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rohad93 · 5 years ago

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Authority Online : Ch 1

4:50 PM on a Friday

Just ten minutes left in the day and there was still a three inch stack of things sitting on her desk that needed her immediate attention.

Jaune ran her fingers through her once carefully combed, short, blonde hair with one hand and flipped through the deposition from her last session of court with the other. It was a fairly cut and dry case, the defense was merely dragging their feet and wasting her time. She grunted before sliding the offending documents back into their case and glancing up at her laptop as her email dinged almost simultaneously with her phone.

A quick tap on the track-pad began opening up her email as she glanced down at her phone and grimaced the second she glimpsed her mother’s contact photo. She couldn’t ignore it forever, as much as she wished she could, but she could certainly put it off for a little while.

Amber eyes instead turned to the now three new emails sitting in her inbox, two from clients and one from her assistant who chose that moment to step into her office, a tablet in one arm and quickly flicking at something on the screen.

“Ms. Roche, I sent the contracts you wanted and scheduled your meeting for Monday morning so they can be signed.” She continued to tap at the tablet without even looking up.

“I got them,” she mumbled almost distractedly as she quickly typed out a reply to the other two emails and downloaded the documents to her hard drive before closing the laptop and sliding it and the rest of the papers and various manilla folders on her desk into her bag before finally looking at her phone and opening her mother’s text.

‘Dinner will be at 6. Don’t be late.’

Jaune rolled her eyes and sighed. She had forgotten about the dinner she had tentatively agreed to on Monday for no other reason than to get off the phone with the older woman so she could get some work done in peace.

Honestly she had barely been listening as her mother had blabbered on about some show she was dying to go see and was unconsciously humming in agreement while reading through some paperwork when she had apparently agreed to dinner at her family’s estate.

What she really needed to do was go home, order takeout and look over these files for her Monday meeting. She’d never hear the end of it though if she did. With another, more resigned sigh she stood from her desk and shouldered her bag, shutting and locking the drawers of her desk.

This was her assistant's cue to look up from the screen she nearly had her pointed nose shoved against.

"Goodnight, Daisy, I'll see you Monday." She nodded to her assistant as she walked out.

"Have a nice weekend, Ms. Roche." Her assistant's nasally, high pitched voice followed her into the hall.

"I wouldn't bet on it," she grumbled to herself as she stalked out to the elevator.. Hitting the ground floor button a little harder then she had intended.

Dinner with her mother was the absolute last thing on her list of things she wanted to do this evening.

Especially with the kick her mother had been on for the past few months.

Apparently she had been single much too long, in her mother’s opinion, and had started trying to foist a random assortment of women on her at every social gathering, function and event they ever went to together anymore. It was becoming tiresome to say the least.

She didn’t have time to date, even with two partners and about a dozen other lawyers beneath them, she had an ever-constant stream of work making its way onto her desk every week.

True enough, she could assign a number of her cases to the more junior lawyers, but then she rarely got all the results she wanted.

Perhaps she was a micromanager...

It got results though.

In seven years she had turned her father’s successful practice into a proverbial giant in their field with a series of successful high profile cases.

Ever since they had a constant inflow of cases and clients that did not leave her much of a social life. Which was her mother’s main complaint.

How many times now had she watched her mother lay on the antique fainting couch in her drawing-room and lament her only child’s lack of a love life with the kind of over the top melodrama that one could expect from a retired cabaret dancer?

Several times that she could think of off the top of her head at this moment.

Just last Tuesday, in fact.

Tonight would probably be much of the same if she cared to wager on it.

She wasn’t against dating, but besides not having much time for it, it wasn’t as though she knew anyone who was worth even making the effort for. Certainly not the often, vapid women her mother had been trying to push onto her.

Rich and affluent, but the kind of woman that Jaune knew she had nothing in common with. Most of their interests, like her mother’s, included spending all day at spas, and country clubs. Where her mother usually met them. Several she had run into at the opera.

Something she couldn’t stand.

She had a penchant for music and performing, as to be expected considering her mother’s influence on her as a child, but all opera did was give her a headache.

When the elevator finally stopped, she walked quickly through the front lobby, glancing at her watch.

The sight of the golden yellow Mercedes parked in her reserved spot on the ground floor of the parking garage made her relax a little as she pulled out her keys to unlock it.

She tossed her bag into the backseat of the car and slid into the driver’s seat with a tired sigh.

She would bear dinner for the bare minimum she had to, but it certainly wouldn’t be with a grin.

~ ~ ~

By the time she managed to navigate the 5 o'clock traffic and pull up the gates of her grotesquely large childhood home it was only five till six. The large black, wrought iron gates with the stylized ‘R’ in the center swung open when she pulled up, allowing her to drive up the immaculately kept, two hundred yards up to the main house.

The large, white, American colonial styled mansion had been large to start with but had been added onto several times over the last eighty years it had been in her family, resulting in a twelve thousand square foot, two-story, fifteen bedroom and twelve bathroom monstrosity that was much too large for the number of people that lived in it. Namely her mother and a handful of staff, some of which had been working on the estate since she was born. This didn’t even account for the land the house was sitting on.

She mostly didn’t even notice the sprawling acreage all around her anymore, but she did notice the unfamiliar, black Ferrari, parked in the driveway next to her mother’s white Aston Martin.

Was someone else here for dinner?

Her mother would have said if she had bought another car, and she knew the older woman well enough to know that she would never buy a car in any shade but stark white.

Jaune frowned, her instincts telling her to just turn around and go home, but she swallowed them knowingly and put her car in park behind her mother’s before climbing out of the car and moving up the walk to the front door.

She didn’t bother with knocking and let herself in. The foyer was empty but she could hear her mother’s cloying laughter from down the hall.

Inhaling deeply through her nose she followed the noise till she found the woman in the drawing-room, sitting across the room in her favorite chaise lounge, smiling at the two people sitting across from her. A much older, balding man and a woman with long black hair, perhaps around her own age.

The man, even from the back, she recognized as an old friend and previous business partner of her father’s. The woman though was not familiar.

It was at that moment that Blanche Roche happened to glance up and spot her daughter standing in the hall.

“Jaune! We’ve been waiting for you.” She smiled, clapping her hands together, prompting the guests to turn and look at her.

“Jaune, how good it is to see you again.” The man smiled brightly and walked around the couch to stick out his hand, which she grabbed more out of reflex than anything.

“You as well. I didn’t know we were having guests this evening...” Eyes flickered to her mother who was smiling coyly at her.

“Ah, Well, we happened to run into your mother at the club this afternoon and she was kind enough to invite us to dinner, which reminds me, I don’t think you’ve ever met my daughter, Alice.” He held out an arm as the woman who had been sitting on the couch came around to shake her hand.

“It’s nice to finally meet you.” The woman smiled.

“Dear, Alice here has been planning a trip to Spain, perhaps you could tell her about some of the things you did when you went last year,” Blanche suggested and Jaune immediately caught onto her mother’s game.

This was a setup.

She kept a carefully neutral look on her face even as she seethed inside at this ambush.

It was at that moment that her mother’s favorite maid, Penny, a tall, thin woman who kept her light colored hair in tightly coiled buns on the sides of her head, walked into the room to announce that dinner was ready to be served.

Their guests followed her to the dining room, allowing Jaune to glare at her mother from across the room before having to follow.

~ ~ ~

The next hour seemed to drag by for Jaune as her mother made not so subtle attempts to create some kind of connection between her and this woman that just did not exist.

Her answers were short and to the point. Verging on curt, but just shy. Not shy enough if the looks her mother was sending her were any indication.

It took everything she had not to sigh in relief when they announced they needed to be going. They walked them to the front door, saying their goodbyes before walking out.

Alice stopped in the door just long enough to turn to Jaune and hold out a business card with her number on it., which she took.

“When you have time we should get together again.” She smiled before walking out the door. Jaune glanced down at the card.

“Well, you were perfectly surly, this evening.” Her mother’s annoyed tone cut the silence.

“I don’t appreciate being ambushed.” She turned to her mother with a scowl. “Did you plan this all week?”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” she scoffed, turning on heel and walking to her study, Jaune following, stalkingly, right behind her. “I ran into them today and thought it was a good opportunity.” She tossed a hand flippantly as she sat at her desk and reached for the decanter of brandy sitting on the desk and poured herself a glass.

“That you tactfully did not mention to me.” Amber eyes glared into black ones for a long moment before Blanche sighed, resigned at being caught red handed in duplicity.

“It was just one dinner, dear.” She picked up the glass and swirled the liquid around. “You act as though I had planned an entire wedding.”

“If you could I’m sure you would.” Jaune snorted, crossing her arms.

“I’m only trying to help…,” she started.

“I don’t need help!” Jaune snapped, making her mother’s eyes widen a fraction. She sighed and closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose in a vain attempt to warn off the headache she could feel coming on. When the tightness finally receded somewhat she opened her eyes to look at her mother.

“We have talked about this several times, and I know you just want me to be happy, but I’m perfectly fine as I am now, mother,” she assured, though it was said in a level tone, there was certain pointedness to the words.

Blanche looked at her for a long, quiet moment before sighing tiredly, seemingly more to herself.

“I know you are, Jaune, but fine and happy are not the same thing,” she said before finally lifting the brandy filled glass to her lips and taking a deep drink.

~ ~ ~

It was only when she was home, sitting in front of her laptop in her home office and nursing a large glass of wine after a near boiling shower that she cared to think about what her mother had said.

She could, grudgingly, admit that while she wasn’t unhappy, that didn’t mean she was happy either.

She was…content, perhaps would have been the right word.

Content could be improved, of course, she’d just never really cared to try. Though it was now becoming apparent that if she didn’t put in some kind of effort, even minimal, she was going to continue to be ambushed at dinners. She drummed her fingers on the wooden desktop, nails clicking on the high polished surface.

Where would she even start, it had been a while, and she was short on time most days, not even mentioning that bars and clubs had never been her style to start with.

She glanced at her computer for a long moment and took a long drink before setting the glass down and tapping the screen, bringing the device to life. She hesitated only a moment before she opened the browser and typed.

‘Online dating’

Several hundred pages popped up, making her grimace and take another long drink.

She scrolled through about half a page, unimpressed with the majority of the offerings.

Especially Tinder.

She was about ready to close the computer and walk away when one website happened to catch her eye, if for no other reason then the bizarre name.

‘The Authority: Online dating for adult professionals’

Curiously, she clicked the link.

It had a similar look to some of the other dating sites she’d seen before but perhaps more streamlined and with less frills, not that she was going to pretend to be an expert on web design, dating or otherwise.

It touted a large user base of professionals all over the world and a superior matching algorithm. She rolled her eyes, scrolling through the front page.

With a final sigh she clicked the signup and started filling out the various questions. Height, weight, hobbies, the standard affair. If nothing else, the next time her mother inevitably brought this up she could tell her that she was at least making an attempt.

It took her longer than she cared to admit to find some photos of herself that were both recent and not dressed for trial, though she added one in anyway. The other two, her on the beach and in the markets in Spain last year.

It wasn’t a vacation, it was work, but they had finished a couple days early and Daisy had convinced her to do some sightseeing.

She couldn’t off the top of her head think of the last time she had traveled that wasn’t for work purposes.

Putting that aside for now, she finished putting in her personal information and moved on to the questions about what she was looking for.

She was relieved to see the women seeking women option. She remembered all too well when all the lawsuits had been going on against a popular dating site that had adamantly refused to cater to any sort of LGBTA clientele.

She’d considered taking some of the cases at the time, but had been swamped with other things at the time.

Clicking the right box and selecting her desired age range and city before it finally took her to her newly created profile and prompted her to write a short bio.

She quickly typed out a short paragraph, just the basic information, her profession, where she went to school and a few random tidbits about herself.

The screen began to buffer before a message popped up.

‘Congratulations, your profile is complete! Now send some messages!’

“Not tonight…” She shut the computer and stood, taking her wine with her as she flicked off the light and closed the office door behind her.

#bellow diamond #AU #fanfic #Steven universe #yellow diamond #white diamond

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whipplefilter · 7 years ago

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could u do a fic abt storm? idc what it's abt but if u cld thatd b great!

Sure thing, anon! Here’s a fic about how Storm spent the off-season timeskip at the beginning of Cars 3!

Fic: Motherland

They’re in Gemmayzeh, in a restaurant with a dress code to meet an uncle the American side of Storm’s family is elated to see. His mother cries.

Half an hour ago, winding through Beirut, Storm asked why a hauler couldn’t take them. But Storm’s mother wants the entire city to see her. Normally, Storm doesn’t mind being the center of attention, either, but none of these cars know who he is, and no one cares. Not here. Storm doesn’t like being reminded that his reputation doesn’t always speak for itself.

“At the restaurant, don’t speak,” his mother tells him. Whisper, if he must. She says, “Your Arabic is… ” and she means it’s like a baby’s. His family–well, his mother’s family–is very well-known in Lebanon, and there will be listeners.

If Gale were here, she’d laugh about this. She’d laugh about anyone telling Storm to be quiet, and she’d laugh at Storm being mad about it. She’d tell him his mother’s probably doing him a favor–Storm doesn’t want to talk to any of these cars; really, he’s been given permission to be sullen and silent. It’s a win-win.

She’d be right, but Storm’s still angry.

–

“Are we going to have to pray?” Storm asks. A private jet is launching them over the pole, straight from LAX to Lebanon. “Like, five times a day, facing–”

“We’re Maronites,” says his mother, tersely. Like that explains anything. Storm’s pretty sure he isn’t one.

–

“Do you have any plans for the off-season?” asks Shannon Spoke.

He’s never really understood her mannerisms, can’t tell if she likes him or wished he’d rot. She’s too professional. He tells her he’ll be overseas, training with supercars.

“You go where the competition is,” he says. He sounds self-assured and silky, like usual. When he watches the broadcast, he believes it.

In Lebanon, he tries to make his world as much like Los Angeles as possible. He doesn’t need to be worldly and he doesn’t want to “train” with supercars. In Lebanon, the Internet is the same. The fuel is a little better, to be honest. But those mountains could be the Sierras and the water could be the Pacific; they’re just out of reach, just like in Los Angeles. From Storm’s vantage point, Lebanon is just like Los Angeles.

Storm has never been to the mountains. He’s never touched the sea.

“Don’t people just live on the beach over there?” asks a cousin, in English Storm’s mother called “stylized” and Storm just thinks is bad. But it’s still better than his Arabic.

This cousin lives on the beach.

“Have you ever been to Disneyland?” the cousin asks. “What about Jag-Z’s house?”

When Storm turns one year old, he’s in Lebanon. His mother claims he’s been here before. Obviously, he doesn’t remember. He is one year old, and he has been to twenty-four racetracks. And Lebanon.

–

They are faster. Storm doesn’t need to race them to know. His cousin has diamond-encrusted headlights just because he can. He wears gold instead of chrome. And he can drive 400 kilometers an hour. Storm’s not even sure how fast that is, because kilometers mean nothing to him, but he’s a racecar. He knows speed when he sees it. He knows horsepower when he hears it. And he can feel it through the road, into his tires, into the core of him.

They’d never make it 600 miles, though. Not in the dense muggy heat of North Carolina, no sea breeze. No breaks.

“Why would anyone do that?” asks a different cousin, incredulous.

Storm hates them, because supercars aren’t cars; not really. Not according to him. Putting wheels on something doesn’t make it a car.

Fun fact: Half the cars in the stands in North Carolina think the same of him. All the Next-Gens. “Stock cars,” indeed. The other half probably don’t think even think something like McQueen is a real car. Again, not really.

“He doesn’t really… belong here,” says yet another cousin. She’s a contortion of metal that doesn’t seem like a car at all. She’s the fastest. She looks at him, and it’s a mixture of pity and resignation.

Storm’s an adult. He’s a superstar. And he needs babysitting.

And maybe that’s not what she said at all. She was speaking too fast for Storm to understand, and it’s then Storm realizes why his mother thinks he’s an idiot. She’s always spoken to him like one. It’s really not his fault he hit the road with IGNTR and guess what! Newsflash: Talladega doesn’t have a lot of Arabic speakers. Neither does Daytona. Charlotte. Kansas. Phoenix.

And now he can’t understand what this stupid girl is saying.

“The movie we want to see is in Arabic. Based on a Kahlil Gibran book,” she says. “We don’t think you’d understand it.”

“Oh, Kahlil Gibran,” Storm replies airily, in English. He hasn’t figured out how to be skillfully sarcastic in Arabic. “He’s a legend. Right up there with Dean Koontz.”

There’d been a Koontz novel in the LAX bookstore, discounted 70% and collecting dust.

“Who?” asks the cousin.

Storm mimes haughty shock.

–

There’s a story that everyone in the garage kind of knows, about McQueen and some terrible desert town and whatever it is he’d learned there. Or at least, McQueen seems to assume everyone knows it, and everyone gives a damn. Storm is sure he’s not the only one who doesn’t. At all.

But stranded in Beirut, which is not in a desert and is not a small town, that’s what comes to mind.

If Storm has any stories to bring back, they all end the same way.

He wants to get out of here.

–

His mother cries when they leave. Out and out weeps. Storm’s mother doesn’t cry about anything, ever, but she cries when they leave Beirut. She’s been living in America for thirteen years and Lebanon is the only home she feels she’ll ever have. If it weren’t for Storm’s father, she’d never leave it. Storm’s father is the only thing she loves more than her motherland, and sometimes Storm wonders if even that is true. Maybe she’ll disappear into some casino in Jounieh and he’ll never see her again.

She’s self-conscious about her emptiness, when it’s just the two of them parked in first-class. “You wouldn’t understand,” she says. “You can’t.”

She’s right.

–

“Welcome home,” Gale beams. She meets them on track at Daytona. Qualifying for the Florida 500 is in a week.

When Storm lays down an all-time track record during practice, RSN says he’s marking his territory. He’s the Piston Cup’s youngest, newest champion, and he’s coming home to roost. He’s the king of the superspeedway.

“And also holds track records at multiple intermediate and short tracks on the schedule,” Bob Cutlass clarifies. “Not just superspeedways.”

Darrell Cartrip guffaws. “Heck, put Stormy boy on anything, and he’ll make it a superspeedway!”

When Cartrip talks about Daytona, Storm’s pretty sure his voice breaks. If he had to live an ocean away from Daytona, he’d probably cry too. It’s the home of the Piston Cup, after all. And Cartrip bleeds race fuel.

–

Home. Home home home. It’s all anyone ever talks about.

–

McQueen shows up eventually. When he talks he sounds even more homespun than Storm remembers him, as though he’s spent his off-season buried in a southern swamp somewhere, befriending the Piston Cup’s lowest common denominators. Given the sporty yellow thing and the rusty old truck in tow, this probably isn’t untrue.

–

“You don’t belong– on this track–!” Storm grits out, fender to fender with that sporty yellow thing. He says it because it’s true. He belongs here; she can’t. This is the only place he belongs.

And then, at the finish line, he doesn’t.

–

He doesn’t.

–

He’s never felt like the world was so far away.

–

When he returns to Los Angeles after the race, his mother is in town. She’s discussing business, catching lunch with Storm’s agent, his contracts attorney. That she and Storm cross paths is sheer coincidence. She hadn’t exactly penciled him in.

She’s polished and detailed, immaculately presentable and not at all the woman crying into magazines, weeping streaks across her windshield 41,000 feet above sea level. But Storm thinks maybe, just maybe, that might be their common ground. What he’d felt, he still doesn’t know, he can’t really tell. But she’s his mother, after all. Maybe if she–

Storm narrows his eyes. Maybe she could be useful to him for once in her life.

“Good morning, habibi,” she says absently, still scanning over some papers.

He wants her to look up. To look at him.

He wants her help. He wants her to explain his feelings to him, tell him she understands. She can talk about his stupid uncle if she wants to. Even the cousins. He feels stupid wanting any of that.

When Storm’s mother finally looks up, she takes one glance and says, “Oh, stop. You lost a race, not a country.”

She doesn’t look up again.

#jackson storm #cars 3 #pixar cars #cars fandom #arab american storm #another headcanon i'll keep speaking from my grave #another fic where you write it and you think #ah yes #tumblr. i'll take my usual: a table for one #whipple words #asks

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rate-out-of-10 · 7 years ago

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THE SHAPE OF WATER REVIEW

Writer/Director Guillermo del Toro (Pan’s Labyrinth, Hellboy) has a very specific style; he lavishes in gorgeous set design and floods the screen with particular emotions. The Shape of Water may not only be one of the best films to come out 2017 but it may be Guillermo’s best. In many ways, The Shape of Water soars (or swims) into beautifully unique territory.

WARNING SPOILERS AHEAD

CHARACTERS PERFORMANCES

The film stars the extremely talented actress Sally Hawkins. In this role, Sally barely mutters a word. Her character Eliza is mute and relies on sign language, body language, and facial emotes to convey her character, and she does so beautifully. She is truly a princess in this post-war stylized fairy tale. She’s cute, she’s funny, and she’s a very honest character. Sally Hawkins was nominated for a Golden Globe for her performance in this film. Alongside of Sally we have her character’s neighbor, Giles, played by Richard Jenkins, who is a struggling older artist. Giles was very likable and very funny. He grounded the film a lot and spoke the minds of the audience through certain scenarios. Richard provides a lot of comedic relief as well and his relationship to Eliza resembled a lovely/sweet middle ground between a father/daughter and two best friends. Richard Jenkins was nominated for a Golden Globe in his role. Michael Shannon takes the “antagonist” role in this film, portraying Richard Strickland. Strickland is an obtuse character, specifically meant to evoke regressive ideals. As the film is set somewhere in the 50s/60s, his attitudes towards race, religion, and life are all transparent, and it eventually comes full circle against him. Shannon commands the screen while he’s on, not shying away from his character’s grotesque personality. And while I hated the character, Shannon definitely gets props for making me hate him so much. In a supporting role, Octavia Spencer plays Eliza’s close work friend. Octavia supplies much of the comedic relief but also plays her stern, strong woman of color. She often faces micro-aggressions, namely from Strickland’s racist, back-handed comments, but each scene is handled wonderfully by Octavia. Octavia has a knack for easing tension in films but never breaking it. Octavia Spencer was nominated for a Golden Globe in her role for a supporting actress. Doug Jones who plays our monster or “Amphibian Man” (as he is credited as) needs to be commended. He often plays CGI/body suit characters (Abe Sapien in Hellboy, Fauno in Pan’s Labyrinth) much like Andy Serkis, but his talent can’t be overlooked, especially here. He puts on a wonderful performance in the film’s other non-speaking role.

WRITING/DIRECTION

Guillermo del Toro blends several genres in The Shape of Water, like horror, suspense/thriller, fairy tale, noir, and sci-fi, but competently crafts a romance filled with a ton of heart and genuineness. This may be del Toro’s best film simply due to the immaculate set production (very reminiscent of the BioShock universe) and cinematography, however the well written characters and wonderfully paced film earns your engagement. The film moves very fluidly from moment to moment, scene to scene, effortlessly, allowing the viewer to believably take some things for granted, and get completely immersed in others. The only pieces of the film that I take a sort of an issue with is Giles subplot of him trying to land a job (or get one back?), it just didn’t fit quite into our focus and felt weak compared to much of the film. The film, as wonderfully paced and well-written it is, does take more of a typical turn in terms of story development. It all felt engaging but a race to escape the “bad guy” felt a little cheesed. Of course it is an integral part of noir films of old, and The Shape of Water makes a lot of old school call backs to old films, so that’s why I understand the choice, but the film had plenty of potential for a more unique way of threads being finally tied up in the story.

The Shape of Water is slated for a very promising awards season as well. As I stated before Sally Hawkins was nominated for a Golden Globe for Best Actress, Octavia Spencer for Best Supporting Actress, and Richard Jenkins was nominated for Best Supporting Actor; however the film did win two of its Golden Globe nominations: Guillermo del Toro for Best Director and Alexandre Desplat for Best Original Score. It’s other nominations included Best Motion Picture – Drama and Best Screenplay.

FINAL RATING

9/10

With all that being said, The Shape of Water takes its odd circumstances, and some outlandish happenings, all in stride. It’s romantic and sexual themes never felt trivialized or condescended. The film also flourished with LGBT and racial commentary that still resonate strongly through today’s world. The film is wonderfully set, acted, and written. It may not be for everyone, it may feel a tad slow or tediously tension-filled, but there’s something very beautiful and genuine at the film’s heart. The soundtrack alone emits an infectious romantic tone. The Shape of Water is incredibly well rounded and can please audiences who favor many different genres.

#the shape of water #shape of water #guillermo del toro #horror #sci fi #science fiction #movie #romance #movie review #review #film review #sally hawkins #doug jones #richard jenkins #michael shannon #octavia spencer

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harlockauxillia30k-blog · 8 years ago

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💜

[answering about Myrene would be a cop-out, so…]

Harlock sat alone, as usual, in the finest restaurant he could find on the ship. Sometimes, he would take officers here if they impressed him, or on a special day. Today was neither.

As he ate, he felt a light tapping on his shoulder.

“Excuse me. Did you hear what I said?”

Harlock swallowed and glanced up. “I’m afraid not. And you are?”

To his surprise, she was evidently a woman, given their voice. Not unusual on a crusade vessel loaded to bear with civilians, however this woman wore an officers uniform, all white, starched, with slight tasteful silver lining. It looked immaculately clean.

“Then I’ll repeat myself. Major Adira Nakamura, 9th Saki Light Regiment. And this entire restaurant is full, save for this seat. So, do you mind, captain?”

Harlock shook his head. Never heard of the 9th Saki.

“By all means. Take a seat.”

Harlock cleaned up his beard with a handkerchief and stood up to pull a chair, but Saki just did it herself and bade him to sit. “Soldiers first, nobles second. I should think with a rank like Major I’d have figured out how to use a chair.”

Harlock bristled at that a bit.

“I don’t know how the men behave on your world, Major Nakamura, but on mine, no matter what ones job is, one is first and foremost, a gentleman. I’m Jan Harlock, by the way, Captain as you already pointed out. 2nd Centauri Star Rifles.”

Adira sighed slightly. “Fair enough. Cultural differences are the norm here I suppose. Have you even seen the Krull 2nd?” she said, leaning in with a conspiratorial tone.

Harlock couldnt help but smile at the thought of the Krull. Good ice breaker.

“Mh. The Krull. Interesting fellows. Armor offends their honor. Ritual war paint. An adversity to shirts and pants. They’ll last long, I’m sure. Not every compliant world can be dignified, I suppose. Still, it probably saves on a lot of costs, what with transporting them on the short shuttle here and there.”

Nakamura’s eyes gleamed with understanding, and she promptly cupped her mouth with a hand to suppress outright laughter.

“Right?’ “Th-haahh, oh my.” She took out a brilliant fan which displayed some kind of stylized beast, and fanned her head.

“Ah…”

Harlock decided to inform himself somewhat. “Are you new arrivals? I dont recall you in the last campaign.”

“No, you’re right we’re recent additions. Very recent, actually. We’ve only been made compliant last year.”

That got an eyebrow raise.

“Don’t worry, we accepted peacefully. The Ultramarines arrived and offered us a great deal of medicine, technology and support. We gladly accepted. I used to serve in that world’s military.”

Harlock contemplated this, and nodded. “Then take my advice, the Iron Warriors are terrible bosses, never anger a World Eater, and if your looking for a great workout, volunteer to a Fist for construction detail; he’ll make you re-do the fortification three times until its perfect.”

Nakamura raised an eyebrow. “It seems you’ve been around, Captain.”

Harlock shrugged. “I’m an ancient crusty officer if you’ve ever seen one. I’ve been around, yes. By the way, order the steak, its fresh- don’t ask me how. I still haven’t figured that out myself.”

“Thank you…” Nakamura said, smiling, and called for a waiter. Harlock allowed himself to admit she was ravishingly beautiful. As pure and pristine as her uniform. Gentle features, about chin-length jet black hair curved inward slightly, perfume and makeup, and a porcelain skin tone that looked as if she had never before seen a sunrise. If perfect was a woman, her name would be Nakamura.

Harlock quietly hoped the present legion posting would last for quite some time.

#askevrenanubis

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erstwhile25 · 8 years ago

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Skin of the Teeth Part 5: Wherein We Find Finality.

(( So there’s a lot of text here...I’m not apologizing for that. I was tempted to mince this into even more parts but Skin of the Teeth needs to come to a close, just so I can bring everything to current events. As of the end of this passage Kail and the crew of the Ashen Rook will be set for going East...see ya’ll there)) Most of the crew was up on the deck, with the exception of those tending to the wounded below. There was little to no talk amongst them, the tension in air seemed to choke any words into clipped statements from the grim faced lot. They had all been able to see what was coming for the past hour, there was no need to talk about it. Mazie chose a spot on the railing next to the Miqo'te Isral, who was one of the few that didn't look like he was attending his own funeral. Rather he was smiling as if nothing was wrong with the world, though Mazie noted he stared straight ahead, and never once glanced in the direction of their pursuers. He turned his near manic grin on Mazie as she approached. "Little Mazie come to join us! Good! We were worried you'd miss the show!" Mazie frowned at his "little" comment, she was taller than him by a few inches at least. Still she didn't rebuke him, rather something even odder than his grin struck her. "Yer not armed?" Isral continued to grin, showing very white and pointed teeth to this observation "If this comes to fight, Lady Luck shall provide." "Well while she's lookin out fer yer arse, could ye ask iffin she's got a few cannons tucked away fer the Rook as well?" "She's no need to fret for the Rook little Mazie, this boat isn't without teeth." Mazie was about to ask what he meant when she saw the captain come up from below decks, she almost didn't recognize him. Never once in the months at sea had she known Kail to wear anything but silks, leathers, and vests. While she had seen (much to her distress) him in various states of drunken undress around the ship, nothing prepared her for the sight of him in full armor. To call it simply armor was perhaps a disservice to its creator though, this was artifice, a wizardry of craftsmanship. A brown hooded coat of leather with the strange oiled sheen of chemical fortification wrapped around the torso and hung about the knees. Each limb but the left arm was clad in a lobstered metal that gave off a slight brass sheen in the noonday sun. Throughout the whole affair, veins of the same brass metal ran in stylized runic rivers, all tracing it seemed to the small of the armor's back, where hung a cylinder along the belt roughly the size of a man's thigh. "I've been told if one stares too long, their eyes fall out of their head." Chided Isral. Mazie goggled, she couldn't help but. "What is that?" "I believe they call it a Spriggan Suit." "They?" "R'haji..the Captain and Laloquer. Apparently they've been working with the Goblins of Idyllshire on the design for some time, and are quite pleased with the result." Isral rolled his eyes and adjusted the collar on his immaculately tailored coat. "I think it looks like a scarecrow fucked a steam engine, but apparently it can match the magitek armor that Garlean legionaries are so fond of." Mazie had never seen magitek in her life, but then she had been but a child when the last of the Garlean conflicts had taken place, and had spent most of her life on the Limsan docks. She'd heard all sorts of horror stories, ranging from great ridden steel beasts that spewed aetheric fire, to shells of armor that made men as strong as titans and nearly as indestructible. The Spriggan Suit looked impressive to be sure...but she had her doubts about it standing up to such nightmares.

As if the gods had been listening in on her thoughts, the gunship behind them put on a burst of speed that sent tongues of cerulean flame curling out from behind it, it drew even with the Rook, close enough that Mazie could read the name carved into the metal of its prow. The Arbiter was larger than the Rook by at least half, and she wore her bulk well. Draped in Garlean colors from head to toe, she left no doubt as to her allegiances, and she was every inch a machine of war. Where the Rook was trimmed in metal, she was plated in it. A score of cannon ports along her side were open, and from each peered a steel maw that promised death and fiery destruction.

Mazie felt her breath catch in her throat as a lengthwise bay door on the side of the Arbiter opened, and a row of Garlean soldiers stood fully outfitted for war. They were ramrod straight in a tight and trained formation that made the crew of the Rook look lopsided and clumsy by comparison. At the head of their number stood a demon. It took her a moment to realize her mistake, but as the light played across the the creature standing there, Mazie saw that it was simply armor designed for that very effect. Horns twisted out from the silver mask’s forehead, and tusks curled down from its grimace of a mouth, red eyes glowed in the shadows of the shell-like helmet that it framed its ghastly face. The rest of the armor was tailored in the stark reds and blacks of Garlemald, lacquered plates at the shoulders and hips gave the already large figure of the armor an even more imposing profile. Like the Spriggan suit, this was a wonder of craftsmanship, and by the red glow that emanated at it's joints, Mazie suspected a result of magitek. The Arbiter hung there in the air, keeping pace easily with the Rook as she raced with the winds, neither side made a sound over the splash of waves or the hum of engine. Mazie hissed through the side of her mouth at the still smiling Isral. "Why aren't they opening fire?" "They aren't firing because we have something they want, they'll try to board us first. Whoever that is behind that mask is trying to show us they can do that without much fuss, hoping for a surrender from show of force. Patience little Mazie, we haven't gotten to the good part yet." The wearer of the demon armor took a step forth to the edge of the bay, raising a gauntleted hand to it's throat. There was an audible click over all other noise, and a tinny, distorted, but definitely male voice blasted out towards the Rook. "ATTENTION INTERLOPERS! YOU STAND ACCUSED OF TRESPASS ON GARLEMALD TERRITORIES, COLLUSION WITH HER ENEMIES, AND OFFERING HARBOR TO HER CRIMINALS. BRING YOUR SAILS TO REST, SURRENDER YOUR ARMS, AND OFFER UP YOUR LEADERS. COMPLIANCE WILL BRING LENIENCY, THIS OFFER WILL NOT BE REPEATED." It was a voice that rang with authority, clear and sharp, with the clipped tones of someone who wasn't born to the language, yet had mastered it nonetheless. Mazie had heard the numerous Doman refugees speak the Eorzean tongue in such a fashion. The crew of the Rook turned to look at Kail, who had strode up to the Rook's railing. A sardonic smirk draped over his features he spread his arms wide to the crew and yelled for them all. "The Garleans want a taste! What say ye!?!" They stamped feet, they rattled sabres, they yelled, and sang, and even howled in response. It was such cacophony that for the briefest of moments Mazie forgot that they were but twenty facing a small army. She felt as if she had legion on her side and before too long she found herself yelling her throat horse, and banging her crowbar against the railing of the Rook. Eventually it died down, Kail reached back and drew the leather hood of the Spriggan Suit over his head. The cylinder at his back began to hum and whine, and a silvery light shot through the veins of the suit. Two brass plates snapped out of the hood and over his face, sealing with a hiss of steam, the same silvery light as the veins poured from two sets of eye slits in the plates. Kail's voice shot out this time amplified a dozen times over. "THERE'S YER FECKIN COMPLIANCE!" If there was disappointment on the demon warrior's part, it didn't show in his manner, rather he took to a knee and held up one fist. Mazie suddenly felt a hand on her shoulder, dragging her back from the railing, as the Garlean soldiers began leveling rifles to their shoulders and taking a knee next to their commander. Behind them she could make out pairs of robed magus, moving their hands in coordinated synchronization around summoned orbs of aetheric energy. As the Arbiter hovered in the air, she gave her crew a clear shot down onto the deck, it was one of the many advantages that airships held over naval vessels. Mazie closed her eyes and waited for the end to come.

Only it didn't. She felt herself being shoved down, and from near her feet came the groaning shriek of metal moving on hinges. A thunderclap of simultaneous rifle fire tore through the air, and it was only when the whine of ricochets died down that she allowed herself to open her eyes. All along the starboard side of the Rook, plates of metal had sprung on hinges from deck, angling away from the railing and forming lean-to's of sheltering steel. The plates were two ilms thick at least by her guess, and from the look of where she and Isral crouched safely on one side, hadn't taken so much as a dent from the firing line. "Wh-what is this?" She spluttered, gaping not only at the shielding walls sudden appearance, but at the contents slung under them. "This..." said Isral as he coolly unstrapped a rifle from the shield's underside. "..is the good part." Mazie looked down the line the other crew were doing much the same. "LAY ON LADS!" Came Kail's voice from somewhere on the line, on his signal the crew of the Rook poked their rifles over their respective shields, and returned fire. The crew of the Arbiter had never experienced a return volley after their first terrible shred. The advantages of height, superior numbers, and well coordinated marksmanship, made the task of fighting pirates at sea almost as bothersome as a chore. It was shooting fish in a barrel…at least it was until the fish started shooting back. Mazie saw men and women on the Arbiter's firing line fold up and over like dolls disturbed from their resting place. They'd had none of the cover of the Rook, and with the front line kneeling shoulder to shoulder, they had no way to seek the cover they didn't have. Each shot took a toll in sprays of blood and forms going limp for the life snatched out of them.

To the Garlean's credit none of them panicked, a few were quick to take what cover they could behind the corpses of their fallen companions, and those who didn't continued to unload their firearms at the crew of the Rook. The magi behind the firing line must have finished their casting, for among the shots raining down, there sailed two beads of aetheric fire. Isral yanked Mazie down beneath cover once more as the two missiles struck the side of the Rook with a force equal to any siege engine. Light and fire flared over the lip of the shield as Mazie did her best to make herself as small as she could. She could feel the rush of the scalding winds around her, the smell of burning hair assaulted her nostrils, and close by someone screamed. She opened her eyes to the scorched deck of the Rook, tongues of flame clung where they could, but by some miracle the sails hadn't caught. One of the crewman, an Elezen she had known as Gaston, was flailing about as his shipmates clung to him, wrestling to keep him down as Noyra beat away at him with a piece of tarp. He was still on fire. The blue and green flames were still licking at the charred flesh on the side of his face and chest. By some feat of hysterical strength he managed to throw off his crewmates to make a mad dash for the water, his path however took him from behind the protection of the shields, where he was cut down by rifle fire. He hit the deck with the dull thump of meat on metal, not but a few hand spans from where Mazie crouched, so close she could see the light go out in his eyes. It was so quick she was dumbfounded, the retreat of life from the flesh. She could have had barely enough time to snap her fingers between the moments when Gaston was flailing, screaming, fighting, everything that was alive, to when he was still, his normally ruddy cheeks now the color of pale clay. Unbidden to her mind sprang everything that he had been. An uncle, according to his stories, half his pay went to his sister and her ever growing brood in the lower docks, where he returned once every few months to let his favorite nephews and nieces practicing tying knots in his handsome long auburn hair. He liked to play cards even though he was terrible at it, and he always saved some portion of his meal for the seagulls, he said it was good luck. It frightened Mazie that so much life and vitality could be snuffed out so quickly, it frightened, and it angered her. It wasn't a sudden onset of rage, but rather as her grief at these inglorious ends raced through her veins like ice water, in its wake her temper kindled to warm her. This was being inflicted upon them, by some poncy stiff necked gits in starched uniforms who expected them to just lay back and let it happen. Well she had a crowbar that said otherwise. As her fingers tightened about the cold length of steel Mazie began to notice that there was a change in the chaos. The sporadic exchange of fire was beginning to die down and rifles were being discarded by those crew members who were still standing. In the distance she heard the engines of the Arbiter suddenly rise in pitch. Chancing a peek around the shields she saw what was happening. The Arbiter was closing the distance between the two ships, the Garleans were going to board them. As the giant metal frame began it’s slow but graceful descent, Mazie saw the soldiers aboard suddenly part, and from behind their ranks the red and black form of the demon warrior blurred out into the open air. It was an impossible jump, fifty yalms if she was any guess, yet the warrior’s path arced him though the air and into a graceful tumble aboard the deck of the Rook. His tumble brought him up to his feet, facing the crew of the Rook with a razor sharp curved sword drawn and ready for any who dared. There was a beat of hesitance from the Rook’s crew as they chewed on the implications of a commander willing to dive in head first where his soldiers had yet to tred. Mazie heard a word muttered among those crouched behind their shields, and immediately she knew what to call this man. This was a samurai. It was Syf that put them all to shame, the blind woman snaked forward from the ranks, the charms in her hair rattling a song. Her fishing spear was a blur as it fetched the man a blow across his blade that rang out even among the the whine of the Arbiter’s engines. His was an economy of movement, letting the blow glance off to his side as a single step brought him within an intimate distance of his attacker. He struck a shearing cut that would have removed the head of someone slower, Syf only found herself less a few dreadlocks, skittering back to once again to put her spear’s blade between herself and the samurai. She dipped and stabbed in rapid succession to cover her retreat, the spear head pecking out like some metal shrike, searching for weakness and gaps in the samurai’s defense. It found none. He was faster than someone in armor had any right to be, and the curved edge of that blade seemed to always be there to guide away the worst of what Syf had to offer. With infuriating patience he followed her retreat along the deck, one armored foot taking purchase after the other. The sight of the two blade masters trading blows held Mazie enthralled, she had never seen steel exchanged at such a rate, even in the violence laden lower docks of Limsa. Oh she had seen puffed up sailors draw steel and drunkenly brawl, she'd even been in a scuffle or two herself, but this was as comparing the breeze to the hurricane. She was so drunk on the sight she nearly forgot that their boat was being boarded, fortunately for her the tromp of boots on the deck snapped her attention back to the other side of the Rook. If the samurai had intended his entrance to serve as a distraction, it had worked beautifully. The Arbiter had been allowed to approach the Rook unmolested, and now her remaining soldiers were leaping off in coordinated lines. Mazie was saved by reflex more than anything, out of the corner of her eye she saw an armored leg dash around her side of the shield. She had already been holding her crowbar at the ready, and in a spasm that was equal parts nervous energy and surprised elation, she took to a knee and twisted a blow straight into the joint of the armor. She heard, she felt a meaty thud almost imperceptibly twisted around a dry branch snap followed by the high shrill scream of a woman in immense pain.

Mazie would never forget that sound as long as she lived, guttural and unbidden. It was nearly as painful to hear as it was to see the leg bend outward at a wrong angle and fail to support the weight of its owner, bringing the Garlean down in a moaning and swearing heap. The woman’s scream seemed to suddenly wake a new sort of chaos on the deck of the Rook, as the ship's defenders left the cover of their shields to meet the Garleans head on.

It was a seeming eternity of bedlam squeezed into the suddenly too small confines of the Rook’s deck. Sparks flew as steel whined against steel, there were the fleshy thuds of impact, blood curdling screams heaped upon gut wrenching yells and swears of a dozen different languages. Close to her Mazie heard the hiss pop of one of Isral’s flintlocks and felt a hot spatter upon her cheek. She looked up to see what looked like the body of a young male Hellsguard who had tried to scale the shield to get at the people behind it. At least, she thought he was young, Isral must have shot him point blank because his neck ended at a fragment of his jawline.

Further down the line Mazie heard an almost bestial howl of unrivaled fury. Noyra, sweet, kind, and gentle Noyra, who Mazie had once caught feeding biscuit crumbs to rats in the hold, had the head of a soldier encased in her giant hands. Two of man’s comrades were attempting to pry her off him, but she ignored them both, cords standing out on her neck and bulging arms as the man’s helmet and skull both crumpled as paper between her fingers. It was a scene repeated tenfold along the railing of the Rook, fantastic violence being done by her friends, to her friends. In the swarm of faces she saw frantic fear, terrible anger, and even in some a type of manic joy that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. What truly ate at her though, what would keep her up in the nights she found she couldn't sleep, was that she didn't recognize anyone in these moments, not even herself.

Mazie felt her gorge rising, and where once reflex had saved her, now it was the urge to vomit. She dropped her eyes to the deck to give vent to her breakfast, when she saw she was staring into the double barrels of a Garlean flintlock. In her witness to the battle she had completely forgotten the woman whose leg she had crushed, who through the pain of her injury, had found the discipline to draw her side arm. Mazie found herself looking past the wavering gun barrels and into the eyes of her would be murderer. She was a Highlander, with what Mazie was sure had once been winsome features, now blunted by a broken nose and a ruddy complexion. In her startlingly blue eyes through tears of pain there had been a resolution to shoot, but that faltered when Mazie made eye contact with her. As Mazie felt her urge to vomit crawl back inside of her, the two of them stared at one another, the world seeming to fall apart around them. She wasn't sure what passed between the two of them in that moment, Recognition, acceptance, or perhaps they were just both scared out of their wits. Mazie never got to find out. One of the soldiers that had been harrying Noyra flew through the air and hit the edge of the shield next to the Highlander at a wrong angle, snapping his neck and killing him instantaneously. The girl’s attention swung to the sudden movement and her gun barrel drifted off to the side in her confusion. Mazie found herself bringing her crowbar around and smashing the girl’s gun and wrist both. She swung down again ignoring the girl’s screams and adding in screams of her own as she kept swinging, her previous thoughts swept away by a single strata of fear. She didn't want to die.

She felt a little better after she finished throwing up, tucking herself against the shielding as the fighting raged on about her. Her chest hammering with a fire she hadn't been aware of while she’d been…defending hersel…no, killing that girl. Call a spade a spade, a nasty little voice hissed in her head, you wanted a life at sea, welcome to the price of admission. “Stoppit!” She spat at herself, thumping a hand against the deck in frustration “Ent no time fer that.” Indeed there wasn't, no sooner than she had spoken than did she hear a shrill cry from the other side of the deck. Syf was scuttling away on her rear from the samurai, clutching her left arm tightly to her chest while scarlet rivulets trickled down it, staining her leathers and leaving bloody spots in her wake. In her free hand she still clutched the haft of her spear, it had been sheared down the middle during her exchange with the eastern warrior, but it’s hooked blade still served to turn away blows from the samurai. The demon samurai stalked towards her with all of the patience that he had begun the fight with, content with the knowledge that when he took her life it would be at his leisure. Mazie looked over to where Isral was clubbing a man over the head with a pistol. “Isral! Help we need to help Syf!” Isral looked up from his work and turned to frown at Syf’s plight. He tossed the pistol aside before casting a glance at the bodies around them. Finding what he was looking for, he plucked a Garlean flintlock from the belt of the man he’d been beating. “These…” he said to Mazie “…have two shots. Against that…” he nodded towards the advancing samurai “…it’ll make a decent enough distraction. After that though all bets are off. Get her below decks.” Mazie bit back on an acid comment about at least trying to be optimistic.

Instead she grabbed up her crowbar and kept low as she began climbing the stairs to the quarter deck, where she could see the whole of amidships and still be unseen if she crouched. She tried to make herself as small as possible, all the while peering over the edge to gauge when her moment would be. Isral strode out until he couldn’t have been more than ten paces from the samurai, who held his sword above his head in a prepared final blow against the blind woman. With the casual nature of picking up a piece of fruit at the marketplace, Isral leveled the flintlock at the samurai and fired, a plume of fire and smoke blooming from one of its barrels. At first Mazie’s eyes didn't follow what had happened, she saw the samurai’s sword flash down as he twisted into a blow against someone who wasn't there. She held out an insane hope that one bullet was enough to bring the man down, when instead of faltering, the samurai drew his blade over the bridge of his left thumb and sheathed it with a neat snap. That was when she saw the two smoking pockmarks in the railing to either side of the man, and her mind came to grips with what had happened. He had cleaved the bullet in two. Her mind reeled at the sheer nonsense of the idea, and that small nasty voice spoke up in her thoughts once more. What was she doing on this side of the sea, where men throw their allies overboard, and demons cut bullets in half? All the while the samurai kept his stance facing Isral, his right hand hovering over the pommel of his blade. There wasn't a hint of surprise on Isral’s features at the failure of his first attack, in truth he looked almost bored with the detail. His casual nature unflagging, he cocked back the hammer on the second barrel and even brought his other arm around to brace the pistol in the crook of his arm. The samurai and his terrible patience, waited. Mazie saw her moment, and though that little voice (not so little any more) was screaming in her ear to stay put and let the adults have it out, she found her feet pumping against the thrumming of her heart. She barely felt the deck under her feet, and later would only remember the sensation of floating as she vaulted the railing to land next to the cursing and spitting Syf. Mazie woodenly ignored the woman’s thrashing and almost feverish insistence that she could still fight. Grabbing Syf by the straps of her jerkin, Mazie began to drag her away and towards stairs to the hold. She heard Isral’s shot ring out, and nearly missed the samurai drawing and sundering the air before him in a glittering arc. This time she couldn't deny the man’s ability as she felt one of the bullet halves buzz by her cheek like an angry hornet, a burning sting left in its wake. As she continued to drag her still struggling cargo, something with the situation seemed off to her, but it was hard to tell what with the adrenaline rushing through her. The samurai then flicked his sword to the side, and the arc of blood that sluiced off of it told Mazie what was wrong. Isral, still the span of a long boat away from the man, suddenly clutched at his chest where a thin line of claret began to seep out from under the cloth of his fine clothing.“Oh…” he gasped, examining his now blood stained fingers with murky wonder “..that’ll never come out will it?” His eyes seemed to focus far away, and then rolled into the back of his head, the Miqo’te slumped to the deck, another limp form among the many. Syf suddenly let out a shriek that would give a banshee pause, and strangely enough went bonelessly limb in Mazie’s arms. Suddenly it was as though Mazie was dragging a bag of wet sand with fifty stone on her. Though the woman had been fighting her before, she had still been holding herself upright. Now with her head lolling on her shoulders, she didn't move one wit, and threatened to drag Mazie down with her to the deck. All the samurai had to hold onto was his terribly sharp sword, and it was perfectly willing to follow him as he closed the distance between himself and the two hapless women. Mazie couldn't help but find that terribly unfair, and for a moment she was sorely tempted to simply let Syf go. She had few illusions now that if the samurai got to them he would cut through them both, and it would probably only take him one cut. Just as it had with Isral. She had liked Isral, among the crew he had been the most approachable. Among the pirates who's stock and trade were growls and glares, the capricious Miqo’te seemed to live to tease smiles out of anyone that was near him. Whether it was with barbed quips or inane tunes on his shepherd's pipes, he had always found Mazie an easy mark. Now he was dead. Again Mazie felt that anger fuse with her almost desperate need to survive this…this miniature hell she found herself in. She was tired of watching people die. Gritting her teeth, she set her feet, and hauled back with all she could bring to bear. One step, then another, ignoring the creaks she both heard and felt throughout her body, ignoring the dull whine that came from the samurai’s strange armor, and how it was steadily growing closer. She was nearly to the stairs, only a few more steps, when the world suddenly went out from under her. Mazie felt the deck come up and connect with her back in a dull meaty thud that promised her pain to come if she lived long enough to meet it. The air was driven from her lungs, and suddenly the limp form of Syf felt all the heavier as it kept her pinned to the deck. She was faintly aware of where her hand made contact with the deck, and how it felt wet, warm…and sticky. Dumbly she stared at her own hand and saw what it was that she had slipped in, Syf’s blood. As she struggled under the unconscious woman, she saw as the samurai walked up the last few paces between them. His masked helmet tilted to the side, and it was with some indignation that Mazie realized the bastard was simply watching her struggle. Pointedly, she ignored him and clawed at the deck to inch herself from beneath Syf’s body. Finally when her hips came free she stood, shaking from both fatigue and naked fear of the figure that towered over her. The expression of the metal mask remained unchanging, all glowing red eyes, teeth, and tusks. Yet still there was something in his stance, the way he cocked his head, that translated to amusement. “I commend your struggles, you nearly made it.” Came that voice that sounded like it was coming through a pipe. It was no longer amplified, and sounded at this volume, almost reasonable, if mildly laced with the interest one pays a strange piece of foliage. Despite the dull ache that was coming through the pins and needles of her back, the sudden onset of fatigue that was racing up her limbs, and the acute sense of fear she felt twisting her stomach into knots, Mazie found her voice coming out in unwavering tones. “Thanks. Ye goin t’kill me then or what?” “It is possible for you to surrender.” She considered it for a split second, there was that option of course. It was seductive in its simplicity, give up, that's all she had to do. Oh she’d take a few knocks she was sure, but there was something about the samurai’s manner that told her if she stood aside, he would honor her choice. She’d just have to swallow her pride, and right after she found it too… Looking back up to that mask, the corner of her mouth turned up into a rueful smirk. “Honestly I don't think I have that in me..” “Then I shall make it quick.” said the samurai, as he lifted this sword, and brought it down with the lazy skill of a farmer scything wheat. Mazie had expected a lot of things of The End. She had hoped to die fat, in bed, and suffering from acute suffocation of too much wealth, perhaps with a husband who wouldn't know where to start without her, maybe children. Death by samurai certainly hadn't rated among her expectations when she had started off on this voyage, but she was finding herself adapting rather rapidly and expanding her horizons. What would never have crossed her mind, under any circumstances, would be a bolt of indigo lightning rending the air to the side of her head. That took her a moment to come to grips with. It was the sound mostly that devastated her senses, she had to work her head around the fact that she had never heard lightning before, only thunder. While the great basso rumbles of the sky were fearsome in their own right, they had nothing on the furious hornet buzz of raw electricity ripping its way through ozone by shear force. Through the disorienting haze of that terrible noise being only a few scant inches from her ear, Mazie came to the realization that with the exception of the ringing in her ears, she was relatively unharmed. The bolt had been meant for the samurai. He had not been expecting it to her estimates, but that hadn't stopped his speed and training from saving him. His sword was held at the ready, the steel edge now glowing a cherry red, residual static pops of electricity flicked along the gaps of his armor. Mazie was starting to wonder if there was anything this man couldn't cut in two. “Stand aside dear.” Came a gentle voice over her shoulder. It was slightly muted under the ringing, but it was concise, clear, and carried an edge of steel under it. “I've a few choice words for our guest.” Mazie stood aside promptly, hooking a hand under Syf’s arm and dragging her with, because that is what you did when a Magus of Norah’s caliber took to the field. The Highlander woman stepped up from the top step of the hold access, gathering her skirts and apron hem in one hand to keep from tripping over them. Mazie had noticed Norah to be one of the few who had stayed below decks, and her labors therein were apparent in her appearance.

Her normally tightly coiffed hair was in disarray, with stray strands escaping the pony tail at odd angles. Her eyes were puffy, lacking the benefits of makeup or a decent night’s sleep, but they were hard. There was blame in those cyan slits, focused with utmost intensity upon the man before her. Blame for all the gore that spattered her leather chirurgeon’s apron, blame for much, much worse. Norah’s other hand came up, and in it, she held what Mazie at first took to be cane. A second glance however revealed it to be an umbrella of all things, a stark black affair with a silver handle in the shape of some sort of yowling cat. The handle seemed to glare along with it’s wielder at the samurai. “I did not…” said Norah in crisp wintery tones “…sail across wretched salt waves, wallow in the sty you and yours have made out of my country, and wrench lives from the jaws of the Empire just so you could take them back only to hang them.” As if to punctuate her statement, another lance of lightning boiled up her arm and through the umbrella, striking the samurai’s sword with such force as to push him back a few feet. The samurai grunted from behind his blade, his stance shifting not one wit in any direction despite his displacement “Those are citizens of the Empir…” “They are people! They are mothers, they are fathers, they are sisters, and sons!” More lightning tore through the air from the fanged mouth of the silver cat. This was no flash or bolt, but a sustained fan of plasma that flickered and twined about the samurai’s blade, pushing him back further all the while. Mazie felt a dull pain in her mouth and realized she was biting the inside of her cheek as she watched Norah. The magus was striding towards the man, howling over the terrible humming whine of her own lightning, and the tortured screams of the sword’s steel. “They are beaten, they are broken, and still that is not enough! You insist they stand at attention while you grind away at their very selves, chipping away at anything humane they could hold onto! You shout your filth in their ears about how they’re animals, and that you’re trying to elevate them! When really all you’re doing is turning them into some poor pack of miserable creatures too busy gnawing at each other to realize that YOU’RE THE ONES KILLING THEM!” Onward she pressed, and for a moment, when the forks of scintillating lightning drove the machine samurai to a knee, Mazie nearly let herself believe it was all over. She saw however that as the violet shower poured forth, Norah’s face was beginning to lose some of it’s color, her steps shorter, and the silver head of the cat drooped lower. Finally she stopped a handful of paces from the man, her breath heavy, and sweat beading from her brow. At last the flow of electric power stopped. The samurai looked up, his sword glowing hotter still, his armor scorched and smoking. The glow from it’s joints was now flickering and spitting blue sparks. With an agonized whine of metal, he stood up, and reasserted his stance. “Impressive for a magi, however as an assault, ultimately fruitless.” Norah, look more annoyed than off put however, and blew a stray strand of hair out her face. “I guess then it’ll have to do as a distraction.” The gods, Mazie decided, had their own twisted sense of humor. Because it wasn't but a heartbeat later, with a shrill scream and a sickening abrupt crunch, that the body of an Imperial Magus struck the deck of the Rook between the pair of them. High overhead, smoke could be seen pouring out the bay of the Arbiter, and from that smoke a speeding form of sliver light and brass launched itself into the air. Spreading its limbs, it seemed to catch the air, and launched itself straight into the sails of the Rook, where the fabric held, billowing out and allowing the form to slide down to the deck The captain looked as chipped around the edges as the samurai. There were several tears in the leather, and scorching on the face plate, but the spriggan suit had held apparently. Wearily he looked about the ship. The last of the imperial foot soldiers were being cut down, or shoved into the briny deep. The fight on the deck had gone in favor of pirates, however it had been a costly victory, less than half of the original twenty still stood. He turned to the samurai, who stood as stoic as ever, sword at the ready. The faceplate on the spriggan suit divided, and retreated into its hood, revealing a face that was drawn from fatigue and exasperation. “Yer men have lost, the fight’s over.” Said Kail. “My ship is still in the air.” The samurai shot back cooly. “They would fire on a ship while their commander twas aboard it?” “They have specific orders to do so if I fail to take the prisoners alive.” Kail blinked at that, and gave a low whistle beneath his teeth. He hunkered down into a crouch, taking out his old battered flask, and took a long drought before speaking. “Ent no way I could talk ye into surrenderin eh?” Of all things, amusement found it's way into the samurai’s voice. “As one of your crew put it, I don't think I have it in me to surrender. You shall remove me from your ship by either my death, or handing over the prisoners.” “That’s a very black and white view oh things.” said Kail, as he curled his fingers into a notch in the deck, and pulled. As it turned out, there were two sets of the fantastic metal shielding on the Rook, one for each side of the ship. Mazie later learned the spring loaded plates had a dual purpose, as many of the Rook’s little tricks did. They weren't just shielding from oncoming fire, they were also perfect for launching boarders onto other ships, or for launching armor clad samurai out into the unforgiving sea. Out over the waves he soared, with a splash of finality, and a few final billowing clouds of bubbles, the machine samurai sank beneath. “Second arsehole I've had t’throw off my ship t’day.” Muttered Kail, as he glanced in Norah and Mazie’s direction. “The two oh ye alright?” Norah kept a lingering glance on where the samurai had disappeared from sight, her hands twisting and worrying at the umbrella. Closing her eyes she finally turned away, looking to Kail with steel once more in her gaze “As an adjective ‘alright’ falls a little short of how I'm feeling, but I am whole, there are others who are not. We should see to them.” It was at that point that Mazie remembered her charge, and looked down. Syf was no where to be seen, there was simply a smear of blood where she had been at Mazie’s feet. How in the hells had she lost a spear woman with at least a foot in height on her? “Uhhh Captain…” she began to say, but the thought died in her throat. Kail was currently shouting out orders to the few crew that were still standing, and either didn't hear, or didn't bother to reply. Despite the fight’s end there was still a fair bit of chaos. There were the wounded to look after, triage was the word that was being passed around by the grim faced. The Rook was still floating but she had taken damage from the mages’ assault, there were fires to put out, and repairs to be seen to. More importantly, the Arbiter still hung in the air nearly a hundred yalms above, and the smoke that had been billowing from her bay was bringing to abate, her crew was already getting repairs underway. When they got their affairs in order, they would turn their guns on the Rook. Not seeing any use in bothering the captain about it, she resolved to find the wayward Syf herself. As it turned out it was just a matter of following the blood. The smear of scarlet that was at her feet streaked towards the stairs to the hold, Mazie bit her lip and followed. At first she was beginning to feel relief, perhaps Syf had reasonably come to the conclusion that her injuries needed tending to. That little voice she had come to hate told her that was too much to ask for, sense in her companions.

The streak had now become a set of erratic foot prints with the occasional spatter, and it fact turned away from the part of the hold that had been sectioned off for Laloquer’s ministrations to the sick. Instead the trail led straight to the armory. She was there, hunched over a locker, rifling though it’s contents. Syf’s injured arm was no longer bleeding, a hastily tied leather tourniquet had seen to that, but it hung down limply at her side as she wrestled with the contents of the chest. “Syf..” said Mazie as she cautiously walked up behind the woman, she felt like she was about to grab a tiger by the tail “…yer hurt.” Syf grunted and tossed a padlock over her shoulder “So you are not blind. Good, I wouldn't recommend it.” “Ye’ve lost a lot of blood.” Mazie tried to keep the impatience out of her voice. “Lalo should take a look at ye.” There was a click from inside the chest, and another padlock sailed over Syf’s shoulder and landed in a small pile in the corner. That was when Mazie saw what was giving Syf so much trouble, there was a second set of locks inside the chest, holding a sizable metal plate in place over it’s contents. “That mincing mustache of a lalafel has enough bodies at the moment.” Syf gave a grin that worried Mazie, and with a crow of delight she yanked up the metal plate. Inside the chest, an icy blue glow emanated. Mazie hazarded a glance inside.

The walls of the chest were lined with velvet, a rich red material that was turned purple by the strange blue light. The velvet was so raised off the sides, Mazie was almost certain it was stuffed to capacity, as though the box was meant to carry something fragile. The light emanated from what Mazie thought to be short swords. The blades themselves were superbly wrought, even to her untrained eye. What made them a wonder however was the spiraling tubes of glass that seemed to be woven through the steel of the blood channel in the center of blades. These tubes braided down towards the hilt, where a strange amalgamation of clockwork artifice sat, it reminded Mazie of a bellows in miniature. Further still where the blade ended were fastened two vials on either side, the liquid therein was the source of the blue light, and it shone with an intensity that wasn't natural. Suddenly Mazie knew why the box was padded and sealed as it had been. It was liquid ceruleum. “Is that…?” began Mazie. “Yes.” Finished Syf. Almost reverently Syf drew out one of the blades, and affixed it to a pole she held clamped between her knees. It was then that Mazie saw that the blades weren’t short swords, but spearheads. Syf snatched up the completed weapon and balanced it on her palm. The heavy haft of wood was as still as stone on her hand, and while her face looked drawn, her limbs did not tremble. She nodded once, and rose heading back the way she came with Mazie on her heels. “Syf, what are ye goin t’do with that?” “Kill our enemies.” Mazie blinked “All of them?” “Someday…but today I'll just have to settle for the ones in front of us.”

When they finally came back to the deck, Mazie was surprised at how quickly the deck was being cleared, but then she supposed it really didn't take that much effort to toss a body into the sea. Their fallen comrades were being lined up in a strangely neat row of sheeted figures next to the stairs, piled up like logs Mazie thought. She was glad to see there were a few that were on top of sheets instead of under them, waiting to be ferried down below for Lalo’s ministrations no doubt. They were outnumbered however by the forms that were forever still, and she noted numbly that Isral’s form was not among those with life in them still. “Ho Syf!” Came Kail’s voice from above. He was at the wheel, compass in hand while Norah held out a map for the pair of them to look over. “Heard ye were hurt. Ye aught be in the line fer the hold.” Syf shrugged, as though someone had just commented on the direction of the wind. “Hold this.” Said Syf, and she tossed the spear and it’s more certainly explosive payload to Mazie. Despite her knees suddenly feeling like jelly, she managed to catch it. Mazie watched curiously as Syf began to swing her good arm around and around in circles. She twisted at the waist, then sharply brought up her knees in wide sweeping arcs that Mazie saw to be stretches. Finally from her belt, Syf removed a slender stick. At least Mazie thought it was a stick, on closer inspection she realized it was in fact a piece of whale bone, a part of the rib if her time on the docks had taught her anything about it. It was worn smooth and lacquered, with a strap of leather wound round one end to make a handle. There were small carvings wrapped in a spiral up it’s shaft, Mazie squinted and thought she could make out the shapes of whales, otters, and seals. Stranger still the end of the stick curved into a small notch…just big enough to fit a spear butt in. “Fit it t’here.” Said Syf indicating the notch. Mazie hesitated and looked back to the captain. “Syf…” said Kail, with an edge of caution in his voice. “We ent tested those yet.” “Twill work, or it won't.” The woman rasped. “ They’ve taken from us, worse yet they've seen us. You so keen t’leave enemies t’our aft?” Kail frowned, staring back towards where they had left the Arbiter. The Rook had made good time in disengaging from the Arbiter during Mazie’s time in the hold. They had put at least three hundred yards between them and the airship, which simply hovered where they had left it. Occasionally one of it’s engines gave a half hearted sputter of blue fire, the only evidence that there were still crew aboard. Something played over the captain’s face, to Mazie he suddenly seemed older than the lines on his face suggested, exhausted beyond measure. Then his eye flicked to the pile of bodies stacked by the stairs, and that strange yellow eye became flint. “Do it.”

There was something in that voice that Mazie didn't dare to argue with, she slotted the butt of the spear in the notch, and Syf took the spear’s weight onto her shoulder and knuckles. As is settled there a sort of languid ease overtook the spear woman. Mazie hadn't noticed before but without a weapon in her hands, Syf had looked incomplete, deformed to an extent. Now she was in her natural state, a beached shark back in the water. “Give me bearings little Mazie, and I'll show you a wonder.” Syf purred. Mazie snorted, and brought out her compass, sighting the Arbiter. After a few quick calculations, she spoke. “She’s four point’s off dead astern, soon t’be three-hundred and eighty yalms off. Want me t’tell the captain t’bring the ship round?” “Don’t bother.” Syf stood, took in a breath, then let it out with agonizing slowness. Mazie frowned at her. “Ent no one can make that throw…hell I don't know anyone that can make that shot! 'Tis impossible!” Syf let her head fly back, and she gave a throaty laugh that seemed aimed more at the gods than it was at Mazie. “Hear that captain?? I'm impossible!” “Don't I feckin know it, quit yer crowin and get on with it.” Growled Kail, Needing no more encouragement, Syf charged down the length of the ship. It wasn't a jog, or a sprint, it was a full tilt run along the deck. Mazie was amazed the spear didn't jostle loose from it’s setting in the stick, yet somehow, even with her bare feet slapping on the deck and propelling her forward at breakneck speeds, Syf kept the spear balanced on her shoulder. As she approached the end of the deck her shoulder began to dip back, but she did not slow. It wasn't until she was a scant few yards from the aft railing that she threw her left leg out before her and slammed it down on the deck before her in an impact that Mazie felt from her side of the ship. The spear woman’s body twisted and undulated under the spear, in a motion that seemed as much exultation as it was violence. For a split second Mazie had a hard time seeing where the woman ended, and the spear began. Then they separated as Syf vented a raw throated howl to the seas.

The spear soared up, higher than Mazie ever thought possible, high enough to where it looked like it might cleave through the clouds themselves. Then the world retained it’s hold on the weapon, and with a glint the weapon reached it’s peak and sheared downwards almost lazily for the Arbiter. Mazie lifted her spyglass in just enough time to see the spear strike the airship’s armored side. Only there was no explosion. Oh the spears blade bit into the metal of the ship alright, the metal around it even dented inward to give testimony to the force with which it struck. There was no earth shattering boom however, no fire from what she could see. “Did it hit?” came Kail’s voice from over her shoulder. “Aye…somat’s wrong though, it didn’t explode. Must be a dud.” “Wait for it..” he returned, a little too grim for her liking. “Ye’ll know it when it happens.” True to his word, after a few more seconds of nothing through her spy glass, something began to happen. There was a bright blue light that seemed to emanate from the hilt of the spear, and the ship’s armor around the spear blade, began to glow yellow, then orange, then finally violently vibrant red. Smoke started to drift up from the top deck of the ship, and then the Arbiter then began to belch indigo fire. It came from vents, it came from hatches, it came from cracks and crevices, and when it had no where to burst from inside the ship it made such exits itself. The escape of inferno started around the compartments nearest to the spear, but it was clear to Mazie that it was spreading like..well…wildfire.

The bay doors of the Arbiter suddenly lurched open, and if Mazie had any illusions as to the airship being free of occupants, they were dashed to ashen bits. In a chorus of screams that bordered on animal, the remaining crew scrambled in a mad dash to escape the flames, even as the flames ate at them. They pushed, shoved, even bit and tore at one another for the privilege of the flinging their own charred not yet corpses towards the briny waters below. A fall that most assuredly would kill them just as swiftly as the flames. Some were trampled underneath their fellows, others made it, their descent marked by trails of greasy smoke. Mazie saw as the final crew member to make it to the bay door managed to grip the handle, just in time to be consumed wholly by the blast of flame that shot from the corridor behind him.

The Arbiter drifted for a moment or two more still spitting flame, a child's firework given gross proportions. Finally the terrible heat of the fire must have boiled the ceurleum tanks within, for the explosion that Mazie had been watching for, finally came. A bright blue light flared in the sky where the Arbiter had been, leaving afterimages dancing in her eyes, even after she closed them. There was an odd silence before the sound of the blast ripped it’s way to Rook, and Mazie felt a pressure like a hand on her chest, nudging her back. It would have sent her to the deck if the captain hadn't caught her and held her up. “They’re called Drake’s Teeth.” He said, not looking away from the falling bits of smoking debris that marked the Arbiter’s final destination. “They’re ship killers. Use one of those on a wooden sailing vessel, she’ll be ash in a few minutes. Use it on a steel clad airship? The metal corridors and vents direct the fire, contain it within. Turns the whole ship into an oven.” Mazie gaped at him, he spoke as if he was rattling off a recipe from a book .Some part of her wanted to slap him. “Those were people…” Kail’s eye snapped to her, and for a moment she felt a heat behind it, as searing as the flames she’d just borne witness to. The heat was gone as just as quickly as it had appeared, and trailing in it’s wake was a sadness focused solely on her, a type of pity. Oh child, all fire burns, it said. “They tried t’burn my home down around me.” He said, no anger in his voice, just a statement of fact. “I have t’set folk down on their final waters tonight, and after that I have t’take their back pay t’their families and explain that they died followin my orders. Those feckers were lucky we sent them t’the other side quick, and anyone that comes lookin fer their pound oh flesh can expect more oh the same.” Mazie opened her mouth to reply but he cut her off with a sharp motion of his hand. “Afore ye say somat ye’ll regret, let me remind ye I am the captain oh this vessel, and as such am above explainin meself t’deckhands. Sort yerself out, and then help with the wounded and dead, that's an order.” With that, he turned sharply on a heel and headed for the wheel. Mazie’s cheeks burned with a contingent of rage, embarrassment, and fatigue. She bit her lower lip, and went about the business of helping the rest of the crew, ignoring the itch to talk back. She had heard the captain give orders like that only a few times, and knew that to test him on the matter, was utter folly. The sun was dipping into a crimson horizon by the time they floated the last of their friends into the seas. No other airships were seen on the approach, so Kail decided to see to their dead before they made the final push back. Bodies were given a plank to float upon, a candle to hold, and their clothing was soaked in lamp oil. This was so that when the candle burned down far from the ship, fire would take care of the rest. Little ships with sails of fire, was what they looked like to Kail. Twelve little ships, twelve sailors, twelve times he had failed to be clever enough to be captain. He supposed he should have had words for them, but they simply weren't coming. Norah must have seen his spirits flagging in time, for it was her to speak up when they began lowering the first of the fallen pirates into the calm sea. “We are here but for a short time, mere gasps for breath in the eyes of the gods. Yet we are tasked with bringing meaning to our brief lives, and in their haste to do so many rate their own lives more valuable than the multitude. I see before me twelve testaments as to how backwards and wrong that thinking is. These men and women sold their lives for something that they or their children will never hold in their hands. They fought for people they will never know, and I can't help but see them as richer for it. Though I may go on to see knights, kings, queens, or emperors…I will never know anyone more noble than those that died protecting my countrymen today. I will not forget them, and neither should you.” She lowered her head, as did the rest of the crew, there was a murmur of surprise to her words. Pirates were unused to such praise, they still expected to be paid at journey’s end, but someone's respect was a nice bonus. They were good words, Kail decided, better than any he could have given. He watched the others from the wheel of the ship as the last of the bodies floated away, each dealing with their grief or relief in different ways. Noyra and Laloquer both went back to work, though the small surgeon did so with a comparatively large bottle of wine in his hands. Kail couldn't fault him that, he had done the work of ten doctors today, and was no where near seeing everyone out the woods. Noyra was silent as always, though there was a fervor with which she lifted sail and tied knots that spoke measures as to what was going on behind that stoic mask. Syf had disappeared down into the hold, Kail had made sure to send a crewman to relocate the Drake’s teeth to his cabin. He trusted Syf, but he didn’t trust her demons. Little Mazie leaned against the railing of the stern, watching the small bonfires go out to sea. Kail felt a set of fingers intertwine though his over the wheel of the ship. He let out a small sigh of contentment to match the touch, and dug out a small smile for Norah. She leaned her head against his shoulder, and followed his eyes towards Mazie. “You were a little hard on her at the end.” She murmured. “I had to be, she’s seen me at my best, but naer at my worst.” “Why should that matter?” Slipping an arm about her waist, he partook in her warmth as the chill of the night sea began to set in, and ordered his thoughts. “This is her first voyage, so she’s still an outsider. When we return to Limsa she’ll have a choice to make, iffin she wants to join the Rook and it’s family. That ain't an exaggeration either, this twill be her family iffin she comes back. She needs t’see it, warts an all iffin she’s goin t’gamble her life with it.” “Mmm so you’re laying all your cards on the table.” She said, smiling a little. “Exactly…and I still have one more card t’show.” He had to try hard to keep the grin out of his voice, as he twisted on one of the spokes of the wheel.

Kail never told new crew any of the Ashen Rook’s secrets for many reasons. Spies were one, there was no shortage of espionage among the captain's of Limsa, even the legitimate ones. He felt that trust was better when earned than when it was simply given. Second was that he believed there was no better teacher than experience, crew gave better respect to the ship when she surprised them. His final (and most important) reason was a personal one, he never got tired of the look on their faces when the Rook spread her wings. There came a great timber creaking clank from within the recesses of the Rook’s hull, and the unmistakable hum of aetheric energy being routed to the crystals lining the interior of her frame. Her sidelined sails, slowly but surely leaned even further outward, until they were parallel with the deck. With a whine, the ceruleum engines hidden belowdecks fired up, her vents below the water giving the Rook the lift she needed to begin her ascent.

The chemically treated canvas of her sails-now-wings snapped tight as they grabbed air, and those of her crew began to grab railing and support lines. Her hull creaked and groaned in the protests of a giant, but with an almighty spray of salt water and roar of the engine, the Ashen Rook cleared herself of the salt waves, taking to the air. For all the grace she exhibited on the waves, the Rook was that much more nimble on the wing. Her lack of plating made her more fragile in a fight, it was true, but her light and flexible wooden frame allowed her to swoop and dive, where the garlean metal giants lumbered. Kail brought her out of a climb that made the pit of his stomach feel five fulms deeper, and while she hung beneath the clouds, he spared a glance for Mazie. Her eyes were as wide as dinner plates as she clung for dear life to the railing. Her mouth hung agape as she attempted to take in what had just happened.

The shock was slow to leave, but eventually it was replaced by something else, wonder. When she got her feet under her and looked out over a landscape she would have only otherwise seen in her dreams, the smile that split her face rivaled any sunrise in Kail’s memory. She turned her face into the wind of the Rook’s passage, where it blew her brown ringlets each and every way. Kail knew she would be staying. There was no going back after that first rush, that first exaltation of being free of the world’s grasp.

He knew just as certainly that they would be returning to Ala Mhigo. They had been chased too fiercely, hounded too savagely, and it was obviously a trap. You didn’t set a trap like that for a few half starved slaves, there was someone or something important in the holds of his ship with those pitiful few. That was a conversation he would have to have with Norah, and he suspected that of their shouting matches, this would be one to remember.It really didn’t matter though in the end, Kail and his crew were in this to their eyeballs. Now, just as with Mazie, there was no going back for them. Worse yet, this was no fight where twenty stood against fifty, this was a nation they were setting themselves against. Depspite their recent setbacks the Garleans still had armies, fortifications, spies, and resources to support all those things. The Ashen Rook had a beat up crew and a few tricks up her petticoats. It would take more to even consider survival, never mind any sort of victory. It would take allies. Fortunately, Kail knew where he could find a few of those.

The End...for now.

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#roleplaying #writing #Kail Gerrad #Final Fantasy XIV #scallywag swagger #written word

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pocketseizure · 8 years ago

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The Museum of Hyrule, Chapter Three

All the Stories Not Told

In this chapter, Zelda attends a fundraiser held in the museum. Fed up with the party, she leaves and is approached by Ganondorf. He suggests they continue their conversation in the archives, where they can finally be alone.

Chapter 3 / 4 ☆ 3,100 words ☆ SFW ☆ (Also on AO3)

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The council member raised a supercilious eyebrow at Zelda. "You will be sure to tell Prime Minister Nohansen about our conversation, yes?"

"Of course, sir. I'll be sure to give my father your regards."

Zelda flashed a bright smile, but the old man had already turned away from her and started to talk to someone else. As she stepped away from the conversation, she caught a glimpse of herself in the glass covering a display of old rupee coins. Her sleek black dress fit perfectly, and not a strand of her hair had come loose from the updo that had taken her stylist almost two hours to construct. Her sapphire earrings glittered brilliantly, and her makeup was immaculate, but her face was clearly tired. She looked simultaneously much younger and much older than she actually was.

Perhaps this was an effect of the pretentious and stuffy atmosphere of the event, a charity fundraiser held in the museum. Zelda assumed that all the proceeds from the tickets went to a good cause, but it had not been made clear what that cause might be. The actual purpose of the evening was to form and solidify connections, as a new rotation of parliament members had just been inducted into office. The parliament floor was nothing more than a stage; this was where the real business of government took place, in lavish venues that were accessible by invitation only.

I can't deal with this nonsense anymore, Zelda thought.

She left the smaller gallery and proceeded through the main hall of the museum's east wing, avoiding the clustered groups and pretending not to see the glances and waves in her direction. The buzz of conversation faded behind her as she moved farther away from the party. She eventually reached the central rotunda where she had come to get out of the heat a week ago.

Although she was more than comfortable working with people in a professional context, Zelda disliked large and informal functions like this, where the only goal seemed to be for older men to drink and make grand pronouncements regarding the future of people other than themselves. Her father had dragged her along with him to numerous events like this when she was younger, and they never became any easier to bear. She had no desire to attend this particular fundraiser, but her boss had asked her to, and she had agreed without thinking when she heard it would be held in the museum. There was no sense in concealing the truth – she wanted to see Ganondorf.

She hated herself for the way she'd treated him. Why did she leave his office? Was she really so stuck up that she thought she was too good for him? Was she really so high and mighty that she didn't want to risk being seen at a hotel bar with a museum curator?

When she'd gotten back to her apartment, she left the file Ganondorf gave her on the living room table. It was certain to be messy business, and she needed a cold shower to clear her head. She washed her face over and over again, her mind running through the same set of thoughts in the chilly water: Who is this man? What am I doing? When will I see him again? She finally emerged from the bathroom to find Midna sitting cross-legged on the floor, the contents of the file fanned out on the carpet in front of her.

"This is some heavy shit, Zel," she'd said, not even bothering to look up.

Midna was a policy wonk of the highest order. She came from a good family, which was all that mattered to Zelda's father when he'd signed as a guarantor on their lease several years ago. More importantly, Midna was a freshly minted PhD who had already joined the ranks of the best and brightest. She was a member of several think tanks that worked behind closed doors and soundproofed walls in the brightly painted townhouses of the university district. Despite pulling in an unimaginable salary, she seemed to feel no urge to move out of their apartment. Zelda valued her company, and she valued her opinions as well.

"Why don't you break it down for me while I get dressed?"

"You mean you haven't seen this?" Midna asked, slapping the back of her hand against the photocopies she was holding. "Where did it come from?"

"Pants first, questions later."

"I don't think you need to bother, because this is going to knock your pants off."

"I'll wear an extra pair then," Zelda yelled from her bedroom. "Tell me what we've got here."

"Where do I even begin? You know how there were two earthquakes a hundred years ago? Most people are aware that the Gerudo were blamed for the fires that spread after the first one, but get a load of this – what I'm looking at are corroborating documents saying that there were royal orders for the soldiers to spread those rumors and then organize civilian groups to hunt the Gerudo down. Fuck me, there are pictographs and everything."

Midna paused and then called out, "You still listening?"

"Yes, I'm listening!" Zelda answered as she quickly pulled on her Sheikah-style athletic pants.

"And it doesn't end there. So the Gerudo got kicked out of the west district, and a bunch of people were brought in for the post-earthquake reconstruction. This is where shit gets real. I've got another bunch of documents here that suggest that these people were purposefully unregistered so that they could be severely underpaid and then conveniently made to disappear when they were no longer useful. I'm holding a bunch of etchings and diary entries that seem to suggest that they were no better than slaves. And meanwhile, full citizenship was being revoked for other groups who were labeled as undesirables so that they basically became nonentities. Did you know there were actually still Deku in the city during the second earthquake? This is wild.... Hey, Zelda?"

"Yeah, I'm still listening," Zelda responded as she walked back into the living room. Her head was spinning, and she felt unsteady on her feet. Instead of trying to navigate through the sheets of paper spread out across the floor, she sat down on the couch behind Midna.

"So this is the craziest thing," Midna said, passing a copy of a photograph of a woodblock print back to Zelda. She took it but didn't immediately understand what she was seeing. There seemed to be a large monster rising above the roofs of the city, which was wreathed in stylized flames.

"I'm not so good with turn-of-the-century Hylian, but it seems as though the second earthquake was blamed on some sort of monster, can you believe that? People genuinely believed it was real, and that it was unleashed on Hyrule by the Gerudo. Putting this together with everything else, I would say that this is more propaganda to drive the remaining residents of the west district away. Judging from its poor quality and what looks like heavy wear around the edges of the printing block, it seems like this was produced quickly and distributed on a wide scale. It's strange that I've never seen anything like it before."

Midna turned to Zelda with a concerned look. "Farore give me courage," she said. "Who put this together?"

Zelda was about to answer her, but right at that moment her cellphone rang from her bedroom. She knew exactly who it was, but she couldn't bear to talk to him, not with this paper sea of destruction right in front of her.

"It's them calling now, right?" Midna asked after studying Zelda's face for a moment. Zelda nodded.

Midna frowned. "I don't think you should answer it."

Zelda nodded again. The ringing stopped, but it immediately began again. Zelda waited with Midna in silence until it was over.

The two of them had ended up spending the night passing the photocopies back and forth, trying to make sense of them. Midna eventually retrieved one of her laptops from her room and ran extensive searches on databases Zelda had never seen in an attempt to find records and duplicates of the documents. Despite her considerate skill, she was unsuccessful.

At a certain point Midna went to the kitchen to brew some coffee, and Zelda got up to check her phone. It had indeed been Ganondorf calling, and he'd sent her two text messages as well.

"I assume you've looked through the file," the first read. "I must apologize. I meant to discuss this with you, not upset you. Please forgive my actions."

Zelda's heart stopped as she read the second message. "I couldn't help myself. You do something to me, Zelda. You set something inside me on fire."

She couldn't bring herself to respond to him that night, and she slept so late the next morning that she had to rush to get to work. Her office was busy, as usual, and she didn't have time to text him during the day. With every hour that separated her from their encounter in his office, it seemed increasingly strange, like something that hadn't actually happened. If she had never met Ganondorf, and if he had never kissed her, then the contents of the folder he'd given her could not be real.

And yet Zelda had searched for him at the party. It wasn't unreasonable to think that a curator would attend a fundraiser held at the museum, but she hadn't seen him. She hadn't realized how disappointed this would make her, as if the entire evening was a waste. Soon the small groups of people that filled the galleries would begin heading off to their own private events, and she didn't want to be caught sitting alone in the rotunda as they left.

I should really get back, Zelda thought as she drained her drink.

"You look like you've had a long evening," a familiar voice said from behind her. Zelda turned, and Ganondorf stood beside her, holding a champagne flute filled with sparkling water.

"Ganondorf." She smiled at him, concealing her surprise at how quietly he had moved as she accepted the glass. "How lovely to see you."

"You look beautiful," he said.

"And what brings you here to flatter me on this fine evening?" she asked him, taking a sip of water. She had been talking for hours, and she hadn't realized how thirsty she was.

"Did you not expect to see someone like me at an event like this?"

Zelda looked up at him. He had on a red shirt with a seafoam green tie under a dark suit. The colors were garish, but he wore them well. It was odd that she hadn't seen him during the past few hours, especially given how tall he was.

"I wouldn't think that anyone comes to these things unless they have to," she remarked dryly.

He smirked. "I thought you'd be used to this, Zelda Nohansen."

"How did you know?" Zelda felt a chill pass through her. She used her mother's maiden name on her business card precisely because she didn't want to be associated with her father's family.

"It's not like it's a secret that you're the prime minister's daughter. An alias won't put off a dedicated researcher."

Zelda was annoyed by his casual admission that he'd done a background check on her. Had this been before or after they met the second time? Was this where his 'you set something inside me on fire' line had come from? Did he really think that would help him get closer to her father?

"Well, I did some research on you, too," she snapped at him. "Apparently you didn't leave grad school after all. What I heard is that you got kicked out."

To her surprise, Ganondorf laughed. "That's a kind way of putting it," he said. "My department chair stole my research and destroyed my chances of renewing a grant, and so I destroyed his face. I told you I wasn't suited for academia. Besides, I prefer to let the objects from the past speak for themselves without mediation. History is such an inappropriately straightforward way of telling stories, wouldn't you agree? No one would ever mention the conversation you just had with the council member in a textbook, for instance."

Zelda refused to look away from his arrogant smirk. "I make no apologies for the way politicians go about their business. If you have objections, it's your responsibility to do something about it. You tell me that you find history distasteful, yet you lurk silently in your museum and judge other people for not putting the missing pieces together themselves. If you were less of a coward, you would find some means of saying something."

"Courage was never one of my virtues," he responded, narrowing his eyes, "but I will act when the time is right. The blows I strike will be decisive, and no political maneuvering will save your father."

Despite herself, Zelda was impressed by the strength underlying Ganondorf's words, which were so different than the soft and rounded prevarications of the men who had sought her attention all evening.

"What do you have against my father?" she asked, genuinely curious.

"Do you even need to ask? The crimes of the past are still perpetuated into the present."

"That's a bold claim. You say you're a researcher. Where's your proof?"

"Let me ask you a question instead, Zelda. When you spoke to the parliamentary committee last week, how did it go? Did they seem in any way interested in the data you presented, or was the hearing merely perfunctory?"

Zelda was taken aback. "How did you know about that?"

Ganondorf shrugged. "It's a matter of public record, and one that I happen to follow very closely. Have I given you the impression that I say things without having considered all of the available information?"

"Well." Zelda took another sip of water, giving herself time to think. She had found herself in a tricky situation, but she had no patience for power games. It would best suit her purposes to have everything out in the open. If this conversation were going to go anywhere, she needed to know Ganondorf's intentions. "I suppose you've done your research on me as well," she prompted.

Ganondorf's shoulders relaxed slightly, and he shook his head. "I must admit that I was careless in that regard. Had I known who you were, I would never have invited you back here. If I had known, I would have..."

"You would have done what, exactly?" Zelda asked. She crossed her arms over her chest, emphasizing her challenge.

Ganondorf gritted his teeth. "I played my hand too soon. I didn't recognize your name, and I didn't think to dig into your background until it was already too late. This puts me in a difficult situation, but I... "

"You need to know that I am not my father."

"No, you're not." Ganondorf glared down at her. "But you can't deny the privilege you wield through your connection to him."

"I am. Not. My father," Zelda repeated, articulating every word. "Which is why I read through the file you gave me. I couldn't help getting the impression that you assembled it in haste, but I corroborated what I could. I wouldn't have gone through the trouble if I hadn't taken it seriously – and if I hadn't trusted that your intentions were honorable."

Ganondorf stood as still as one of the statues in the gallery at his back as he considered her silently.

"You don't talk like a politician," he finally said.

Zelda met his gaze. "I have no intention of becoming one. My business lies in facts, not convenient fabrications. Clearly you underestimate me."

"I do nothing of the sort," Ganondorf responded, "and I wouldn't have given that file to just anyone. It seems I made the right choice in thinking that I could trust you with it. It's a relief to hear that you took the material seriously."

"I don't see any other way that I could have taken it." She paused for a moment, then continued, "Perhaps this isn't the most appropriate response to that sort of information, but I must admit that I'm intrigued. If this evidence is leading where I think it is, you could be on to something earth-shattering."

"Earth-shattering, I like that." Ganondorf grinned. "Would you like to see something interesting, then?"

"See something? Where?"

"Down in the archives. There shouldn't be anyone else there at this time of night."

Zelda returned his grin, relieved to be back on even footing. "How do I know you aren't just scheming to get me alone?"

"Do you want to go back to that party?" he asked, holding his hand out for her glass.

"Not particularly," she answered, passing it to him. He drained it and then set it down on the circular stone bench surrounding the fountain.

"I was there too, you know," he told her as he began to walk toward a grand set of stairs on the other side of the rotunda. "The director of my department asked me to attend, but I would have gone anyway. I'd hoped for a chance to speak with you. It didn't present itself, obviously. You weren't alone for a single minute, not until you chose to leave. You say that you'll never be a politician, but I might dare to suggest otherwise."

Zelda nodded in acknowledgment of his comment as Ganondorf guided her around the cordons blocking access to the stairs leading down. Midna had told her the same thing on more than one occasion.

"You know, if I had been born a hundred years ago, I might have been a princess."

Ganondorf glanced at her over his shoulder. "How noble of you, to associate with someone common like myself."

"I don't think you're common at all."

He stopped and turned to face her. She was on a higher step, so her face was level with his. He seemed as if he were about to say something, and the thought that she should kiss him flickered through her mind. But no, that would be inappropriate. She looked away, embarrassed. He cleared his throat. "Thank you," he said simply, and then resumed climbing down the staircase.

At the bottom they came to a series of reinforced metal doors equipped with keypads. Ganondorf proceeded to the door directly in front of them on the landing and punched in the code. Zelda's cheeks turned red as she watched the deft movements of his fingers, remembering how they had felt on her face.

The door opened with a click, and Zelda returned to herself. "After you," Ganondorf said as he held the door open, and she was careful not to touch his body as she moved past him into the archives.

#Zelda fic #Zelgan #Ganondorf #Princess Zelda #The Museum of Hyrule #my fic #this story was supposed to be three chapters but #it got a bit out of hand #I just really enjoy writing these characters #it's a problem smh

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smokeybrandreviews · 6 years ago

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Smokey brand Reviews: Velour Mediocrity

With all the hype surrounding Velvet Buzzsaw, I kind of tried to avoid it. Netflix, lately, has been getting a ton of recognition for their original films but they always seem to be bad. Birdbox is a great example. That movie sucks. There are some great performances, and the directions is immaculate, along with the cast and premise, but, overall, it doesn’t work. There’s no way cats exist in the world like that without sight. None. There are point where I absolutely couldn’t suspend my disbelief, yet, this thing is amazingly popular. Sandra Bullock is amazing in it, but the core of that movie is just plain dumb. Therefore, I was hesitant to watch Buzzsaw. It has all the same hallmarks Birdbox has; Fantastic cast, outstanding premise, and an interesting if cliched plot. My mediocre sense was tingling but I finally decided to give it a shot.

The Good

Jake Gyllenhaal was excellent as always. His Morf Vandewalt was an interesting blend of pretension, paranoia, and passion. You could tell dude was serious about his position in the art world but, at the same time, wary of it.

Renee Russo was awesome as well. I generally love her in anything but her take on art gallery, Rhodora Haze was outstanding. She was absolutely smug in her characterization which lent itself to the character. Just seeing her onscreen again after so long was great.

John Malkovich, as usual, turns in an excellent performance. He was the best thing in Birdbox and comes close to that in this, but his struggling Piers falls just short of Gyllenhaal. I kind of wanted more of dude but I understood he was used just as much as was needed. Shame, really.

Natalie Dyer was surprisingly adept in this flick. She wasn’t in it much, but her Coco was arguably one of the best things about this flick. For what her role demands, she killed it. This performance was a far cry from what she usually gives us in Stranger Things, for sure. I’m curious if we’ll see this growth in season three.

The Meh

Toni Collette’s Gretchen was mad underwhelming. She wasn’t bad or anything but, coming off Hereditary, I was so goddamn disappointed. There was no passion, in this performance. I imagine that was by design, but it was super hard for me to watch her act like an icy b*tch, coming off such a fiery performance.

Zawe Ashton was a little much for me t0 take. Her character, Josephina, was conniving, dishonest, and the catalyst for all of these events to transpire. She was a user of people and absolutely the antagonist of this film. Which is why her performance was so disappointing. There’s so much that can be done with this character and Zawe just gives us a stereotypical b*tch. I imagine if the character was played kind of how Hiddleston plays Loki, Josephine would have been much more compelling.

For a movie about art and aesthetic and the grandiose of that world, this movie feels small and looks ugly by comparison. I’m not saying it needed to be stylized but, goddamn, it shouldn’t have been devoid of any style. This thing looks like a TNT production. Like, that joint Search Party is prettier than this and it’s a serial. How does a film about art not be art, itself?

Dan Gilroy’s direction leaves a lot to be desired. I mean, I liked Nightcrawler. That sh*t was incredible. Everything else I’ve seen of his vision is pedestrian. Like, what even was Kong: Skull Island? Buzzsaw is everything Gilroy is as a director and it shows. Nightcrawler being the outlier, this is the best dude can consistently give us and it’s just okay. He feels like the intellectual’s version of Zack Snyder or Michael Bay.

I imagine the script was kind of meh, too. Things that are said and interactions that are performed just fell… performed. They’re not natural. Again, if this was played up more as part of the aesthetic to the film. I can give it a pass. But as it is, this sh*t is just jarring and poorly executed. Which isn’t surprising as Gilroy had a hand in the writing, too.

The Bad

Except for one specific death, there wasn’t anything very horrifying about this horror movie. I’m not saying everything must be Hostel but, goddamn, can a brother get a little gore?

This movie looks very cheap. There are a lot of offscreen happenings and certain events are staged in a way to hide a lack of budget. It gives the film a uniqueness, true, but overall, it kind of takes away from the experience.

There is a great movie in here, man. I can see it through all the bullsh*t and schlock. I wish it had more money to execute THAT vision better but the Netflix format kind of hamstrings that too much. It’s a shame really because I think this movie could have really been something special if an actual studio believed in it.

Everything about this premise is cliché. You’ve seen this movie before which means it needs to standout with it’s execution and Buzzsaw does not do that. At all. It’s wild because, with this setting and these characters, this thing could have been exceptional, but the auteur director lacked the vision to properly execute. That’s a goddamn shame because if, say, David Fincher made this, it’d be a f*cking hit, for real.

The Verdict

Velvet Buzzsaw falls into same trap that Birdbox does; high concept, poor execution. Buzzsaw, like most Netflix films, feels cheap, like a super high-end, made for TV, movie. For what it is, Buzzsaw is pretty good. I feel like the promotion of this thing does it a disservice, at best this is a horror comedy not some brutal psychological thriller, but if you temper your expectations, you’ll have fun. But that’s the issue with this film. With everything that makes it up, the individual components, this flick should be excellent but it’s not and I can’t put my finger on why. Birdbox was the same way. I can see that there is a great movie in there somewhere, but I can’t tell you why it’s not. Buzzsaw is, however, one of the better Netflix movies, which I think is fast becoming a slur. There’s no way this thing is successful if it’s released theatrically but it’s doing fine on streaming. That’s a great thing, you know, but it’s very telling about what major studios think of the platform. I’m afraid this new age of in-home cinema is going to become a dumping ground for mediocrity. I dig Velvet Buzzsaw but it’s not a great movie. It’s not a bad one either. It’s just okay, which means is a great f*cking Netflix movie.

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smokeybrand · 6 years ago

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Smokey brand Reviews: Velour Mediocrity

The Good

The Meh

The Bad

Except for one specific death, there wasn’t anything very horrifying about this horror movie. I’m not saying everything must be Hostel but, goddamn, can a brother get a little gore?

The Verdict

0 notes

makeuptips10-blog · 7 years ago

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History’s Most Fashionable Ghosts, and Fall Pieces They Would’ve Appreciated

New Post has been published on https://www.claritymakeupartistry.com/historys-most-fashionable-ghosts-and-fall-pieces-they-wouldve-appreciated/

History’s Most Fashionable Ghosts, and Fall Pieces They Would’ve Appreciated

There’s a reason we tell ghost stories. Not to put too fine a point on it, but they’re kind of iconic. Stories about ghosts have a tendency to stick around. We remember floating figures, ghastly moans, rattling chains—and our minds cling to visuals, like trailing dresses, oblique veils, period clothing showing up in places where it doesn’t belong.

In other words, ghosts really are that bitch. They pervade our collective consciousness—and manage to make outfits work centuries after they’ve passed from the public eye. Fashions might fade, but style—specifically, haunted style—really is eternal.

Since ghosts are basically offering us undying lessons in how to craft outfits so timeless they’ll survive long after you do, we’ve decided to do a deep dive into the ghost archives and dig up some of the most prolific style stars from centuries past.

And we’ve done you one better: We’ve hand-picked a handful of fall fashion items we think each ghost would’ve appreciated, given their carefully stylized aesthetic. We’ve got headless horsewomen in goth equestrian ensembles, silent film stars in haunted silver rings and flapper ghosts who pretty much exclusively wear green.

Why consult the now for style cues, when you could, instead, derive outfit inspiration from across the veil?

Without further ado, let’s peruse some posh poltergeists and study some slick spectral chic. Ahead, 11 of history’s most fashionable ghosts—plus contemporary fall pieces we think they would’ve appreciated.

Olive Thomas

Olive Thomas was pretty much bred-in-the-bone entertainment royalty. Aside from being a showgirl in the famous Ziegfield Follies and being married to star Jack Pickford (Mary Pickford’s brother), she was literally the original flapper.

Olive’s glamorous life was cut short when at 25 she overdosed on some of Jack’s syphilis medication. It’s unknown whether the overdose was intentional or the result of a mix-up, but either way, Olive’s ghost has stuck around—the New Amsterdam theater has learned to expect appearances by the star who once graced the stage.

Olive’s said to appear in a green beaded flapper dress and to actually perform on the stage. She’ll even interact with audience members, but only the men. (I guess girls are too much drama.)

Even in death she’s been something of a diva; pictures of Olive have been placed at each entrance of the theater so that employees can greet her on arrival and bid her goodnight to cut down on the chances of angry manifestations.

Photo: Public domain.

Olive Thomas

Thankfully for Olive, some of fall’s favorite pieces are turquoise, embellished or flapper-y as hell.

Fringe soft jacquard midi dress, $83 at ASOS

Photo: ASOS.

Olive Thomas

Thankfully for Olive, some of fall’s favorite pieces are turquoise, embellished or flapper-y as hell.

Green Sogno beaded necklace, $444 at Farfetch

Photo: Farfetch.

Olive Thomas

Thankfully for Olive, some of fall’s favorite pieces are turquoise, embellished or flapper-y as hell.

Aurelie Bidermann turquoise drop earrings, $749 at Farfetch

Photo: Farfetch.

Olive Thomas

Thankfully for Olive, some of fall’s favorite pieces are turquoise, embellished or flapper-y as hell.

Sequin headband, $26 at Zara

Photo: Zara.

Pearlin Jean

Pearlin Jean fell in love with a Scottish Lord named Robert Stuart while he was studying in Paris. When Stuart tried to ghost (had to) her and sneak back to Scotland without her, Jean chased his carriage and climbed onto the front, declaring, “If you marry any woman but me, I will come between you to the end of your days!” Stuart told his driver to drive on, and Jean ended up being run over by the carriage.

Stuart didn’t lose her for long; when he made it home, Jean’s ghost—and her disembodied head—was sitting on on the arched gateway of his home, waiting for him. Absolutely devoted to the grudge, Jean continues to haunt the Allanbank estate to this day.

Servants at Allanbank recognize Jean’s presence when they hear the rustling of the pearlin (thread silk) she always wore—or the clicking of her high heels.

But the haunting doesn’t stop there. When Stuart eventually married and placed a portrait of his wife in the hall, Jean’s ghost absolutely wrecked everything until Stuart had a portrait of Jean hung on the wall between the ones of him and his wife. (Or so the story goes, at least.)

Photo: Public domain.

Pearlin Jean

Pearlin Jean’s namesake—pearlin—is near-omnipresent at your favorite retailers this fall. Although these days, we’d just call it lace.

Romance in the Dark lace choker, $8 at Nasty Gal

Photo: Nasty Gal.

Pearlin Jean

Pearlin Jean’s namesake—pearlin—is near-omnipresent at your favorite retailers this fall. Although these days, we’d just call it lace.

In Safe Hands lace gloves, $4 at Nasty Gal

Photo: Nasty Gal.

Pearlin Jean

Pearlin Jean’s namesake—pearlin—is near-omnipresent at your favorite retailers this fall. Although these days, we’d just call it lace.

Arvada dress, $695 at Anthropologie

Photo: Anthropologie.