door), and I tell them to rescue the other three. However, they come back out immediately, all seeming upset about the loss of their cat. "I'll just fly them from here," I tell them.

The three people (Jimmie and the two girls) become three sets of three small items - one set of three toothpicks and two sets of similarly sized objects that resemble rusty nails. I cheerfully carry them north to rescue them.

I think there will soon be three of each of them if I "restore" all the objects, but I am uncertain if that is how it should be. Other people gather around me. I am ready to change them back into human beings as the objects sit atop a picnic table. Even so, three nails, evenly arranged side by side (as the other two sets of items seem to become irrelevant), sing loudly and happily in unison, "Yay! We're normal again," even though they are still "nails" at this point.

Their surreal transition to the objects, particularly the nails, during my usual vestibular response, is mainly a result of an additional somatosensory response. It is not as bizarre or inexplicable as some people might think. During the tangibility factor (enhanced anticipation of tactility before waking up), nails sometimes feature, though coins are my most common response. Fire also occurs here in that way (especially the "burning face" scene).

These are my usual physiological responses that naturally occur throughout all sleep cycles. Flying (as a vestibular response to REM atonia) has occurred one or more times every sleep cycle since childhood. To think it has a waking-life "interpretation" is hopelessly asinine.

#dream journal #meaning of dreams #dreaming #my dreams

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marbledoctorva · 2 years

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Use the marble restoration process to keep the shine of the stone.

Marble adds incredible class to a home or office. However, one thing that should be noted about this stone is that it loses its normal appearance bit by bit with the passage of time. Since it's an expensive stone, you would have no desire to remove the regular brightness because of the impacts of heavy traffic. You can guarantee its life span by utilizing marble reclamation administrations. By utilizing this assistance, you can get back the regular coating of your marble. Your marble floors can be restored regardless of how dirty they are.

Marble is essentially an endowment of nature. It is fragile and, along these lines, exceptionally inclined to flaws and scratches. It is likewise permeable, so there is a decent opportunity for soil and different synthetic substances to enter the marble surface. This makes the stone feeble from the inside. You would not need your marble surface stained. For this, you would have to utilize the administrations of organizations that give marble rebuilding. With this interaction, you can not just eliminate stains and residue from the outer layer of the stone but, in addition, unclog its pores and assist it with breathing without any problem.

Stone crushing is the most important phase in this cycle where imperfections and scratches are taken out utilizing a rough strategy. The regular shine of the marble disposes of the necessity for a layer of wax to get the ideal completion. The technique then, at that point, leaps to marble cleaning. This is finished with various jewel cushions. You would certainly concur with one thing: rebuilding or cleaning marble is clearly not DIY work. You want to employ experts for this errand. The types of gear and necessary abilities for doing this errand are just accessible through organizations that offer support for marble or terrazzo cleaning and rebuilding.

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For More Info:-

marble repair specialists near me in Washington DC

Religious Building Marble Restoration in Washington

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djhardwoodflooring · 2 years

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Top Rated Flooring Contractors in Indianapolis- Floor Installation and Refinishing

Wood flooring may be the perfect option if you're searching for stylish, durable, and majestic floors. The importance of hiring experts for Wood Floor Installation Service can be derived from the fact that most of us do not have enough knowledge and expertise to install wooden floors on our own. A professional installer is able to give you all the necessary tips, tricks, and guidance required during the installation process which is why experience matters a lot in flooring installation services that are done by professionals. If you are looking for Wood Floor Installation near Me in Indianapolis, DJ Hardwood Flooring can help. We are a renowned flooring company based inIndianapolis. We are highly experienced in all aspects of flooring installation, sanding, and refinishing to cost estimates and repairs.

We often see people getting influenced by the looks of their floors, which is why they opt for inappropriate methods of maintaining them. But no matter how good flooring looks; it will eventually lose its luster if not maintained regularly. Hardwood Floor Sanding and Refinishing can be helpful. When you are in search of experienced Professional Floor Refinishing Contractors inIndianapolis, DJ Hardwood Flooring is here to help you. Refinishing your hardwood floors can also increase the value of your home, which is always a plus when selling.

As one of the leading Specialists in Hardwood Floors Refinishing in Indianapolis, DJ Hardwood Flooring uses the proper equipment and experience to do the job right. We will also be able to match the finish of your floors to the rest of the décor in your home. The warranty that we provide is the major benefit of using our professional hardwood floor restoration service. This might provide you with peace of mind because your floors will be safeguarded from faults. We have been offering top-notch services to our clients for many years.

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#Laminate Wood Flooring #Luxury Vinyl Plank Flooring #Hard Floor Refinishing #Best Hardwood Floor Sander

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officefurnitureshowroom · 2 years

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New vs. Used Office Furniture: What Are The Pros and Cons?

Furniture is now a key component of office design. You can use it to improve the charm of your workplace. It also affects your workplace visitors because this is one of the first things they will notice when they enter your building. Therefore, you need to identify the furniture that complements the design of your office. Additionally, office worker sits in their chair for forty hours per week. To prevent back or neck problems, pick office chairs that are pleasant to sit on and support your back.

When people experience financial hardship, they question if purchasing inexpensively priced used furniture instead of expensive pieces is preferable. Explore Used Office Furniture Stores to buy quality office reception chairs.

Both buyers and sellers benefit from the purchase of old or used office furniture Houston because the former can make money off of extra items, and the latter has the chance to reduce costs.

Purchasing Used Office Furniture Store Near Me is a fantastic choice for individuals on a tight budget. Since it implies:

Cost-cutting.

The business owner saves money by buying old furniture, which may use for extras like computers, headphones, excellent lighting, or even just memberships to essential staff programs. Using office furniture might look even more admirable than new furniture because it has had less use and wear.

Reduced time:

Most of the time, you get the delivery of large furniture orders from furniture stores around in two days. On the other hand, you can pick up used furniture nearly immediately after discovering it.

Sensitivity to the environment:

It takes years for unwanted wooden cabinets, shelves, and tables to deteriorate in a landfill. Additionally, used furniture contributes to a more negligible environmental impact.

What drawbacks exist?

First of all, it will be challenging for you to discover identical products that will blend if you plan to purchase office furniture in huge quantities.

Additionally, the warranty does not cover secondhand office furniture and cannot be returned.

Keep in mind that items like this are frequently sold for a cause, so carefully determine the nature of the issue beforehand. You can spend additional money renovating or restoring it if it has significant problems.

New furniture's benefits and drawbacks:

Even if you have a tight budget, buying new furniture piece by piece is preferable because of its advantages for all the reasons mentioned above.

Free delivery. Online retailers frequently provide free shipping and floor elevation for office furniture because of its size and volume. Yes, you might have to wait, but you will recover from your headache and wounded back in this situation.

Profitable proposal Furniture retailers frequently give discounts on a complete set of specific furniture designs. It's the ideal choice for individuals who wish to outfit an office following all business standards.

Absence of dangers. You can be confident that you will receive the furniture you want if you buy it fresh. Additionally, the furniture can always swap under warranty if you get its delivery with a flaw.

Several configurations. You can construct the office of your dreams by selecting numerous colors and styles when you purchase new office furniture.

Additionally, you may get furniture in any arrangement in contemporary retailers, including desks with workspace separation features, built-in cables and chargers, and workstations.

The primary drawback is the high cost of outfitting a complete office. Just be sure it's worth the price, though.

Last words

There are benefits and drawbacks to both new and old furniture. Your budget and long-term objectives will determine everything.

Article Source : https://www.articleaffiliate.com/new-vs-used-office-furniture-what-are-the-pros-and-cons/

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talesofealdancynedom · 2 years

Photo

Rah in his fairy robes, to match the previous illustration or Broc

36. The Tide Pool (chapter 2 - Lake 2/4 ) part 8. Stories of Dreams.

mention of R

When Lyra left, so did his gift of human love to the Fish Kingdom. The cradle pool had gone dark and grey. Rah bobbed the baby, unable to see in the dark. As a Charmer, he too could sing spells; But intentional love magic is hard. It’s hard to conjure love, when one is mad at their partner. Rah was unable to refill the pool with love water, and clumsily made his way out of the cavern with Brōc. They walked onto the beach, and heard the ominous song of the sea daughters from the soothing ripples of the lake. The mist had cleared, and they could see the rolling black mountains of the Dragon Kingdom. A clear silver sky made the lake inviting. Too inviting.

“Hold on.” Brōc said, putting a hand on Rah’s shoulder. “I’ll check on my sisters. If you or my baby sister go near there, you might get bitten. I forbid you from entering.”

“Not right now you don’t! You tried to drown me!” Rah snapped, storming to the pipe-Organ in the opposite cliffs. Brōc looked at his feet, then to the lake, and walked into it taking his aquatic form with a sigh.

Rah saw a small staircase up the cliff. The little princess had fallen asleep, and he wanted to put her down. He assumed that’s what parents do with babies; Swaddle them when anxiety inkles up their spine. Around a bend, Rah saw a mundane beach house, that looked as if it had washed into the cliffs, four stories up. It was crocked and worn. Sneaking in, Rah spotted a normal Northland bed with wool blankets, some tartans, flotation devices, and a golden reverie harp. Rah stared at it, while tucking the baby in-between some pillows. Then he watched for breathing; The princess looked nearly dead. If anything happened to her, Rah didn’t know what he’d do. It was less fear of the Fish King, who shouldn’t dare kill the only human able to restore her kingdom; No, it was the thought of accidentally murdering an entire tinny person. Brōc’s right; I’m not ready for this, he thought. Rah bent over hyperventilating, as the world was smothered by his pounding chest.

Brōc entered the shack, to see Rah gracefully crying on the wooden floor. Brōc went to lay next to him, unable to tolerate the one he loved in pain.

“I didn’t want to kill you. I’d never hurt you. I was overcome with the desire to keep you close. I feel so guilty for terrorizing you. It makes me unsure if I’d be this moral if I wasn’t half-human.” Brōc apologized. Given the silence, he assumed Rah wouldn’t accept an apology.

“What if she gets hungry?” Rah whispered.

“I don’t know! Do I look like I have tits?” Brōc growled gesturing to his bound chest.

“I milked some moon-cows.” Nettle said, putting a pail between them. She’d been sitting by the desk the whole time, still blindfolded. “I want a song. Brōc is a bad singer; The voice training ruined his-”

“Brōc’s voice is so beautiful!” Rah began.

“To us, the best singers are men in love. We can alchemize with song, yet be out of tune.” Nettle taunted. Brōc burst up, tripped over Rah, and tumbled down the stairs. Rah skipped behind him, and noticed the turbid water. The fey had become unsettled, and Lyra was not there to sing for them.

“She’s normally asleep for a while. Go on. Sing for them, Rah.” Nettle urged with a grin. She cradled the golden harp and flute. Rah remembered Lyra making that reverie harp.

“I want to use that harp.” He asked. Nettled hugged it tighter. “I want to use her harp. I’ll sing if you lend it. I bet Lyra’s instruments are the finest in the veils.” Rah pointed. Nettle shook her head furiously, and ran down to the beach.

“Here, Use my ukulele. Sounds like a mating turtle. Also, don’t mind Nettle. She’s scared of dyeing like our other royal sisters. She’d rather be a caretaker here. Nettles just really protective. I used to be like that. Soon, she’ll be old enough to yearn for love and the Day Veil. I don’t want her to go to die, but it is our curse. Nettle cries about leaving us behind; She says she can’t take father’s tears.”

“But what if she has her love requited?” Rah said, refusing the ukulele.

“Would you say that if she were your daughter? After burying so many children?” Brōc asked. They stood in silence. Rah supposed not. Human minds can be stained by such things. It reminded him of Lyra’s sadness when he left.

“True, but I have a question; Does it hurt your mother? To rape your father for the slightest chance to have her kingdom reborn? Does she grieve knowing she’s hurt what she loves most? Doesn’t she feel when one of you dies?” Rah snapped. He’d turned his gaze to the lake.

“Never asked.” Brōc said sharply. He never considered his mother, made only of neutral magic, to feel anything other then chaos. That was a lie; Brōc avoided how he’d feel, if that was him. He looked over Rah, who nearly glowed in the soft light of the ether. Perfect, pure, and the essence of the playful spring rain.

“I’m sorry. It’s hard to parse my destinies. We should’ve just talked.” Brōc sobbed.

“You’re not her. You’ve experienced humanity through your father’s blood. You’ve lived in the Day Veil. You’re you. Just like me. I’m not my father, nor his criminal activities. I’ve lived a life of love, and am nothing but myself.” Rah shrugged.

Time drifted into illusion, as Rah became hungry. He wondered what the Beast Queens ate, if they were still human, but lived here. How does one see fruit or food, if the mundane blends into the refracting grey world? Rah weakly lay on the beach, listening to Brōc swear repeatedly in desperation; He was trying to feed his sister by bottle. Rah turned the other way, to see Nettle was gone. He lifted his head to see an adorable ribbon seal looking at him. They blinked at each other. When the Selkie swam away, Rah ran up to the water’s edge. In all his schooling, he’d never heard about what it’s like in the lake, or if any human had touched it. Lyra said he turned into a giant koi or mermaid after becoming Fish Queen. The water’s ominous presence scared Rah, as he considered if it was salty, lukewarm, or enchanted. Curiosity made him want to touch it; See how deep it goes. Rah started humming a comforting tune to break the silence. He lifted his silver Fairy-Robes, and dipped in a toe. No sensation.

Rah whispered the spell of levitation, to walk on the surface. He made his way toward the middle of the endless lake, humming a spell of smoothness and calm. Not only time was distorted, but also space. The lake might as well have been an ocean. Rah turned back to see the distant coast. Rah’s breath ceased, realizing he had gone too far. The echo of a giant whale of light, and glittering Kraken, were just beneath his feet. A ghostly glow came from the pitch-black waters. The deep beat of a calm heart, was pumping from the abyss. Rah stopped singing, and fell in.

Rah was being grasped by something, and then bitten. Human hands groped, as he pointlessly screamed to the fading surface. The cloudy water become a foggy teal, and his head burned from suffocation. He heard Brōc call his name, like a muffled yell.

Brōc screamed for Rah; He looked up to see the splash. Brōc jiggled the air out of his sister, and looked for Nettle to take the baby from him; But she was gone. Brōc knew her little-sister would only be safe in the tide-pool’s love water. Some fey of other kingdoms, thirst for blood, and seek young royal fey. Each second became an eternity, as Brōc wanted his father’s help. There were bubbles on the smooth surface where Rah was taken. Brōc, valuing Rah more, for even a second, made him put the baby in his mother’s throne; A pool beneath a pointed rock of the Fish Gate. Brōc sprinted to the water, and dove in. He swam as fast as his tail would carry him.

NEXT--->

<---PREVIOUS

#art #tales of ealden cynedom #fantasy #short stories #mermaid #broc #rah

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kiatheinsomniac · 3 years

Note

Ooh your requests are open! Please could you write Jacob Frye as a pirate and the F!Reader as the noble women he kidnaps for a ransom. But Jacob is really taken by her and they fall in love. I’m writing a story like this and I’d love to see another authors take on it.

Thank you!

I'd love to be tagged when you publish it and I love the art! I've kept the request short with a time skip so we get the sense of the before-and-after. Hope you enjoy!

You were attentive to every little noise and sensation around you with the cloth bag covering your head and obscuring all sense of vision. You swayed from side to side as you were dragged over floors that felt and sounded wooden under your feet. The air around you was salty and there were yells of men, scuffling about and the sloshing of water. You had undoubtedly been dragged out of that carriage after hours to be put on a ship.

Your wrists were bound in front of you and two sets of hands had a firm grip on each of your struggling arms. Suddenly, it grew much darker than before and the smell changed as the wind disappeared and the smell of salt gave way to tobacco. You figured that you had been taken into a cabin of sorts.

Suddenly, your eyes were scrunched to protect them from the intrusion of light that came with having the sack unceremoniously torn from over your head. Soon enough, you opened them and allowed your vision to adjust to the cabin around you. It was cluttered. Maps were upon all walls except the far one which was a long, leaded window. There was a main desk in the middle that was also covered in maps, small piles of coins, writing equipment, compases and sextants and the like. You spotted two chests to the left that were just about to spill over with gold and jewels and there was a four-poster bed in the near right corner that had one of the curtains drawn back to show the messy, unmade state that it was in.

Hands pushed down on your shoulders and forced you into a chair that creaked under the force of you being pushed into it. A new figure walked around you from the left and you glared at anyone in your sight. You were far from happy to be in such a position.

The man had cropped brown hair and a slight beard at the sides of his face. His jaw was strong, sharp and accented by a scar, as was one of his eyebrows. His eyes were dark but alight and he held a cigar between his fingers. His peasant shirt was green with a holster, void of a gun, strapped across his chest. A red sash was at his waist and he wore dark trousers with even darker boots that climbed up to his knee. He reached up to remove his tricorne hat and place it upon the desk as he sat on the cushioned seat on the opposing side from you. He lounged back and set his feet upon the corner of the desk, crossing his ankles.

“I suspect you’re wondering why you’re here?” He questioned.

“If Winston has slept with your wife, I’m sure he cares too little about his fiancée for him to come here so you can restore your honour or whatever.” You quipped and the man before he raised a brow, looking up to the two men who stood guard behind you.

“Fiery, this one.” He smiled, “I like it.” He looked back down to meet your eyes, “I have no wife for your fiancé to bed. But he has an outstanding debt to me and I’ve decided that I’ve been patient enough and some… interest is due.”

“Am I this ‘interest’ or a means of luring it out?”

“The latter.” He replied and you assumed that he always must have this laddish air around him. You could see why he was captain: he seemed very charismatic.

“You would have done better to kidnap his dog then.” You replied dryly and he tilted his head, bringing his feet down from the table to lean forwards, elbows propping him up.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean: he hates me almost as much as I hate him - I’ll emphasise almost. Our marriage is an arranged one so that his family can get some money and mine can get a title.” You paused for a moment, “If anything, I’m glad to be away from him. Had I been told that I wouldn’t have to see his face at all on this journey, I wouldn’t have struggled to get away so often.”

“So what you’re telling me is that he won’t come for you?”

“It’s likely that he won’t and if he does, it’ll be to kill me and blame it on you.”

“You really think he would kill you?!” The man exclaimed, jumping up from his seat.

“He’s already tried beating me, what difference does it make? Men like him are all the same, they want to ruin the women in their lives but will have them neither as they are nor as they make them.” You leaned back in the chair, looking down at your bound hands and wishing they were free as the rope was biting into your skin.

“So I’ve wasted my time?” He sighed his head falling down before looking up at you through his lashes as though he were wondering what to do with you now. You bit on your lip as you looked back down at your hands. Here you were with a group of people who were owed something by the person you hated the most and certainly weren’t afraid to fight dirty about it considering they had resorted to kidnapping his fiancée.

“There may be a way to take this debt for yourselves…” You suggested. “I know the routes that his merchant ships take, he works in silks, cotton and sugar mostly but he’s recently invested in some jewellers across London too…”

“Are you really willing to let his life sink under like that?”

“I’d say ‘eager’ is more suitable than willing. He’s a despicable man and I’d love nothing more than to watch his life fall out from under him.” You shrugged, “It’s less messier than feeding him an amanita mushroom soup anyway.”

The pirate’s brows furrowed as he looked over you: muddied pale blue dress with its white bows and ribbons talking so easily about plundering and murder.

“You don’t strike me as a killer.”

“The best of them hide in plain sight and cry the hardest at the funerals.” You tried to relax your jaw that had become tense from thinking so deeply about your hatred, “And the best liars always establish themselves as terrible ones.” You held your arms outwards. “Untie me, give me a place to stay and we have a deal.”

“I don’t like freeloaders, you’ll have to pull your weight, duchess.” You frowned at the use of your title, knowing he only used it to express that he thought you would be incapable.

“Then it seems this is a perfect deal.” You quipped back and he smiled a little at your determination before he flicked his wrist and a blade shot out from one of the bracers on his arm, slicing through the rope at your wrists.

》》》》》◆《《《《《

You hissed as the cotton met your open wound, the gash going from your right ribs down to your left hip. You were lucky that the sailor’s sword had not been a centimetre longer or else your guts would have been spilled all over that deck.

“Stop being a baby.” Jacob muttered, cleaning the wound.

“Says you, I nearly got kicked in the face once, getting that debris out of your leg.” You spat back, gritting your teeth to try and withstand the pain. You were laid across his bed that was no longer messy as you had taken to making it when the both of you got up in the morning.

“Ok, duchess, my apologies.” You narrowed your eyes at him, having learned from him that your stare intimidated him deeply. He only ever used your title to tease or annoy you: if anything it had become more of a pet name that only he ever used for you.

“I want a nap after this.” You sighed, putting the back of your hands across your eyes.

“Then I’ll leave you to it.” He spoke, knowing he needed to let you have your way for you to calm down a little.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’ll be joining me.” You heard him laugh lightly.

“Your wish is my command.”

“How ironic, captain.” You smiled before it quickly became a scowl, the fresh alcohol on your wound making it sting tenfold. “Has Evie sent any new letters?” You asked, knowing that your lover’s older twin had been keeping tabs on your ex-fiancée. The engagement hadn’t been officially called off but you had decided it for yourself the first time you had grabbed Jacob by the collar and pulled his lips down to yours for a searing kiss.

“Apparently he lost a load of money gambling recently. He must be getting desperate with how often his ships are getting attacked.” There was a pause as he reached for some bandages to dress your wound with. “Not that anyone will do anything about it because it strangely seems like he is the only merchant being seriously harmed by piracy. I wonder whatever could be the cause of that?” He laughed. You smiled at the little comment and felt him pull your shirt back down over your torso, climbing over you to lay beside you. You carefully turned on your side and buried your face in his chest, smelling tobacco, salt and gunpowder. His arm carefully wrapped around you and held your close, hand coming up to run through your hair.

You relaxed against his body with a sigh.

“I don’t thank you enough.” You murmured and he tilted his head down a little to try and get a look at you but your face remained buried against his tattooed chest.

“I wouldn’t want anyone else to tend to your wounds before-”

“Not for that…'' You whispered, hands gripping his shirt as you tried to hold him impossibly closer, “For saving me, for bringing me here.” He let out a quick breath that you sensed would have been a laugh if he weren’t so confused.

“I do believe that I kidnapped you for random?” He spoke amusedly, “I didn’t expect to be thanked.”

“And I didn’t expect to be grateful for it but I’m finally free from that suffocating aristocratic world where I’m like an actress on a stage every second of my life.” You sighed, “Do this, do that, wear this, say that, no don’t say that, you can’t have an opinion, like this but not too much, that’s for men, don’t speak of that.” You mimicked, “I get to make my own choices here, live how I please.” You looked up at him slowly, hand coming up to caress his jaw, fingertips tracing over the little scars on his face. “So I thank you.” You shyly traced the shape of his cupid’s bow. “Thank you for bringing me here or else I would have been stuck being someone I’m not with someone I hate. Now I can be who I want with the love of my life and I’d never, ever, trade that for some stupid money or a make-believe title.” Jacob craned his neck towards yours and your lips met sweetly.

“And even despite my original intentions, I’m happy that we were brought together too.” Another kiss, followed by a hum, “But, even if you’ve been freed from your corseted dresses and boring parties…” There was that mischievous look, “You’ll always be my duchess.” You slapped his arm, trying to hide the smile.

“Don’t push your luck, Frye.” And soon enough he was cupping your cheeks in calloused hands to smother you in kisses.

#jacob frye x reader #jacob frye #assassins creed fanfiction #assassins creed fanfic #assassins creed #assassins creed syndicate #pirate au #assassins creed x reader

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the-kingshound · 3 years

Text

The third Arch Deleted Scene

The snippet here is a bit rushed at the beginning and in some other parts, as I did not want to go into even more spoiler territory. If you want to send me asks about this please be sure to advertise them as spoiler at the beginning, since not everyone will want to read them.

SPOILER

TW: blood, injury, poisoning, strong language.

3rd Arch – the seventh Trial

Your stomach was knotted by dark swirling anxiety from the moment Arthur announced the diplomatic visit. You were familiar with the House, it kept being, after all, one of the most influent beside yours before and after the Emperor’s fall. This did not mean anything, though. Your homeland was beautiful but deadly, ready to swallow anyone whole to quickly digest them.

You promised yourself you were going to be at Arthur’s side at all times, and that’s precisely what you are doing now.

Four days in, and the only major threat has been the amount of people wanting to interact with you. For the most part, Arthur smoothly deflects them to himself, for which you are endlessly grateful. You’re not in the mood to socialize, instead you keep on high alert, especially against the House leader and formal Ambassador.

You do not think he will pull anything while you’re here, after all you grew up together and you respected each other deeply, but one cannot be too cautious when the King is concerned – as demonstrated by the multiple scars that litter your body. You would go through all of it again in a heartbeat if it meant keeping your King safe, but all you can do for now is stay by his side and keep the risks at minimum.

For this reason, when the Ambassador proposes a meal together with both yours and his knights, you are instantly weary.

“I don’t like this one bit, Arthur.”

“Me neither,” agrees Evaine, all the while lazily making their dagger spin on the table.

“I don’t deny that is not an ideal situation. On the other hand, a wrong move on their part would jeopardise their own negotiation,” counters Arthur as Morien finally snaps, blocking Evaine’s wrist with a tight grip and hissing an irritated “stop fooling around, for God’s sake!”

Evaine pouts. Yniol ignores them in favour of the matter at hand “they are certainly going to outnumber us, but if they wanted to attack us head on they would have done so before now, there were better opportunities. MC?”

You really think it through before answering “I wouldn’t put it past the Ambassador to try something, direct or more subtle, while we’re so exposed and out of our physician. Lania is not the head of his House for nothing, but aside from that he was always particularly attached to the Empire. We can’t afford to underestimate him.”

“Yes, yes” interjects Morien, having by now freed Evaine’s hand and left the table, dismissing themselves from the meeting “I’ll be prepared in any case. I swear you manage to hurt yourselves everywhere we go.”

And so dinner begins. It is a boring affair, but you won’t let yourself relax until it’s over. You sip on your wine, closely inspecting the hosts for any sudden or unusual movement. You find none, but you stiffen and your brows furrows. There’s something strange in your mouth, something strangely… bitter.

Time seems to freeze in front of your eyes. With an uncoordinated, panicked movement you jerk on the table and bat away Arthur’s cup, spilling its content on the table.

You place your hand on the table to support you as you rise, your dilatated pupils numbly fixed on the red liquid that’s quickly staining the tablecloth. It feels like an hour but actually only a second has passed before you regain your senses.

“Seize them.”

Arthur and his Knights are no longer seated by now, but the Ambassador’s men have drawn their weapons as well and pointed them to your delegacy, effectively halting their movements. You see icy red and do not spare another glance at the man now placed on your back while you snarl in the envoy direction.

Placing your fingers on the hilt of your sword, you hiss an enchantment to track the magic residue and the culprit is revealed in front of your eyes. Ignoring the taste of iron on your tongue, you spit out another enchantment and the room’s door is locked close with a lout snap. They will not get away.

Unfortunately, you lack the ability to free Arthur and the Knights, you are now surrounded and painfully outnumbered, but you know they can hold on until you have taken care of the threat at hand. You cough blood and half crash on the floor, but you ignore the alarmed voices of your Knights and crawl in the Ambassador’s direction.

How dare he. How dare.

“My, Lord…”

“Let them,” a voice says to your back “they will not go far.”

“How dare you” your breaths are ragged, your intestines raw and burning, your voice rough for the acid that invades your throat. The Ambassador’s face is a mask of contempt and stony resolution. He watches, halting his men while they try to block you, as you half-crawl to him, gripping with iron strength the wooden chairs to keep yourself upright.

“I have the upper hand, King Arthur. I’m afraid you are in no position to make such demands.”

“Release us, and call a physician for my spouse, and I will consider letting this incident go without consequences.”

Arthur’s voice is steady, calm and there is only a hint of something sharper, at least for now.

You can’t see your King, but the sound of his voice sends shivers down your spine. They tried to kill him. The House you grew up to respect is full of nothing more than vile traitors.

As your strength start to waver, you lose your balance and crush to the ground with the chair you were pushing your weight on. Still, you get up again and you and fix your gaze on the second born, now Ambassador and traitor “I’ve had enough of you.”

You take a shuddering breath, your lungs filled with blood that’s now spilling over to your lips as you speak, but the pain you feel is nothing compared to the hot, blinding rage that’s consuming your every thought. Still, your voice is, as ever, cutting cold “you invite us here, offering a pacific discussion, and all you provide are poison in our drinks and weapons against my Knights and my King’s throat. You’ve exhausted my patience, Lania.”

You see him flinch at the use of his name. You remember a time long gone when you played together as kids, swearing you would be the ones to restore the Empire uniting your two Houses. Now these are broken promises and rotten friendships.

“MC,” the Ambassador says, “it’s over, you have to understand that.”

“Oh, you just wait,” interjects Evaine, almost immediately silenced by the Ambassador’s men.

You cough and choke on blood, and you can feel the physical weight of Arthur’s and the Knights’ worried eyes on your back, but you exhale and grip tighter your sword’s hilt. A wave of raw power invades your body and you are able to focus again.

“You know what I’m capable of, what I am willing to do for my King,” your voice is almost devoid of intonation, save for unforgiving hardness. His gaze falls on your non dominant arm and then on your throat, scarred by a thin horizontal line “I will gut you and feed you to my hounds. You’ll die like the backstabbing coward you are.”

They know as well as you do that you don’t make empty promises. There is a rustle around you that culminates in a sharp sigh from the Ambassador and swords pointed at your neck.

“Must we really do this, MC? I cared for you once, but you know that I will not hesitate to strike you down if you give me reason to do so.”

You don’t draw black nor move a single muscle, your eyes find Arthur’s blue ones and you find the King is dangerously immobile, his fingers brushing against Excalibur’s hilt in what could be mistaken for a soothing caress. When he speaks, his voice bears nothing else but firm command “you will not do that.”

Lania cocks his head to the side, appearing quite unbothered “oh?”

“How is your sister, Ambassador?”

At the same time as Lania stills, you blink. A violent cough than shakes your chest, and when your senses are fully back and you can breathe again Arthur has kept going with the same calm, calculated demeanor “I want to remind you that together with the Lord the wedded she’s now head of the Merthian feud, the nearer one to the south-eastern border.”

“What does it-“

“I am the one in control of the knights tasked with their protection. As per the arrangement we signed weeks ago, the border is under Camelot’s defence. But if I die, or if my spouse dies, my knights will retire, Ambassador.”

Oh, Arthur is not King for nothing. He is striking where it hurts the most – family – without even an drop of blood shed. You don’t hide a proud, feral smile at this. Almost immediately, blood invades your throat again, you can feel its taste on your togue, but you shove the pain back where it started in your burning stomach. You shiver. You love and hate seeing your King like this.

Lania swiftly unsheathe a long, curved dagger and you are immediately ready to bolt– swords to your throat be damned, you’ve had worse – but he makes no move in Arthur’s direction for now.

“Figured you had to hit low to get a reaction.”

“Release us,” Yniol commands, standing tall near the King.

“No” spits out Lania, his composure now fully broken “you stole our independence and our pride, Pendragon, you humiliated us and stripped our Houses of the opportunity to unite again. You are every bit of your father’s blood!”

He then turns to you, his eyes frantic, his expression pained and almost feral “I thought you were on my side!”

Blood rushes to your ears, a high-pitched whistle the only thing you’re able to hear at the moment. You feel sick. Sicker than before – sicker than what you’ve felt in years. You spit blood on the floor, your answer is weak and unnaturally subdued, “it was a- a long time ago.”

“We were like siblings!”

You can’t say anything, you only choke on your words. All that you manage to do is keep yourself upright only thanks to your sword.

“They are right, you really are your King’s hound, nothing more than Camelot’s bitch,” he tries the next word in his mouth like they were both foul and inevitable “the haghàn bajek*.”

Your vision is overcome by whit spots, your skin hot and freezing cold.

“Kill them all.”

You force yourself to focus. Protect your Knights. Protect your King.

After that it is pure, unbidden chaos. You tighten your grip on your sword, assessing where you’re needed the most. With the corner of your eye you spot Arthur, he’s a beautiful fighter, he is no match for – Lania.

Your magic flares alongside most of your nerve endings as you sprint in his direction, interjecting his blow with your own weapon. Unfortunately, the Ambassador is a skilled opponent and you’re already considerably weakened, all you can do is channel in your arms the strength of your steel determination to not let him reach your King.

“Stop trying to defend an enemy, MC!”

“Stop trying… to kill him.”

You are barely managing to defend yourself when Lania strikes back. You catch the dagger with your arm, it pierces through your skin just over your elbow but it won’t reach its intended target. No one will hurt your King while you’re still breathing. No one.

Pain paralyzes your arm, your breath is stuck in your throat together with a blood clot that feels intrusive and that fills you with panic. The finishing blow never comes, though. As you inhale again, you refocus on the room’s occupants and notice how Arthur’s Knights have the clear upper hand.

“Ah, and you thought you could beat the Round Table so easily,” Evaine all but purrs in a knight’s ear “that’s precious.”

“Stand down” Gawaine commands “you’re surrounded.”

You can hardly distinguish the shapes of your own knights, you’re nauseous, your stomach and throat are on fire. You fall down on your knees, exhausted and hurt. You feel like you’re going to throw up–

“MC’”

Where is Lania, where is –

“Wh-where…?”

“Kai, get Morien here, please.”

Arthur’s voice is soothing, as ever, but tainted with worry. You can’t make his face out. There are arms supporting your weight, not his but equally familiar – Yniol?

“It’s going to be alright, dear.”

It’s the last thing you hear before the world goes black.

*haghàn bajek = [REDACTED] traitor

#deleted scene #SPOILER #tw:blood #tw:injury #tw:poisoning #tw: strong language #I was quite happy with it as I wrote it #but now not so much I'm having second thoughts #if it's deleted by tomorrow you know why

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axispheydra · 2 years

Text

Day 15 - Row

The Arcanist's Guild had eagerly taken Arlanne as their newest member, but her aptitude for the craft was somewhat lacking. It was not as if she lacked the aether or the magical know-how, but the runes within the grimoire simply did not fall into place for her. Even summoning a carbuncle, one of the most basic of arcanist spells, seemed to be beyond her, so after a trying session and some words of encouragement from her mentor, Arlanne decided to simply never go back.

Truth be told, conjury felt like a more natural fit for her. It was easier for her to picture the channeling of her aether through her arm and into the staff, rather than aspecting it to the sigil within a tome. It made more sense to her to simply stick with what she was good at, even if she had only learned the bare fundamentals during her time in Gridania. She would simply have to be her own teacher, and leaving her bow for a staff during her adventuring forays made for good experience. The restorative magicks coupled with elemental spells simply felt... natural. She had a difficult time explaining it to her adventuring fellows.

“It simply... flows,” she said, gesturing from her heart, up her arm, and finally to her fingertips. “Much like a river, and the staff becomes a conduit for the spell.”

“Hm. I don't picture it like that,” said the lalafell beside her. Her name was Tasusu, and they were briefly guildmates before Arlanne had abandoned the arcanists. Thankfully, she hadn't asked about it. “I picture it more like... a cloud. The sigils in the grimoire help me focus it into the proper form.”

“Well, I don't know about that,” said Arlanne, a bit haughtily. “I just didn't have the knack for it, maybe. However, I think this suits me more.”

Tasusu shrugged, then looked over towards the Drowning Wench's leve distributor. The two had taken to working together from time to time, as their magic seemed to make a good match, and Arlanne enjoyed having someone less pirate-esque to speak with.

“Did you want to see if there's anything else worth taking on tonight?” said Tasusu. “Feels like you've been busy lately, so maybe you'd prefer to rest.”

Arlanne shook her head, drumming her fingers along the wooden tabletop. “Let me think on it,” she said. “Allow my thoughts some time to align.”

“If you say so.” Tasusu reached for her tankard, almost as big as her head, and took a drink. Arlanne wasn't much for drinking herself, but the Drowning Wench also served as Limsa Lominsa's Adventurer's Guild headquarters, so it was a fine place to unwind between requests. Despite the questionable name, it was a surprisingly homey place, with clean floors, warm lights, and a relatively friendly staff. Arlanne had certainly been to seedier places in her life.

“You're from Gridania, right?” Tasusu's words drew Arlanne from her thoughts, not that they were anywhere important. “Don't see too many elezen out here, and those tattoos ain't the kind pirates like.”

“Ah? Yes, that's- That's right,” said Arlanne, nodding. “From the Black Shroud, down through the desert, and to here. And the tattoos, they were-”

She stopped short as the memory was dredged up from her mind. It had only been several years ago, and yet she had locked it away, determined never to think about it again. Eaufont had done her tattoos, or at least helped with some of the lines. He had a steady hand, good for the smaller details on sensitive skin, and Arlanne found herself very sensitive when he was near. The markings were a point of pride in the people he cast his lot with, a symbol of membership in his group. They were bandits, so they had to look the part, and so naturally, Arlanne took on some of her own.

The vine-like shapes were evident from simply looking at her; there were two purple creepers that trailed vertically from her eyes, but she had a matching set adorning the rest of her body as well, though they were typically hidden from sight. They encircled her shoulders and crawled along her back and limbs, and while perhaps she had gone slightly overboard with it, she had been more than happy to let Eaufont place his hands wherever he pleased. But if she had known what the future held, she might have been less eager to mark her entire body.

“They were... given to me by someone close. That's one way to put it, anyhow.” She traced her fingers along the back of her hand, keeping her gaze down. The tattoos flowed along her body too, perhaps marking the paths where she felt the flow of aether. Even so far from Gridania, she still carried some part of it with her.

“You alright lass?” said Tasusu. “Looks like you were far away, there. Didn't mean to pry.”

“No, it's alright. I suppose I was far away, in more ways than one. I just... don't think much about it anymore. Even the best of times can seem dour in hindsight.”

“I'll drink to that.” And she did.

The wind had gone from Arlanne's sails, and she hardly felt like adventuring anymore. Saying her goodbyes to Tasusu, Arlanne took a room at the Mizzenmast Inn, but found herself unable to sleep.

Sighing, she rose to her feet and made for the window, but a large mirror standing by the wall stopped her mid-stride. She stared at it for a moment, eyes transfixed on the woman looking back at her. Long, verdant hair, and piercing lavender eyes, framed by the violet tattoos she'd been given. Drawing closer, she reached out and placed a hand on her reflection, sighing.

“I've been neglecting you lately, haven't I?” she said. “I don't want to stop moving because I don't know what will happen if I let myself dwell on things. But it's not healthy. It's...”

She didn't even have the right words for herself. Arlanne looked into her eyes; from a distance she looked gorgeous, naturally, but drawing closer she could see the dark circles that had begun to form under her eyes. With tender fingers, she undid the clasps of her tunic and untied the laces of her pants, stripping herself until she stood in her smallclothes. Her tattoos were in full display now, a violet garden adorning her body. But getting closer, she could see the blemishes; the stretch marks around her stomach, the scars on her shoulder, the calluses on her hands. Beautiful from a distance, but the closer you drew, the easier you could see the cracks.

“Isn't that how it always is?” she sighed. “The harder you look, the uglier it all gets. Ignorance, bliss, and so on. But is it really a bad thing?”

She felt aimless, which was both a relief and another source of stress. It was pleasant to not worry too far into the future, but concerning when you weren't sure where you'd end up in a year or two. Arlanne always had something planned out, but here in Limsa, she was simply letting the flow of life take her where it pleased. She wasn't sure how she felt about it.

After a few moments of contemplation, Arlanne looked back to her reflection. “Don't be so hard on yourself,” she said. “You're still young. Plenty of time to figure it out.”

Leaning in, she kissed the image of herself, leaving a purple lip-print on the glass. Frowning, she tried to wipe it off, only to change it into a purple smear instead. She stared at it for a few moments before picking her clothes off the ground and turning to her bed. Someone else could handle it, she decided. Let her worry about other things tonight.

#ffxivwrite2022 #ffxivwrite #arlanne shoudebant

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