#Bill Clave
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Empecé con Blinky y terminé con él.
#Blinky#Blinky The Dancing Clown#IT OC#Pennywise fanchild#Spinosaurus#Jurassic Park 3#Jurassic Park fanart#Jurassic Park#Bill Cipher#Bill Clave#Bill Cifra#Gravity Falls#No mi ciela#Mr Meeseeks#Rick and Morty#Rick and Morty fanart#Pyramidhead#Sillent Hill#Dead by Daylight#Ghostface#Scream#Jason Voorhees#Friday 13th#Deltarunesona#Princess Deltarune#Deltarune Princess#La Roja#La Roja Dibujos
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Accidental sugar-daddy Alec and sugar-baby Magnus (who is absolutely not admitting he can totally afford all this - shut up Cat - in case his gorgeous boy stops paying him so much attention)
Magnus is absolutely enjoying how focused Alec is on him. (this is a continuation of a fill i haven't posted yet but uh this verse is called blood of royals)
hope you enjoy ^_^
lumine
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“Magnus. I’ll pay.” Alexander says, with a light blush on his face as he juggles a large wallet of cash and lays down a fifty-dollar bill with a bashful look at Magnus.
“Don’t you want your change?” The barista asks, shock on his face and Alexander doesn’t even give him a glance, just steps close to Magnus and holds out a coffee hopefully.
“We’re good.” Magnus says for Alexander and sends a wink over his boy’s shoulder. The barista gives him a grateful look and Magnus tucks his arm through Alexander’s and leads him out the door. “You overpaid.” Magnus tells him, not upset but curious and Alexander shrugs.
“It’s just mundane money. I get most of it from the clave and whatever revenue our greenhouses and researchers pull in. We don’t use it for a lot of things, Magnus. We rely primarily on the shadowworld and specifically the downworld markets to stock all Institutes. Idris has food and trade and everything a small country needs, but we only interact in the mundane world as a convenience. Or because of inconvenience.”
Magnus wonders again at how some aspects of their cultures are so very similar yet so incredibly different.
“Darling?” Magnus asks, as he’s led to a rather fancy store and Alexander shrugs and opens the door with a scowl on his face. Magnus chuckles and puts a hand on the small of Alexander’s back and follows him into the store. It’s a high-end clothing store and one that carries quite a few of the designs Magnus was telling Alexander about over a week ago.
“You really liked them; I saw one of the big signs saying they’d be here.”
Magnus blinks, because he’s pretty sure he’s explained that they’re called ‘billboards’ but also, he’s aware that Alexander has almost no patience for mundane things. Which is why he’s so surprised and pleased to realize Alexander researched where a mundane shop was, to accommodate and make Magnus happy.
--
“He’s the most indulgent sugar daddy I’ve ever seen.” Magnus hears one of the girls’ murmurs and one of the boys’ nods.
“He’s scary as fuck though. I’d be terrified to be his baby. Don’t know how that guy does it.”
Magnus is incredibly amused, especially since these are all new hires who don’t know him like most employees would and do. He’s also amused because the only way they’d think Alexander is his sugar daddy, is if his boy did something sweet again, like trying to buy Magnus’ everything himself.
“Sweetheart.” Magnus murmurs, coming over and sitting on a surprised Alexander’s lap. Magnus’ shoulders and back twist, hiding how Alexander’s eyes dilate and his cheeks go red and his lip’s part, as if already hopeful for a kiss. “Are you trying to spoil me?” He asks a bit louder and there's a sharp gasp from behind them.
“Is it spoiling if I really like how much fun you have trying on new outfits?”
Magnus doesn’t understand how his boy is so sweet, or so oblivious.
Magnus enjoys trying on clothes in front of Alexander because Magnus enjoys being admired and Alexander’s eyes worship him. Magnus is a king; he doesn’t need to go to some mundane store and try on clothes for his boy. It’s a treat for both of them, to be able to ignore the shadowworld and focus only on each other and Magnus is learning that he likes how eager Alexander is to please Magnus. It’s like he can’t bear the thought of Magnus ever being unhappy or disappointed.
Which is exactly why Magnus was eager to go to the mundane world with him and see Alexander relax, away from eyes that could pry too deeply. The mundanes are minor annoyances and Alexander doesn’t care about what they think, so he doesn’t worry either.
Magnus can’t wait until the day he gets to show Alexander just exactly who Magnus is. He’s going to pin his pretty boy to Magnus’ throne and claim him, for all of Magnus’ court to see.
“It’s sweet, is what it is.” Magnus lowers his voice and presses his lips to Alexander’s ear, “my precious Alexander. Aren’t you almost too tempting to take out.”
Alexander chuckles and ducks his head into Magnus’ neck and kisses the skin there. “But only almost, you finished? Or do you want to try on that other thing you liked? They have those here, the uhm—” he trails off and then shrugs, a sheepish but unapologetic grin on his face. “I know what they look like and what colors you liked, but I don’t know what they’re called.”
Magnus has to kiss him again, because Alexander is making Magnus hungry and impatient in a way that is fanning the coals of Edom’s lust, deep in Magnus’ soul and veins.
“I think I’m good.” Magnus tells him and then leans closer, “I find I dislike how much I’ve had to share you with the world today. Shall we go to mine?”
Alexander nods and stands eagerly and as Magnus walks to the counter, he sees his boy give the terrified workers an impressive glower. It means that Magnus is amused, but not surprised when his card is ignored, and they defer to Alexander who pulls out his wallet. Magnus fully expects to have to pull his card back out, but Alexander surprises him with the sheer amount of cash that his wallet is capable of handling.
Magnus pities the overwhelmed mundanes who are about to have anxiety attacks over the sheer amount of one-hundred-dollar bills that don’t even fit in their register. He just laughs, however, and lets Alexander pick up his bags and follow Magnus out happily.
“You’re far too sweet to be left alone.” Magnus mock chides, “when did you even threaten them all?”
Alexander pouts at him and mutters, “I didn’t threaten the mundanes, Magnus. I just told them that when we were done, they should let me pay.”
“Or else?” Magnus teases, because he doubts Alexander would even realize how threatening he is to mundanes.
“Or else what?”
Magnus laughs, long and hard and as soon as the door to the shop shuts, he uses magic to whisk the bags and boxes away and then pulls Alexander down into a kiss.
#lumine writes#writing wednesdays#writing wednesday#shadowhunters#magnus bane#alec lightwood#shadowhunters au#my fics#my fanfics#my ficlets
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Bill Evans - We Will Meet Again (Complete Album)
We Will Meet Again - Bill Evans
(Español / English)
BILL EVANS, EL DESCENSO A LOS INFIERNOS DEL PIANISTA QUE MURIÓ DE PENA
El disco final de Bill Evans, dedicado a su hermano muerto, capta la esencia de toda la tristeza que el pianista mostraba en su música
Cuando Bill Evans acariciaba las teclas blancas del piano, el mundo se paraba. Dejaba de girar, de latir, de respirar. Las teclas negras volvían a insuflar la vida y el proceso se volvía a poner en marcha dulcemente. Su peculiar cadencia y su inusitada dulzura a la hora de volar sobre las teclas generaron una música que trascendía las notas y sonidos para adentrarse en una dimensión puramente emocional.
Bill no tocaba el piano, tocaba el alma de los oyentes. Como el resto de aquella brillante camada, Evans creyó que las drogas lo hacían un músico especial. Como Charlie Parker o como Chet Baker, el pianista se adentró en lo más profundo de las tinieblas para encontrar su duende, para dar con las claves de su instrumento y como Chet y Charlie se dejó la vida en lo que sus amigos calificaron como el suicidio más largo de la música.
A diferencia de los otros dos genios, Bill aguantó mucho y su música vivió entre altibajos. Brilló en los días buenos y se defendió como pudo en los malos. A su muerte, en 1980, había dejado un inmenso legado de discos y actuaciones. Su mayor aportación, al menos la más reconocida, fue aquel piano seductor del Kind of Blue de Miles Davis, uno de los genios más puros del siglo XX y que siempre reconoció a Evans como una de sus más grandes influencias.
Viajar por la música de Bill Evans es recorrer el mapa emocional del ser humano, cruzar melancolías, atravesar traiciones, sobrevolar breves momentos de éxtasis. Su sonido, siempre limpio, mezcla de un estilo clásico y una excepcional habilidad para la improvisación, sugiere más que muestra y aun así muestra más que cualquier otro. A 37 años de su muerte hay más de un centenar de obras con su nombre en la portada entre grabaciones originales y recopilatorios más o menos apañados. Su último trabajo, sin embargo, sigue teniendo un algo especial, un algo difícil de calificar. Deprimido por el suicidio de su hermano Harry y totalmente enganchado a la cocaína, Bill canceló conciertos y bajó el ritmo. Pero antes de morir volvió al estudio a grabar su testamento, un álbum dedicado a su hermano. We will meet again se publicó en 1979, meses antes de la muerte de Bill. Una hora y un minuto de una música enferma y dolida que, sin embargo, desprende instantes de enorme belleza y que es como un viaje por la memoria en donde los buenos y malos recuerdos conviven con la obligada armonía. Es un disco final, perfecto, profundamente honesto. Puro. Hermoso. Bill Evans murió el 15 de septiembre de 1980. Murió de pena, de una pena cirrótica y hepática. Su cuerpo fue enterrado en Baton Rouge, en la sección 161 del Roselawn Memorial Park. Junto a su hermano, para estar juntos de nuevo como rezaba el título de aquel último álbum que se llevó el Grammy un año después.
Publicado por Alfonso Cardenal en Ser
BILL EVANS, THE DESCENT INTO HELL OF PIANIST WHO DIED OF GRIEF
Bill Evans' final album, dedicated to his dead brother, captures the essence of all the sadness that the pianist showed in his music
When Bill Evans stroked the piano’s white keys, the world stopped. It stopped spinning, it stopped beating, it stopped breathing. The black keys breathed life again and the process was gently restarted. Its peculiar cadence and its unusual sweetness when flying over the keys generated a music that transcended notes and sounds to enter a purely emotional dimension.
Bill didn’t play piano, he played listeners' souls. Like the rest of that brilliant litter, Evans believed that drugs made him a special musician. As Charlie Parker or as Chet Baker, the pianist went deep into the darkness to find his elf, to find the keys to his instrument and as Chet and Charlie left his life in what his friends called the longest suicide in music.
Unlike the other two geniuses, Bill endured much and his music lived between ups and downs. He shone in the good days and fought back as best he could in the bad. By his death in 1980, he had left an immense legacy of records and performances. His greatest contribution, at least the most recognized, was that seductive piano of Miles Davis' Kind of Blue, one of the purest geniuses of the 20th century and who always recognized Evans as one of his greatest influences.
To travel through the music of Bill Evans is to travel through the emotional map of the human being, to cross melancholies, to cross betrayals, to fly over brief moments of ecstasy. His sound, always clean, a mixture of a classical style and an exceptional ability to improvise, suggests more than it shows, and yet it shows more than any other. Thirty-seven years after his death, there are more than a hundred works with his name on the cover between original recordings and compilations more or less well done. His last work, however, still has something special, something difficult to qualify. Depressed by the suicide of his brother Harry and totally hooked on cocaine, Bill cancelled concerts and slowed down. But before he died he returned to the studio to record his testament, an album dedicated to his brother. We will meet again was released in 1979, months before Bill's death. An hour and a minute of sick and painful music that nevertheless gives off moments of enormous beauty and that is like a trip down memory lane where good and bad memories coexist with the obligatory harmony. It is a perfect final album, deeply honest. Pure. Beautiful. Bill Evans died on September 15, 1980. He died of grief, of cirrhotic and hepatic grief. His body was buried in Baton Rouge, in section 161 of Roselawn Memorial Park. Next to his brother, to be together again as the title of that last album that won the Grammy a year later said.
Credits:
Bill Evans, piano, electric piano, composer
Marc Johnson, acoustic bass
Joe La Barbera, drums
Larry Schneider, tenor and soprano saxophone, alto flute
Tom Harrell, trumpet
Released April 1980
Recorded August 1979
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ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜰɪᴠᴇ
CHAPTER FOUR - PRETTIEST DOVE.
WORDS - 4,628.
RATING - 18+. [protective will, alcoholic!serena, quickie, infidelity, love and hate relationship between will and serena and slight SA and grooming.]
SUMMARY - Serena almost reveals what she truly is to the institute.
"A lot can happen in the dark, Love when it makes you lose your bearings, Some information's not for sharing, Use different names at hotel check-ins, It's hard to stop it once it starts." - Billie Bossa Nova by Bille Eilish.
feedback would be appreciated! and i would like to say, this story is a will romance story, but i just want you to be aware that serena is a man-eater...
i also cross-post this fic on wattpad and ao3.
previous chapter - chapter four.
The moment Serena had watched Charlotte and Will enter the drawing room was when she had known it was the perfect time to leave. “My time here is finished,” Serena whispered and without letting Serena have a second to get to her feet, Will briefly pointed towards Serena, a complicated expression on his face that had Serena gently intrigued on what had happened. “Best for you to remain here.”
With her eyebrows furrowed, Serena remained sat, “I hope you know Charlotte, that this isn’t the London Hospital or a hotel, Tessa’s brother shouldn’t be here and Davidson definitely does not need to be here!” Will clarified and surprised, Serena’s once furrowed eyebrows jumped.
“Davidson definitely does not need to be here…?” Serena repeated as she closed the box. “I…” Serena began as she had then turned to look at Charlotte. “I didn’t even accept his offer.”
“What offer?” Will seethed. “Offer for what?” He continued to inquire. “Too much is going on,” Will mumbled and as the door to the drawing room opened once more, Jem revealed himself to enter causing the heart to Serena feel to drop.
“Nathaniel should remain, he already knows about the Downworld,” Jem said, and once more Serena stood back onto her feet, lightly anxious of the tense atmosphere that had slowly commenced.
“Where are you going?” Will asked. “I said it’s best for you to remain here.”
Taken aback by his bold attitude, though, he usually was bold. Serena protectively pressed the box against her chest. “I will be going to the Salvatore home to speak with them.”
Confused, Will pulled himself back. “What’s the entire deal about you?”
Eyes narrowed; Serena twisted her face at him. “It’s none of your business.”
“It is my business, since you’re living under Shadowhunter roof,” Will retorted and with a snort Serena stepped beside him.
“Is Davidson coming here because of you?” Jem asked.
“Yes,” Serena and Charlotte truthfully responded, and with brief visual exchanges with each other, Serena clasped her hands together. “It’ll be fair to tell them,” Serena said. “What I am.”
Unsure, Charlotte looked between Will and Jem who had seem to brush off the Nathaniel circumstance, both suspicious to what Serena had meant. “It’ll be best for the Clave to know as well,” Serena continued. “If something goes wrong, they should know why.”
“I’ll consider it,” Charlotte breathed. “Yet, the promise I had given to Lady Evaline,” Charlotte reminded and with a quick look, Serena pressed her lips into a thin line.
“She would know it’s for the best,” Serena expressed and as she had neared herself to the door, Jem briskly reached out for her.
With a calm exterior, Serena turned to glance at Jem, his touch had almost felt like a breeze, an intense commodity, yet soft. “At least someone should take you there,” Jem said and with an encouraging look, he had slightly smiled at the dark-haired girl who had then shortly shared a sight with Will who had softly clenched his fist into loose balls.
“I’ll be fine,” Serena answered and without a second thought, she had fully left the drawing room, closing the door behind her, leaving the trio in am uncomforted silence, Charlotte who had been unsure to share what Serena had been to the world, Jem intrigued by the new figure who had lived in the Institute with the rest of his kin, and Will, perplexed to proceed to follow after Serena, but alas, he stayed.
♡⊹˚₊ ❦ ❀ ₊˚⊹♡
The Salvatores were known to be a rich family, respected within Venus, thus their seat in the Court of Aphrodite, they handled most of the finances in Venus, hence their riches and how they were able to quickly buy a vast home in the Mortal Realm, the architecture hooked with influences from both the Mortal Realm and Venus, though only one who had been in Venus would be able to identify the baroque and complex details of Venus Architecture.
Before Serena reached for the door, the sealed opening had been pulled by one of the family members of the Salvatore home, Andrea Salvatore, the twin sister of Theo Salvatore and the youngest sibling of Davidson. Andrea was a really pretty girl, out of all her siblings, Andrea had the darkest shade of blonde that it was sometimes be deemed as brunette, her eyes were brightly green and skin slightly tanned, and she was always seen nibbling on something, like a fruit, and presently she had held an apple.
Serena had learned that it was odd in the Mortal Realm for a lady of the house to open the front door, it was usually a servant, and Serena had also remembered that it was impolite to come to someone’s home without a calling card. Though, within this moment, she didn’t care.
She was known to have a sparky but flaky personality, an individual someone would never recognise what she had stood on or stood for, an unpredictable soul.
“Serena,” Andrea smiled. “Come in, it’s lovely to see you,” she said as she pulled the door wider open.
“Thank you,” Serena said as she stepped in. “I’m looking for Davidson, is he here?” Serena questioned looking around the intricate styled home, aware from the corner of her eyes Davidson’s figure slipped in. “Speaking of the Devil,” Serena smiled.
“Bella Serena,” Davidson smiled. “Happy to see you,” he continued, pressing his lips against the back of her hand, aware of the curious glint that had shone in Andrea’s eyes. “As much as I appreciate your arrival, may I ask why you’re here?”
Nourished, Serena placed her hands against her stomach, a knowing look on her face that had caused Davidson to flash an emotion of guilt across his face. “Follow me,” Davidson said and with sending Andrea a short nod, Davidson guided the dark-haired girl to their drawing room.
“Bye!” They heard Andrea call out and with a short smile, Serena waved her goodbye to the youngest Salvatore before the Drawing Room door had closed behind her. Thus, when the door was fully sealed, Serena briskly punched Davidson’s shoulder.
“Fuck!” Davidson cried out. “Why did you do that?”
“Do not be dull, Salvatore,” Serena seethed. “How dare you?” She breathed out. “You’ve already thought yourself to be the participant to protect me in the Institute and began to plan to move in already!” Ruffled, Davidson had opened his mouth to speak, but with a threatening point from the Venrosa woman, he had immediately sealed his lips. “I forbid you!”
“I knew you’d take a long time to choose because you don’t want anyone to protect you, even it is for your own sake-ow!” Davidson yelled once he had felt another pang from the young woman.
Though as much as Serena angrily whacked Davidson, he couldn’t help but pull an impressed smile. “You’re terrible lustful when you’re mad.”
Annoyed, the girl had looked away from him. “No, you will not do this again,” she struggled and with one longing shared look with him, Serena sagged her shoulders ere she allowed herself to be taken in by the Salvatore boy, her lips melded with his, while her hands had angrily cupped his face. “I’m furious with you,” she moaned.
“I know,” he whispered while he groped her curves, his hands quick to pull down his garments while Serena had quickly pushed down hers. “So beautiful,” he whispered. “I need to feel you,” he continued, “Oh God,” he moaned as he slipped inside of her, Serena’s warmth weakening his knees, but he held himself strong, his hands against the walls while Serena’s hands pressed against the drawing room architecture.
His lips moving to the softness of her neck, thrusting his hips upwards as he continued to sink into the erotic pleasure of Serena’s cunt, with her arms desperately tight around his torso, Serena whimpered at the rough but sweet motion of Davidson’s hips, both of their bodies rolling in candied dirt while the Venrosa girl eagerly aided herself to bounce on his cock, her walls pulsed around him. “Davidson—” Serena moaned. “Someone can walk in on us.”
“The idea of someone seeing how good you look being fucked by me excites me even more love,” he groaned, his mind racing into a plethora of lust which had commenced his cock to harshly lick against her sensitive sex, his racy behaviour had pushed the long-haired girl into a heated orgasm, her loud moan immediately muffled once she had brought her mouth against his skin, her area had tigehted around his length once his cock fiercely leaked and seeped inside of her.
Thus, longing looks shared with one another quickly cut through once the recognisable voice of Cersei had rung through the lobby of the home. Surprised, the both of them readied themselves decent---when Serena was proper, she had opened the door with a bright look on her face. “Cersei, what brings you here?” Serena asked, her simple inquire bringing a short awkward essence in the drawing room.
“I can ask you the same thing,” Cersei chuckled before nearing herself to Davidson. “Hello my love,” she gently cooed, her short sentence alerting Serena to violently cough, stunned, Cersei whipped her head towards Serena. “What’s wrong?” Cersei asked.
“My love?” Serena repeated.
“Oh right,” Cersei smiled. “Remember when I said I was supposed to tell you something that day of the Court?” Cersei shared. “I was supposed to tell you that Davidson is my betrothed!”
Shattered, Serena kept a confident smile on her face before walking towards Cersei. “Congratulations,” Serena smiled, gently burying her face in the crook of Cersei’s neck while quickly throwing a glance towards Davidson who had awkwardly shuffled with his feet, he had avoided eye-contact with Serena who had the let go of the Sapphire girl.
“Thank you,” Cersei gleamed. “Though, you didn’t answer my question, what brought you to the Salvatore home?”
“I was here in regards of the meeting we had in the Court of Aphrodite,” Serena responded as she anxiously played with her garments. “I’ll be leaving now.”
Against Serena leaving, Cersei reached for Serena who had already made her way to the door. “Stay for tea,” Cersei pleaded.
“It’s fine,” Serena gently winked. “I need to go somewhere,” she breathed and without a second look back, the dark-haired girl exited the manor.
♡⊹˚₊ ❦ ❀ ₊˚⊹♡
Once again, Serena had found herself in Myrtle and Doves and she couldn’t remember what number drink she had continuously downed, but what she had known was that she had felt immense guilt. Serena wasn’t jealous that Davidson had been betrothed to Cersei as he had been nothing but a boy toy to her, though, what had her drown in regret was that he was Cersei’s betrothed, her best friend.
Cersei had not known that Serena had shared previous sexual adventures with her fiancé, though Cersei had known that Serena had lost her virginity early. In Venus, women being sexually open was not looked down upon, compared to the Mortal Realm, specifically London, people in Venus weren’t snobbish and uptight, on the other hand, Serena had been angry.
Angry at Davidson, Davidson who had known of his betrothal to Cersei and had still fucked her. With a deep sigh, Serena had been tempted to take another swig of her drink until she had felt a recognisable energy near itself towards her, surprised, Serena turned to look at them, as this was normally a Venusian Area, a location only those from Venus would know of.
“We’ve never gotten a Mortal Realm Shadowhunter before,” the bartender said and with a sharp glare, Serena threw a look at the bartender before turning herself to Will Herondale, who had sauntered into the pub with a look on his face, one Serena had wanted to wipe off.
“He knows nothing and isn’t supposed to be here,” Serena slurred. “Why are you here, Will?”
“You’re easy to follow,” he shrugged and with a short look, Serena looked at her glass.
“Did you follow me to the Salvatore House?” She asked and with the corner of her eyes, she could see him shake his head.
“No,” he responded. “I sensed you around this area, so, I followed.”
With a gentle sigh, Serena slowly sat up on her seat. “Never do that again,” she forbade and as she lifted her cup to take a sip of her alcohol, she could hear the breathy smirk emit from him.
“It seems like I would have to carry you to your room again,” he said and with a quick glare, Serena bounced her shoulders.
“I can handle myself,” she answered.
Dismissive, Will neared himself closer to her, earning a confused look from the girl. “Are you staying here?” She asked and adjusting himself on the chair, Will hastily examined the area, the comedic look still resumed on his face.
“I want to try this new area,” he replied and with a roll of her eyes, Serena sucked in her teeth.
“This pub isn’t new.”
“Well for me it is,” he shrugged.
“The pub is never used by people from the Mortal Realm,” Serena exchanged and with a surprised look on his face, Will perked his left eyebrow.
Aware that she had slightly leaked information about herself, Serena had gently cursed under her breath. “So, you’re not from the Mortal Realm?” Will inquired and aware of the discomforted look she had on her face, Will had then left out a breathy laugh before he ordered himself a drink.
Unmoved by what he had ordered for himself, Serena narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s a weak drink.”
“Weak?” Will repeated and with a bounce of her shoulders, Serena continued to drink her toxin.
“Did Charlotte order you to follow me?” Serene asked.
“Of course not,” Will said. “Since she’s hiding your secret, there would’ve been no chance of her asking me to follow you.”
Humoured, Serena hummed. “Why do you want to know so much about me?”
“Aside from the Tessa circumstance, your situation intrigues me as well,” Will smiled. “I have an idea that what’s going on with you is entirely bigger from what I currently know.”
“I’m glad my current position is interesting for you,” she said with sarcasm.
Soft, Will sagged his shoulders. “There’s many things interesting about you,” he said as he began drinking his pint. He had then turned to look at her, as balmy his orbs had been, there had been a slight sharp aspect that had been carried in them. “I never would’ve thought I’d meet someone as broken as me. At this point I believe you’re even more damaged.”
Sharp, Serena snapped her head towards him, offended, she had furrowed her eyebrows, “I’m not broken,” she seethed and with a light laugh, Will curved his eyes at her.
“Oh, right,” he scoffed. “The grotesque paintings you have in your bedrooms definitely do not summarise what’s going on in your head,” he mumbled before taking another sip, and as kickback, Serena pressed her lips into a thin line, her gaze away from him as she had tightened her grip around the edge of the round table.
Her reticent response earning a sympathy point from Will who had remorsefully sighed at his forward comment. “What happened?” He asked, his cup down and arms currently folded.
Unsure to share her secrets, Serena had gently thought that it wouldn’t hurt to tell Will a small section of her circumstance. “My family recently died in a fire, because of me, they’re dead.”
“You set the house on fire?” Will asked and with a short eyeroll, you fiddled with your fingers.
“There were people hunting me, and to find me, they thought I’d be with my family, so they burned it,” she explained, and with a light huff, she sat up.
Drowned in her own guilt, the girl took another sip of her drink. “If they were hunting you, to capture you, why would they try to burn you?”
“Because they knew I would’ve survived the fire if I was there, Will,” she breathed and silent, the boy quickly tucked his bottom lip behind his teeth in thought.
“Are you an immortal?” He curiously asked and with a gentle smirk, Serena drank again.
Her eyes smoked with her intoxication, she hastily glanced at her unfinished drink, yet, tempted to ask for more. “I know you’re not stopping me from drinking to get intel from me.”
“That’s not necessarily true,” he smiled and with a scoff, Serena lifted herself from her current seat and as kickback, Will set down his drink. “Where are you going?”
“Back to the institute,” she replied and a second after her answer, Will hurried to his feet.
Humoured, Serena slowly glanced at him, she had paid the bartender before she directed her path to the exit. “Will you be able to handle yourself?” He questioned and with a hand on her hip, Serena reached for the sealed doors.
“I will be able to handle myself,” she reassured and as she slipped through the now open doors, she turned to look at him once more, her eyes narrowed but laced with a threatening essence, the woman carried herself to falsely smile at the Herondale boy before she spoke. “This will be the last time you enter this pub,” she seethed and with a mocking glare, Will looked down at her, a voice in his head unsure of her seriousness---but as she took one more step towards him, he couldn’t help himself but land his sight onto her lips as she did to his. “The next time I see you in here, I’d beat you into a bloody pulp,” she whispered and with a short smile, she turned her back to him and left the property.
♡⊹˚₊ ❦ ❀ ₊˚⊹♡
Serena had returned to the Institute half an hour after Will, it had appeared the boy had used a carriage while Serena was on foot, she couldn’t blame the boy for not inviting her inside the vehicle, since, she did threaten to beat him if he appeared in Myrtles and Doves again, though her thoughts of Will had been discarded once she had learned that both Jem and Tessa had been in danger.
Disappointed in herself----that she had been tipsy when she had met with Charlotte, Tessa and Sophie; without uttering a word to anyone, Serena had made her way to Tessa and directed her to come close to her. “Come to me,” Serena whispered and confused, Tessa furrowed her eyebrows.
“Serena, what are you doing?” Charlotte wearily questioned, her eyes cautiously following the woman’s behaviour. Serena who had not replied to Charlotte’s inquire had gently placed her hands against Tessa’s figure and while a purple chaotic energy emitted from the unique woman’s hands, a zap sound followed after, the strange energy had then commenced to heal Tessa. “Serena!” Charlotte desperately called out.
“It’s fine,” Serena muttered and curious, Sophie gently glanced at Charlotte before she returned her gaze to the curly-haired woman.
“Are you drunk, Ms. Venrosa?” Sophie asked and with a poking smile, Serena whipped her head towards her.
Serena had wondered if she now been known as the drunkard of the Institute, though she wouldn’t mind. “Not even,” Serena responded. “Perhaps a bit tipsy, but strong enough to still heal.”
“What are you?” Tessa asked and with a strong look Charlotte had stared at the two women, both her fists gently clenched, uncomfortable, but comprehensive that Serena’s identity would be revealed sooner than later.
“I’m many things,” Serena smiled. “Keep on speaking about what happened with the Automatons that attacked both you and Jem.”
“That’ll be pretty difficult,” Henry smiled as he directed himself towards the current situation. “Hard to overlook a being with powers like that, a being who isn’t a Warlock as well,” Henry commented and with a quick look at Henry, Serena sent him a short smile ere she dragged her paws away from Tessa’s body.
Surprised, Tessa left her gaze from Serena and then had hastily examined her body. “I feel so much better,” she sighed. “Thank you so much Serena.”
“No problem,” Serena smiled and as she had taken a step back, the young girl had clasped her hands behind her back, stubborn to not share the rest of her identity to the people of the Institute, she had allowed herself to listen to what they had to say about De Quincey.
If she was being truthful, she had felt guilty for not interacting with Tessa’s entire circumstance, yet, in her defence, Serena had a lot in her basket. “De Quincey must be found and stopped,” Henry said, “and in the meantime, Tessa, you must stay in the Institute. Not that we want to keep you a prisoner here, but it would be safer if you remained inside.”
“But for how long---?” Tessa began---and broke off, as Sophie’s expression changed. She began to look over at something over Tessa’s shoulder, her hazel eyes suddenly wide. Tessa and Serena had then followed her gaze.
It was Will, he had stood in the doorway of the drawing room. There was a streak of blood across his white shirt; it looked like paint. His face almost masklike, his gaze fixed on Serena had then moved towards Tessa. “He wants to talk to you,” Will said, followed after Thomas who had stood behind Serena.
“Lady Venrosa,” Thomas called and once leaving Will from her sight, Serena turned to look at him, her eyes and face welcoming. “Mr. Sapphire is here to meet you,” he shared and within the same second Thomas had shared Lyonel’s arrival, the girl had felt her heart sink down her chest.
Charlotte, as curious to why Lyonel had been here had brought herself to her feet. “I’ll come with you,” Charlotte said and with lowly flushed cheeks, Serena hesitatingly followed Charlotte outside of the Drawing Room.
♡⊹˚₊ ❦ ❀ ₊˚⊹♡
“Mr. Sapphire,” Charlotte smiled, “Your arrival here is a surprise for the both of us. What brings you here?”
“Is it a bad thing to visit an associate from Venus?” Lyonel asked and with a wary look, Charlotte quickly hushed Mr. Sapphire.
Confused, the man had looked between both Serena and Charlotte before she had spoken. “Barely anyone in the Institute knows what she is.”
“You have hidden Serena’s circumstance from the Mortal Clave?” Lyonel smiled, aware of the guilty look Charlotte had on her face.
“Charlotte will tell the Clave soon,” Serena said.
“And have you in more danger?” Charlotte asked ad comforted by the woman’s protectiveness Serena had gently smiled at Charlotte’s demeanour.
“I can protect myself,” Serena reassured while she gently fiddled with her fingers in slight anticipation.
Slightly encouraged, Charlotte placed her hand against Serena’s shoulder. “I know you can,” she whispered and inspirited, Serena’s smile had grown bigger, though with the awkward cough that had emitted from Lyonel’s, the two women had turned to look at him, suddenly aware of the book he had carried in his right arm.
“What’s the book for?” Serena curiously inquired and content that both of their attention had returned to him, Lyonel had moved the book from his arm to his hand.
With a proud look on his face, Lyonel had examined the detailed book before he moved his orbs to Serena. “This has to be privately given,” Lyonel responded. “I’d like to have a confidential conversation with Ms. Venrosa,” the man smiled and unsure to leave the young girl alone with him, Charlotte briskly looked at Serena, a look that had announced her dubious expression.
“I’ll tell you everything later,” Serena whispered and without another second, Charlotte had turned on the balls of her feet ere guiding the two Venusian citizens into the drawing room.
Hence the minute Mr. Sapphire and Serena had been left alone in the Drawing Room, Serena had made sure to sit opposite the man, her figure tense and awkward that had caused the man to furrow his arched eyebrows and give her a look of comedic humour. “I’m not going to do anything to you,” he hummed and with a quick roll of her eyes, Serena gently fidgeted with the fabric of her clothes.
“I know that,” Serena said with raised eyebrows. “It would be stupid to do so.”
With a laugh, Lyonel sat up on his given seat. “Always been so funny,” he breathed while taking out the book Serena had waited for, and with vigilant eyes, Serena had watched his every move, “Do you know what this is?”
With an unsure expression, Serena had softly shaken her head. “It’s the lost book of Aphrodite,” he replied and with a surprised look on her face, Serena had forwardly sat up on her seat. “Did you do the barrier?” He questioned and without second thought, Serena had jolted to her feet to place her hands against the Drawing Room walls to emit the sound-proof barrier.
“I didn’t know such things existed,” Serena spoke, “why do you out of all people have it?”
“I had a couple of my men look for it, it’s been a couple of years since I have given them the mission, but in the end, they had made me proud,” Lyonel shared and as she returned to her seat, the girl lifted her leg on top of her other.
“And you’re just going to give it to me?” Serena asked.
“Yes,” the man smiled.
With a shaky sigh, Serena gently shook her head, confused about this sudden important gift. “Why?” Serena questioned and by the fast look on his face, the girl felt her heart almost drop down to her stomach. “Oh,” she whispered ere she commenced to play with her digits. “I’ll never tell Cersei of our shared past,” thus, Serena already had too many secrets.
“I’m well aware you won’t,” Lyonel arrogantly responded. “Yet, you should know that’s not the reason why I’m giving the book to you,” he said. “I’m giving it you because I love you.”
Impaired, Serena hesitatingly licked her bottom lips, a sick feeling crawling through her body. “The Book of Aphrodite explores content of the Venusian Spirit and the Venusian Culture you won’t see anywhere else.”
“Was the Book of Aphrodite hidden?” Serena asked while reaching for the object.
“Yes,” Lyonel replied while he passed the book towards her, he watched how hesitant she was to hold it.
“I wonder who hid it,” Serena shared as she gently dragged her finger tips against the texture of the currently closed book.
With a slight annoyed look on his face, Lyonel placed his hands against his kneecaps before he had spoken once more. “You don’t need to worry about that since you have it now.”
“Thank you,” Serena kindly thanked and with a short welcome, Lyonel hastily winked at her.
“You’re always welcomed by me my prettiest dove,” Lyonel said and with an awkward shuffle, Serena had gracelessly looked down at the closed content that had been pressed against her lap. “Did you like the necklace I sent you?” He inquired and with a short look, Serena had kept her answer to herself and with a quick hum, Lyonel helped himself get to his feet. “I’d like to see you wear it someday,” he smiled and before he had left to the Drawing Room door, the man had helped himself press his lip against her forehead.
“I’ll be seeing you again my prettiest dove,” he whispered and with a short hungry but eager smile, Lyonel had pulled himself away from her, aware of the dubious and shaky look the girl had on her face, he had reached for her hair for one last stroke ere leaving her alone.
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#will x reader#will herondale smut#will herondale fanfiction#will heronale#will herondale#tessa gray#jem carstairs#shadowhunters chronicles#the shadowhunter chronicles#shadowhunters#the infernal devices#infernal devices
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Dust Volume 9, Number 12
James Elkington
Last Dust of the year and, holy cow, next year will be a whole decade since we started. We’re working with a bit of skeleton crew this time because of the holidays, but still managed to take in a broad spectrum of music, from famous novelists on holiday to monochord droners to surprisingly joyful takes on saudade. Dusted writers who shrugged off Christmas shopping, wrapping and general festivity long enough to write included Jennifer Kelly, Bill Meyer, Ian Mathers and Bryon Hayes. Happy new year and see you in 2024.
Gabriel Birnbaum—Nightwater/all the dead do is dream (Western Vinyl)
Gabriel Birnbaum, leader of the indie band Wilder Maker and one-time saxophonist in the ethio-jazz Debo Band, started making music on a Tascam four-track during the pandemic. It was, at first, a way to keep busy, to keep the dread at bay, but it evolved into a regular meditative practice and, eventually, a public-facing recording project, now releasing on the esteemed Western Vinyl imprint. This second release under the Nightwater banner is, as all that history suggests, a serene and unruffled piece of work, using mostly synthetic textures but also incorporating some rougher, more organic sounds. “above a forest with a house that’s on fire” pulses with bright keyboard tones that blow up unexpectedly into dissonance periodically. It moves deliberately, placidly, from here to there, letting sustained tones linger over insistent cadences. “i ordered a beer that never came,” is a bit livelier, with claves-ish clicks and percolating guitar; it dances a bit and flares into jazzy bravado. Some of these cuts have a dream-like aura, like the child’s wind-up lullaby “through a gauntlet of moonlit junk” with its sliding, morphing guitar notes, arcing over bell-tone intricacies. This is an album that works best in darkness and calm; use it as background music and it will disappear.
Jennifer Kelly
Max Eastley / Terry Day / John Butcher—Angles of Enquiry (Confront)
It would be easy to focus on the personally and sonically idiosyncratic aspects of this recording. Given that it’s just one string on a block of wood Max Eastley’s monochord has a spectacularly flexible sound bank; sometimes he sounds like a Vietnamese dan bau, and other times like a reportable manufacturing safety incident. Terry Day’s drumming manages to combine a respect for space with a brisk harshness that keeps things on point; rumor has it that he was not enamored of the drumkit that was supplied to him, and there’s certainly no kindness in his audible touch. And John Butcher’s saxophone playing is, as usual, adroit and immaculately controlled while inhabiting a realm of sounds that others imitate at their peril. But what keeps me coming back to this humble CD-r, which is part of the Confront label’s Core series of new recordings of improvised music, is the way this music feels simultaneously sudden and proportional. The three minds that imagined this music are not only responsive improvisers, but a formidable compositional collective.
Bill Meyer
James Elkington—Me Neither (Important)
James Elkington is an exceptional guitar player, the top-of-list sideman for Wilco and Richard Thompson and an accomplished and fluid folk-indie songwriter, whose agile picking is matched by a sardonic lyrical wit. Me Neither showcases the former, but not the latter, in a series of 29 short, improvised pieces Elkington recorded during the pandemic. There is some lovely playing here in the brief but radiant “Today’s Dictation,” the Brit-folk pavane of “The Incredible Waist of Time,” the buzzy, squeaky urgency of “Where For Do I Run.” Indeed, these cuts are, to a one, rather beautiful for the one or two minutes in which they flare and die. Even, so the overall result is unsatisfying. It’s like making a meal out of happy hour hors d'oeuvres, each bite tasty and caloric, but fleeting.
Jennifer Kelly
Neil Gaiman and the FourPlay String Quartet—Signs of Life (Instrumental)
“Mobius Strip” is an intricate bit of musical machinery. Its pizzicato architecture meshes like sparking gears; its winding violin melody careens wildly over prickly structures. It neither recedes nor predominates over Neil Gaiman’s spoken word, fitting neatly in the spaces he leaves in a fascinating, ruminative story about the twisted paper ring that stands in for eternity. The piece is that most difficult of verbal maneuvers, the extended metaphor, which Gaiman sticks like a gymnast’s landing. His starts with Gaiman’s grandfather demonstrating how you can trace your finger along its surface, traveling from one side to the other without ever breaking contact. It becomes a way of looking at life, connection and the unexpected. As Gaiman concludes, “It’s the twist that brings you back where you started.” “Mobius Strip” is maybe the best and most impressive cut from Signs of Life, but not by much. Joan of Arc makes a disruptive reappearance in raucous, “The Problem with Saints,” while “Credo” recounts Gaiman’s free-thinking philosophy against the throb of mournful cello and viola. There are long extinct animals and barely remembered life turning points and a meditation on death, all spirited and inventive and absolutely without sentimentality. You will hear the words first—you can’t help it—but as you listen, you’ll also notice how well the music supports and nourishes the poetry.
The music on this disc comes from what was intended as a one-time collaboration between celebrated sci-fi/fantasy author Neil Gaiman and Australia’s hippest string quartet. The author’s knotty, reflective spoken word entwined with the FourPlay String Quartet’s spare, rhythmic accompaniment first for a commission at the Sydney Opera House’s Graphic Festival. It went so well that the artists recorded it, had it illustrated and released it as a book, e-book and CD—they have since performed it in New York and London. It is a marvelous piece of work, odd and unsettling, bent and beautiful. I’m not much novelists in rock bands, generally, but this is different.
Jennifer Kelly
Peppermint Moon—Pocket Dial Tears (Self-Released)
Peppermint Moon makes a jangly, mildly psychedelic power pop that might, in other decades, be regarded as Paisley underground. A one-man project of Colin Schitt, who also plays in El Radio Fantastique. Pocket Dial Tears works the tuneful, happy-sad vein of Anton Barbeau, the Lilys and the Young Fresh Fellows, with well-shaped melodies made for staring wistfully out of windows. “I Thought I Knew” lays yearning, reverberating surf guitar licks atop bittersweet, rain-through-sunshine verses; the song has a drifting, musing propulsion, its wry confessions and fiery guitar solos evoking Steve Wynn & the Miracle 3. “Day to Day” pivots more delicately on a music box melody, whammied guitar notes vibrating in the ether around the verse and a little bit of string romanticism swooping in at the interstices. “He She They” is maybe the best of the lot, a lament about being misunderstood spun out into baroque pop grandeur.
Jennifer Kelly
Polyorchard — scree/n (Trip Ticks Tapes)
scree/n is a single, multifaceted improvisation, recorded remotely by an illustrious crew and extending without break for an hour and 20 minutes. David Menestres solicited contributions from Gastr del Sol-into-Black Faurest mainstay David Grubbs, Exploding Star Orchestra’s Jeb Bishop on trombone and experimental saxophonists Laurent Estoppey and Catherine Sikora, a passel of experimental composers and out-there bassist Ollie Brice, then pieced them together in a composition that feels somewhat episodic but not incohesive. It starts in the frayed blowing, a saxophone tone split into two pieces, full of air. This whispery invocation fades, and then the music starts to dance then, another sax (or maybe the same one) kicking out in blowsy frolic, then settling to buzz again. Now a bit of percussion enters in, now a subdued screech of feedback builds in the background. Blasts of noise hammer through contemplative intervals of saxophone. A tune emerges and disappears into buzz and squawk and rumble. A roiling surf wave of noise that maybe comes from an acoustic bass played unconventionally squalls amid rattling knocks on wood. Still the sax persists in making a song out of things, fluttering and beckoning and flirting back at you over one shoulder as it saunters into the maw of things. At the half hour mark you begin to hear David Grubbs in lucid, lyrical chords, placed at wide intervals like wickets on a croquet course that the sax must thread through. Explosive noise erupts and just as suddenly recedes. Serene and unhurried, but somehow also full of sturm and howl, scree/n is a perfect metaphor for our age’s listless anxiety, our ceaseless striving to make sense and beauty out of accumulated sensory inputs.
Jennifer Kelly
Nicole Rampersaud — Saudade (Ansible Editions)
The Portuguese word saudade has no direct translation to English but evokes a complicated mixture of emotions: deep sorrow, wistfulness, longing for a past that brought joy. Toronto composer/improviser and trumpeter Nicole Rampersaud’s debut solo outing complicates matters in that it revels in moving forward and pushing against boundaries. Shards of digital noise hold equal weight to her trumpet intonations, raw breath, puckering and clucking. There’s an immensity at play as the elements interact. Multiple layers pile onto the fray that Rampersaud provokes, such that she conjures a nervous energy. The sparks fly, and her trumpet lines weave around the nests of glowing particles, hoping to avoid catching fire. Perhaps she’s avoiding her own sense of saudade by outpouring such rich and spirited compositions. Regardless, Rampersaud’s music mirrors the complex nature of the term, rather than the literal emotions that lie beneath it. It’s we listeners who end up reaping the benefits, so this writer isn’t complaining.
Bryon Hayes
Andreas Røysum Ensemble — Mysterier (Motvind)
Mysterier (in English, Mysteries) is the third album by Norwegian clarinetist Andreas Røysum’s biggish band, which is populated by musicians who lead or are members of other bands on the Motvind roster. The label’s name translates to Headwind, whose diverse endeavors present an art-as-activism stance, and the album covers depicts the ensemble tying up Uncle Sam and deposing the Monopoly Man whilst dressed in fairytale drag. The music is correspondingly defiant and optimistic, marshalling celebratory grooves, folk melodies and free-ish horn solos to fight the powers that be. Singer Sofie Tollefsbøl’s two turns at the microphone tip the balance towards an English folk vibe, and the grandeur attained by their arrangement of “Barbara Allen puts the rest of the album in the shade. But if Steeleye Span dancing with Organic Music Society at the protest sounds like your vibe, you’ll want to hear the whole thing, which is available on download, vinyl, and green-faced, short-run compact disc.
Bill Meyer
Spanish Love Songs — No Joy (Pure Noise)
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The emotional arc between Spanish Love Songs’ last album and this one can be summed up by going from “my bleak mind says it’s cheaper just to die” to “you're not a cautionary tale/so don't you vanish on me.” The sonic one, meanwhile, comes with the Springsteenian synth backing that accompanies the latter song. Dylan Slocum and the rest of the band are still grappling with oppression both economic (“Clean-Up Crew”) and spiritual (“Rapture Seeker”), and with existentially paralyzing levels of depression (“I’m Gonna Miss Everything,” “Middle of Nine”). But the hard-won perseverance they’ve developed has clearly stuck with them and grown in strength. No Joy is less singularly pummelling, but it more than makes up for it by seamlessly folding in the influence of the band’s new wave and Americana forebears. Just as the February 2020-released Brave Faces Everyone accidentally fit the rest of that extremely dark year perfectly, No Joy feels like the right record for 2023; harrowing, but in a different way.
Ian Mathers
Tacoma Park — What About a Collage? (self released)
You could excuse Carrboro, NC duo Tacoma Park if they’d decided to rest on their laurels for the rest of 2023. Their self-titled second album, released in April, could be fairly considered a triumph (it was here at Dusted, for one), the culmination of years of adjusting to a new, pandemic-related creative practice, which also generated a series of singles (which they collected this September). That’s a productive year. Instead, Ben Felton and John Harrison have given us all this 40-minute new single. The title probably refers more to their taste in album art than the nature of “What About a Collage?” itself, because this is a pretty focused journey. It starts out a little more on the bleepy-bloopy end of things before whisking the listener off to a space where it feels like Ash Ra Tempel is playing around with Mountains. Eventually the whole thing ends with some beautiful interplay between what sounds like synthesized woodwinds and some plangent guitar. Good to hear that their lengthy, labyrinthine album doesn’t appear to have come anywhere close to tapping out their creativity.
Ian Mathers
Trespass Trio Featuring Susana Santos Silva — Live In Oslo (Clean Feed)
This summit between the Swedish Trespass Trio and the commanding Portuguese trumpeter, Susana Santos Silva, was recorded in 2018 and released in 2023. While the date span might suggest that it’s release was instigated by COVID-time shelf-cleaning, it takes just a few seconds to hear that the quality of the music was not a factor in the delay. The trio, which comprises baritone/sopranino saxophonist Martin Küchen, bassist Per Zanussi, and drummer Raymond Strid, brings a sequence of flexible tunes that encompass the slow-motion dirges roiled with turbulent rhythmic undercurrents and instant, combustible exchanges. Santos is right there with them, darting and jabbing during the fiery moments and amplifying the tragedy of the slow passages. The set was only 32 minutes long, so that’s what you get, but it’s quite enough for music of such conviction.
Bill Meyer
#dust#dusted magazine#gabriel birnbaum#jennifer kelly#max eastley#bill meyer#james elkington#neil gaiman#four-play string quartet#peppermint moon#polyorchard#nicole rampersaude#bryon hayes#Andreas Røysum#spanish love songs#ian mathers#tacoma park#trespass trio
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El cofundador de Greenpeace admite que "el cambio climático es un engaño" para "impulsar la agenda globalista"
El cofundador de Greenpeace, Patrick Moore, ha hecho sonar el silbato para advertir al público que el “alarmismo climático” es un engaño perpetrado por la élite globalista para promover su agenda y que la idea de que el clima está en crisis es “100% falsa”.
Moore, ambientalista de toda la vida, fue presidente de Greenpeace Canadá y ayudó a fundar la organización internacional en 1971. Después de dejar el grupo en 1986, Moore ha tratado de advertir al público que el activismo ambiental ha sido secuestrado para impulsar una agenda política.
En una rara entrevista con el presentador de podcast Dan Proft, Moore advirtió al público que dejara de creer todo lo que les dicen los principales medios de comunicación y "buscara la verdad" y "seleccionara qué es verdad y qué no".
Moore destaca cómo, en los últimos años, los defensores de la agenda verde han estado utilizando los cambios climáticos para sugerir que el planeta está siendo destruido por el calentamiento global.
"El otro día dijeron que fue el año más caluroso en la historia de la tierra, y no lo es", dijo Moore a Proft en el podcast "Counterculture". “Eso es simplemente, punto, una mentira. Todo el alarmismo climático –la “catástrofe climática”- es 100% falso”, declaró Moore.
"No estamos en una crisis climática".
Moore le dijo a Proft que “en realidad no está sucediendo nada tan radical” con el clima.
Moore lidera actualmente la Coalición CO2, una fundación no partidista que educa a los líderes políticos y al público sobre las importantes contribuciones del dióxido de carbono a nuestras vidas y a la economía.
Moore, ecologista y activista medioambiental desde hace más de 50 años, sostiene que un mayor nivel de dióxido de carbono en la atmósfera es beneficioso.
Según Moore, las afirmaciones de que el cambio climático es “causado por el hombre” son “propaganda” que él describe como “peligrosas”.
Los comentarios de Moore, un destacado experto en ambientalismo, entran directamente en conflicto con la agenda verde impulsada por la administración del presidente demócrata Joe Biden y grupos globalistas como las Naciones Unidas (ONU) y el Foro Económico Mundial (FEM).
Los defensores de la agenda verde exigen que el público reduzca drásticamente sus “huellas de carbono” para “salvar el planeta”.
La industria agrícola ha surgido recientemente como uno de los objetivos clave de la narrativa anti-carbono.
Como informó recientemente Slay News, el zar climático de Biden, John Kerry, está pidiendo a los agricultores que dejen de cultivar alimentos para cumplir con los radicales objetivos Net Zero de la administración para reducir las emisiones.
Mientras tanto, han ido surgiendo indicios de que la marea podría estar cambiando en la agenda verde globalista.
Bill Gates, uno de los alarmistas climáticos más destacados del mundo, admitió recientemente que la narrativa de la crisis climática es un engaño, como informó The People's Voice.
Se dice que Gates le dijo a un grupo de sus colegas defensores de la agenda verde globalista que la narrativa del “desastre climático” ahora se ha vuelto tan exagerada que el público ahora ve claramente a través de la farsa.
Durante el evento en vivo en The Times Center de Nueva York, Gates admitió que “ningún país templado va a volverse inhabitable” debido al “calentamiento global”.
Continuó admitiendo que las tácticas agresivas de miedo ya no funcionan con el público.
Gates advirtió a sus aliados globalistas: “Si intentas aplicar la fuerza bruta climática, encontrarás gente que dirá: ‘Me gusta el clima, pero no quiero soportar ese costo y reducir mi nivel de vida'”.
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"Jigsaw Puzzle" instrumental de los Rolling Stones. En uno de los álbumes clave de su carrera "Beggars Banquet" (1968), su confirmación como banda de vocación norteamericana. Bill, pasa del rubiales, el morritos y el jonki. Gran línea de bajo. Nadie dice nada de ti querido. Ya es hora.
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Hey can you elaborate a bit on what exactly is a part of the law about child protection and does it extend to downworlder kids as well? In tlil we saw how all these orphaned kids were there. Does this law say anything about how they should be given a safe place?
the law about child protection has multiple clauses (which include neglect and abuse and prevention of forced training and access to education etc).
i actually didn't write it down when I wrote the chapter but I will have to since it plays a big role in lbaf v with Lance and the way in which he is treated in the shadow world (mavid about to set the clave on fire oof)
but I can tell you that is definitely includes downworld children, of course. any law that is created by the clave (unless it is explicitly for nephilim) applies to all parts of the council and shadow world as mentioned in the accords. for eg, the hate speech bill applies to both nephilim and downworlders (meaning they can't say shit to each other or even within their own fractions).
so, yes. it does talk about the abandonment or abuse of children in general. (i want to add that it was definitely amended after the Devlin debacle to offer better protection for children with the sight)
I'm assuming the clave is not responsible for downworld children (because it's tricky for eg like in a situ with nico) but it is responsible for holding the downworld leaders/organizations (such as the warlock council or praetor lupus) accountable if they fail to do their jobs to protect these children.
im so excited to jump into this again in lbaf v. it's so ironic how the child protection bill came to force because of David and it is about to be amended because of his son :))
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¿Historias cortas para no dormir y así no tener pesadillas?
Muchas advertencias sobre la reacción de Rusia
La élite rusa y la opinión pública en general se han opuesto durante mucho tiempo a tal expansión, la colocación de misiles estadounidenses en Polonia y Rumania, y el aprovisionamiento militar de Ucrania con armamento occidental.
El verdadero poderío nuclear de Rusia (y cómo se compara con el de otros países)
Cuando la administración del presidente Bill Clinton tomó medidas para incluir a Polonia, Hungría y la República Checa en la OTAN, Burns escribió que la decisión fue "prematura en el mejor de los casos e innecesariamente provocadora en el peor".
"Mientras los rusos se consumían en su agravio y sentido de desventaja, una creciente tormenta de teorías de 'puñalada por la espalda' lentamente circulaban, dejando una marca en las relaciones de Rusia con Occidente que perduraría durante décadas", dijo Burns.
En junio de 1997, 50 destacados expertos en política exterior firmaron una carta abierta a Clinton en la que decían: "Creemos que el actual esfuerzo liderado por Estados Unidos para expandir la OTAN… es un error político de proporciones históricas" que "perturbará la estabilidad europea".
En 2008, Burns, entonces embajador estadounidense en Moscú, escribió a la secretaria de Estado Condoleezza Rice: "La entrada de Ucrania en la OTAN es la más brillante de todas las líneas rojas para la élite rusa (no solo para Putin). En más de dos años y medio de conversaciones con actores rusos clave, desde los que arrastran los nudillos en los oscuros rincones del Kremlin hasta los críticos liberales más agudos de Putin, todavía tengo que encontrar a alguien que vea a Ucrania en la OTAN como algo más que un desafío directo a los intereses rusos".
https://www.bbc.com/mundo/noticias-internacional-60572435
#Rusia y Ucrania: Durante décadas ha habido advertencias de la provocación que es para Moscú la expansión de la OTAN A medida que la lucha s#¿Historias cortas para no dormir?
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El mural mutante de la temporada. Uno que ha cruzado la frontera de esta página nicho con seguidores genios con gusto impecable y se ha colado en todos lados. Había que registrarlo. Me lo compartieron varias veces. He cumplido.
Sobran las palabras. Volver al Futuro en clave Bill Plympton-Will Vinton donde han remplazado a Michael J. Fox por Roddy Piper, que, por alguna razón, es una conejita playboy. 80's fever dream.
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Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favourite five fics that you've written, then pass it to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love 💖
Oooh, cool!
This exercise was funny because I made myself revisit old, old fic lol. It's crazy how one's writing develops. I forced myself to only pick one per fandom. Anyway, here we go:
5. we survive; we always survive (a dark comedy) | Bonnie Bennett/Caroline Forbes/Elena Gilbert | a zombie apocalypse poly romance bc why not
Extract:
They slept curled around each other.
As the least violent sleeper and the warmest of the three, Bonnie often found herself stuck in the middle. Her arms wrapped around her two friends as if they were all three drowning, and by sheer force of will, she might be able to keep them afloat with the strength of her arms. Caroline was a snuggler. She burrowed into any crevice she could find. Her favourite spot was Bonnie’s shoulder, right near where her pulse thrummed with the sweet scent of blood; it reminded her vaguely of pop tarts. Elena was a clinger. She clutched Bonnie’s hand in a claw-like grip that didn’t let up even in the deepest parts of the night, almost as though she was afraid they’d all disappear. Sometimes it hurt, made Bonnie grunt, “Ow, vampire strength, ‘Lena,” and she loosened her tight-wound fingers—but not by much.
4. if i’m lost then how can i find myself? | Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood | Shadowhunters | pre-relationship, Alec & touch starvation (before the show pissed me off as these shows do)
Extract:
It’s funny. But Alec doesn’t feel like a soldier when Magnus touches him, stuck in a centuries-old supernatural war they're not winning. He doesn’t feel like a blunt instrument to be thrown at the Clave for some unseemly purpose or like something to be patched up after a bloody battle.
He’s just Alec, and Magnus Bane’s fingers are stroking the side of his jaw. Everything in his life feels like it could blow up in his face at any moment. But this, a hand on his cheek is nice. It makes him feel grounded and like he could float at once.
3. you're so (not) my type | Josie Mccoy/Reggie Mantle | Riverdale | 180 seconds of screen time and these two had me obsessed, ofc the show became so unwatchable but it peaked here for me.
Extract: “What’s going on with you and the walking jockstrap?”
2. drink the fatal drop, then fall apart in parts | Daenerys Targaryen & Jon Snow | Game of Thrones | in which the lord of light brings Dany back as a vampire and she goes on a revenge spree, starting with her killer - written in the throes of s8 rage lol. Basically a Kill Bill, Volume Dragon Queen, lol. I like how batshit it is, lol.
Extract:
“Yes—yes you did, Jon Snow.” She’s watching him the way a maester might watch a dull experiment. “I suppose it’s what you do, isn’t it? Kill people you love.” She says it with a calculated cruelty that makes him wince with every word
1.the wolf has golden teeth | Mel Medarda (& some Mel x Jayce) | Arcane | a Mel study spanning from childhood to the finale, I'll always be proud of this one. It's my truest love letter to Mel, and I've written several lbrh.
Extract:
He touches his forehead to hers just like they did as children and says, sure and warm as he always is even though his eyes are sorrowful, “We will meet again, sister, I promise you.” And she believes him because out of everyone, Kino has never lied to her. Not once. He steps back, his dark locs falling across his brow as he reaches into his pockets to procure a sealed letter. “Take this and head south to Rokrund, then east to Piltover by sea. Rhodri Ferros will take you in – at least until you decide what to do.”
“Why would they?” She’s never heard of the Ferros beyond reading some of the histories of Piltover, a city well-known even throughout Noxus for its industrial and trading prowess.
Kino smirks, a sharp thing full of teeth that reminds her a little too much of Mother. “Let’s just say, they owe me one.”
Tagging:
@laufire
@melmedarda
@synergetic-prose
@dontbotherwiththepronunciation
Anyone keen!
#my fic#mel medarda#arcane#tvd#elena gilbert#bonnie bennett#caroline forbes#sh#magnus bane#alec lightwood#riverdale#josie mccoy#reggie mantle#daenerys targaryen#jon snow#jonerys#fic meme#anon#Ask
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➻ MEET THE BLACKTHORNS. pt 1
( from eldest to youngest, the nephilim blackthorn family )
➻ HELEN.
also born out of the union of lady narissa and andrew blackthorn, the first blackthorn child was born half-fae. raised in the shadowhunter culture / the bright glass towers of alicante seen from her childhood bedroom's window / she is a young kind woman that has been exiled away from her family after the cold peace. unlike mark, helen was allowed to keep contact with the rest of the siblings, for her exile had been masked as a business trip to investigate certain anomalities on the magic wards that protect idris, the shadowhunter headquarters and HOME. helen lives with her wife aline in a remote location known by no members of the family, fulfilling her duty with pride and resentment, before finally returning as the head of the los angeles institute, where most of the blackthorns reside, after the canon events of the books.
mark misses his older sister constantly, for she is the only one of the blackthorns to truly understand the stigma that comes with being part fae, specially after the cold peace was installed.
➻ MARK.
second son, half-fae, adopted the eldest sibling role until he was ripped from his family and exiled to faerieland. there, he lost notion of time and identity under countless tortures and starving days. finally, he is reunited with his family under strange circumstances, used by the faerie courts to sabotage nephilim and wage another war. nonetheless, mark's strong love for his siblings and guilt over having abandoned his responsabilities would override every mind-trick and manipulation tactic used by his captors to ensure his loyalty. he feels deep hatred towards the clave for what has been done to his family and thousands other families just like his, yet he feels an even stronger hate towards himself for believing the lies, for thinking that his siblings were dead and there was nothing he could do, for disappearing when they needed their older brother the most.
➻ JULIAN.
eldest human son, an artistic soul crushed and broken by the weight on his shoulders. since the blackthorn parents were turned and murdered on the dark war, julian has been responsible for each blackthorn sibling. for their training, their hygiene, how much do they eat, what allergies they have. there is nothing that the eldest brother in the los angeles institute cannot do, taking care of the bills, the reports, and every important thing that you could ever imagine. of course, a sixteen year old can't be the official head of the institute, yet their uncle arthur, the actual director, was a shell of a man, obsessed with dark magic and possibly overriden by the shadowy claws of dementia / it left them no choice, if the blackthorns wanted to continue living in their home, it falls on julian to keep the façade. to continue the illusion. it will break him, it already is. just as his multiple obsessions, that thirst that cannot be quenched, will kill him.
julian is obsessed with art, painting, drawing, and studying it. there's a secret hidden room in the institute where he disappears for hours at a time, mostly when the tide is down and the sea is calm, when the clave hasn't sent any messages and the fridge is full. specially, he is obsessed with drawing emma, his parabatai. a parabatai is a partner, a friend to cover your back until your last breath. her beautiful golden locks, in a perfectly crafted disarrey of aurean light, and those lioness' eyes. mark is sure their connection, and the tons in julian's shoulders, will be the start of the demise of the blackthorn family.
➻ TIBERIUS AND LIVIA
the twins, around fourteen years old when mark returns to the institute, he almost cannot recognise them. ty, a smart and shy young boy constantly engrossed in a detective novel ; livvy, a strong and extroverted girl, always ready to nag and scold her twin brother for this and that. they are joint by the hip, almost never found without the other close by, and of course, always getting into some mischief. investigating leads way too dangerous for them, spying on kind of suspicious allies, and turning every mundane activity into an exciting game of wits.
it is them who bring the most pain to mark, when he thinks about the years lost. he was never there to comfort ty when it got too loud, too crowded. he was never there to ask livvy gently to help him, to hear about her adventures and infamous deeds. it is them, ty with his kind caution around him, as if he's a feral animal. livvy with her scared looks, only there for a second but enough for him to retreat once again. it is livvy's death what ends up breaking them, what ends up pushing julian to his limit, mark to the deep pit of guilt, emma to recklessness.
#➻ meta ; canon#➻ meta ; the blackthorns#thought this would be super useful#bc mark does talk about his siblings a lot#including emma#for they are most of the people he knows tbh
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mothers & sons
Chapter 2 of 2 (Chapter 1)
Malec | Rated general | no warnings for this chapter
Summary: The loft was full of people for the first time in a year, and Magnus didn’t quite know what to do with himself.
A/N: have a sequel... not sure if I like it but here it is anyway
Read it on AO3 or below the cut.
The loft was full of people for the first time in a year, and Magnus didn’t quite know what to do with himself.
Alec was beside him, a warm line against his body, an arm wrapped around his shoulders. The touch still felt impossible, like something that would shatter if Magnus blinked, but every moment that the impossible bliss stayed, Magnus’ foundations felt a bit more solid. He still felt whiplashed, almost, from the abrupt change. The couch cushions were indented from his weight, the carpet gave way beneath his feet. And the loft was full of people.
Catarina and Raphael were the first, portalling in together mere hours after the spell had been lifted. Cat had taken one look at him, his fingers clutched desperately in Alec’s shirt, and wrapped him in a hug; Raphael had joined in, the four of them — Magnus, Alec, Cat, and Raphael — forming something like a cuddle pile on the floor of the loft. They’d been kind enough not to comment on the tears on Magnus’ cheeks, and in return, he wouldn’t mention the expression on Raphael’s face that forever shattered his pretence at aloofness.
Then there’d been Jace and Izzy and Simon and Clary, who’d hugged him each in turn and didn’t seem to mind that he couldn’t quite manage to hug them back properly but stood still with his hand still locked in Alec. He hadn’t touched anyone in a year and now he’d received hugs from six separate people in an hour; it was hard to reconcile the two.
Everyone had apparently sensed that, and they’d settled down in Magnus’ living room, scattered across the various chairs and couches. Alec had stayed at Magnus’ side, somehow sensing that his presence was more welcome than overwhelming, and now they were carrying on a conversation as though no time had passed in the last year. It was impossible, and refreshing, and edging the line between blissful and too much, and he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.
So he leant against Alec and breathed through it. He knew Alec was watching him, ready to order everyone out if Magnus was too overwhelmed, and better yet, he knew everyone else here would go without hesitation if that was what Magnus needed. Somehow, the knowledge let him relax just a bit more.
They were talking about Alec’s newest bill, one he planned to bring before the Clave in a few weeks’ time. Magnus had sat on his bed and watched him practise his speech for it; the bill would allow adoption by same-sex couples, Shadowhunter-Downworlder couples, and single Shadowhunters as well. Each bit posed problems: same-sex and mixed-race marriage had only been permitted a few months earlier, people were sure to react badly to the thought of adoptive parents “perverting” children, Downworlders raising Shadowhunters was unheard-of, and there was already plenty of discrimination against single Shadowhunters who weren’t “contributing to the Shadowhunter population”.
Still, the Shadow World was struggling to deal with the numbers of orphaned children left by Valentine and Jonathan; opening up adoption to more people could only be a good thing. Shadowhunter society functioned, fundamentally, on the idea that more Shadowhunters was better — which, yes, led to discrimination against anyone who didn’t or couldn’t have children, but it would work in Alec’s favour in this case. Nobody wanted Shadowhunter children to starve without anyone to take care of them.
“The Council is being particularly uncooperative about this one, though,” Alec was saying, frowning slightly and absently rubbing circles on Magnus’ shoulder with his thumb. “Makes me worry about what the full body of the Clave will think.”
“The Council is generally a good deal more prejudiced than the Clave,” Magnus said, speaking up for the first time. “And in this case, it’s likely that Shadowhunters in Institutes, like most Clave members, will be more likely to overlook their prejudices in favour of actually helping.”
If Alec was taken aback by Magnus’ abrupt speech, he didn’t show it. “That’s true, actually. The Council’s always a bit out of touch with active-duty Shadowhunters…”
Magnus let himself drift again, anchored by Alec’s touch and the well-loved voices mixing around him.
~
Alec woke up content.
There was something warm in his chest, something soft, a soul-deep reassurance which his sleepy mind could neither place nor summon the urge to place. He was at home, something whispered, deep inside of him; he was safe, he was loved, he could rest. He was not alone.
He shifted slightly on the comfortable silk sheets, and abruptly became aware of an empty space beside him.
The warmth fled.
Alec blinked his eyes open, sitting up, mind spinning. Magnus. Magnus wasn’t here. Where was he? Alec had — he’d thought he’d found Magnus, he remembered shivering in the snow with his arms around him, but uncertainty was trickling down his back like dripping water. Was Magnus real, or had Alec imagined him, dreamed him up in some stunning display of the power of the subconscious? He tried to think, to parse out what was reality and what was not, but he remembered only disconnected bits and pieces: a spell. Magnus. An emptiness. His mother’s face. Despair, perhaps grief. Then relief, and comfort, but he felt like half his memories were skewed sideways and he didn’t know if it was real.
Eyes open. Sheets. Soft, like silk. Not the Institute. Light from windows. Gold. That was — that had to be real, right? He was in the loft, he was here, he wasn’t dreaming. Unless he was still dreaming, but — no. No, he couldn’t think about that. Not dreaming. Awake. No Magnus. Was Magnus a dream? No, Magnus was with the loft, the loft was here, Magnus was here. Except Magnus wasn’t here. Magnus had been real? Before? He remembered grief like a landslide, the ground slipping away beneath his feet. That was real. That had been real. If it was real, was Magnus — was he — had he — Alec couldn’t think through the fog in his mind. His breathing was coming quickly, too quickly, but he didn’t know how to stop. Slow down. Deep breath. Magnus. Find him. Where was he? Was he—
The door opened and Magnus came in. The bathroom door. Magnus was in the bathroom.
“You’re real,” Alec said on an exhale, tension fading from his shoulders even as his eyes traced over Magnus’ face, his arms, his body. Alive. Breathing. Here. Real.
Magnus inhaled sharply, and Alec could tell an apology was rising to his lips, but instead he crossed the room to wrap Alec in a hug. “I’m real,” he said softly, the words a reassurance to them both. “I’m right here, love.”
“I woke up and you weren’t here,” Alec mumbled into his chest. “I — the memories — they were all mixed up, I couldn’t remember what was real and what wasn’t.”
“The spell,” Magnus said softly, guilt colouring his tone. “You had a year’s worth of living without any memory of me, so even with the memories returned, there’s a mismatch. I should’ve realised something like this would—”
“Hey, no blaming yourself,” Alec interrupted with a huff. “We’ve both got some — trauma. To work through. You’re not to blame for not anticipating every single possible aspect of that. All I need is time. And cuddles.”
Magnus conceded with a sigh, and tugged Alec with him back onto the bed. “Cuddles it is, then,” he said, and wrapped his arms around his husband.
#fic#my fic#magnus bane#malec#magnus x alec#magnus lightwood bane#alec lightwood#alec x magnus#alec lightwood bane#tsc#tmi
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función
Idealizarnos un concepto clave de lo que hizo la máquina de escribir tiene muchos significados y opiniones, por lo que darle una conclusión completa se extravagante pero en determinados palabras se podría decir que su mayor impacto social fue en el sector empresarial debido a que fue correspondido de forma positiva debido a su usos, después de permitir mil formas de aceptaciones revolucionarias, los trabajos fueron reconocidos por el simple hecho de tener una mejor comunicación entre el país y campos de estudio es un mas especifico cuando se entra en el tema de sus mejoras como la introducción a los primeros diseños con implementos de un máquina de coser que en partes contrarias dejo complicaciones en su uso, como por el ejemplo el uso de las teclas (mayúsculas y minúsculas) quienes en los transcurridos textos son utilizados e incluso tener que usar correctamente cada texto porque no había la forma de cambiarlo repentinamente.
La máquina de escribir tuvo transcurrencias y posibles funciones de lo que era (se creía que era funcional para solo contar billetes en los bancos) e inicio practicas universales para generar mayores usos en los campos de estudio, su industrialización fue apoyada fuertemente por lo cargos políticos que expresaban que era necesario para comunicarse entre estados y consigo mismo la economía como correspondencias y demás implicando que fue adaptado rápidamente los periodistas, escritores y personas del común con negocios implicados.
Idealizing a key concept of what the typewriter did has many meanings and opinions, so giving it a complete conclusion is extravagant but in certain words it could be said that its greatest social impact was in the business sector because it was reciprocated in a positive way due to its uses, after allowing a thousand forms of revolutionary acceptances, The works were recognized for the simple fact of having a better communication between the country and fields of study is a more specific when entering the subject of its improvements such as the introduction to the first designs with implements of a sewing machine that in opposite parts left complications in its use, As for example the use of keys (upper and lower case) who in the elapsed texts are used and even having to use each text correctly because there was no way to change it suddenly.
The typewriter had elapses and possible functions of what it was (it was believed that it was functional to only count bills in banks) and began universal practices to generate greater uses in the fields of study, its industrialization was strongly supported by the political charges that expressed that it was necessary to communicate between states and with itself the economy as correspondences and others implying that it was quickly adapted to journalists, writers and ordinary people with businesses involved.
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youtube
Ph̲a̲r̲o̲a̲h̲ S̲a̲n̲d̲e̲r̲s̲ – T̲h̲e̲m̲b̲i̲ ̲(̲1̲9̲7̲1̲)̲
Tracklist:
1 A̲s̲t̲r̲a̲l̲ ̲T̲r̲a̲v̲e̲l̲i̲n̲g̲ ̲ 0:00:00
2 R̲e̲d̲,̲ ̲B̲l̲a̲c̲k̲ ̲&̲ ̲G̲r̲e̲e̲n̲ ̲ 0:05:50
3 T̲h̲e̲m̲b̲i̲ ̲ 0:14:48
4 L̲o̲v̲e̲ ̲ 0:21:57
5 M̲o̲r̲n̲i̲n̲g̲ ̲P̲r̲a̲y̲e̲r̲ ̲ 0:27:10
6 B̲a̲i̲l̲o̲p̲h̲o̲n̲e̲ ̲D̲a̲n̲c̲e̲ 0:36:23
Credits
Art Direction – Jeff Adamoff
Bass – Cecil McBee
Cymbal [Finger], Percussion – Cecil McBee (tracks: 1 to 3)
Cymbal [Ring] – James Jordan (tracks: 3)
Cymbal [Ring], Featuring [Bailophone], Voice [Shouts] – Lonnie Liston Smith (tracks: 5, 6)
Design – Steeleworks
Drums – Roy Haynes (tracks: 5, 6)
Effects [Bird Effects] – Cecil McBee (tracks: 5, 6)
Electric Piano [Fender Rhodes], Claves, Percussion – Lonnie Liston Smith (tracks: 1 to 3)
Flute [Alto], Koto, Tenor Saxophone, Percussion [Brass Bell], Featuring [Bailophone], Horn [Cow Horn], Maracas, Flute [Fifes] – P̲h̲a̲r̲o̲a̲h̲ ̲S̲a̲n̲d̲e̲r̲s̲ (tracks: 5, 6)
Mastered By – Greg Fulginiti
Percussion [African] – Anthony Wiles (tracks: 5, 6), Chief Bey (tracks: 5, 6), Majid Shabazz (tracks: 5, 6), Nat Bettis (tracks: 5, 6)
Piano – Lonnie Liston Smith (tracks: 1 to 3, 5, 6)
Producer – Ed Michel
Producer, Engineer – Bill Szymczyk
Soprano Saxophone, Tenor Saxophone, Bells, Percussion – P̲h̲a̲r̲o̲a̲h̲ ̲S̲a̲n̲d̲e̲r̲s̲ (tracks: 1 to 3)
Violin, Percussion – Michael White (2) (tracks: 1 to 3)
Notes
Originally released in 1971.
Tracks 1 to 3 recorded 25 November, 1970 at The Record Plant, L.A.
Tracks 4 to 6 recorded 12 January 1971 at The Record Plant, NYC.
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Flight - Chapter 5
Magnus staggered through the portal and fell to the floor, winded from the speed with which he’d conjured it. Winded from everything that had happened.
The Persian rug beneath him scraped his palms. The hardwood floor underneath bruised his knees. His dislocated shoulder ached. He stayed there for several moments, trying not to cry from sheer overwhelm.
He hadn’t meant to portal out of the country. He’d wanted to stay nearby to help Alec—even if going as far away as possible would protect him from the Clave. But his instincts had taken him here, instead—to Ragnor’s Yorkshire cottage. Apparently, he’d been distressed enough that he’d punched straight through the wards.
Bees buzzed outside the open windows. Trees shifted in the breeze. Magnus tried to slow his racing heart, finally sitting up.
Ragnor’s footsteps echoed down the hall and he came into the living room. “WHO DARES— oh, Magnus. What are you doing here?” He stopped in Magnus’s eyeline. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, I’m just on the run from the Clave, again,” Magnus sniffed. “Sorry for dragging you into it.”
Ragnor was silent for a moment that stretched out strangely in the peaceful summer afternoon. “I think we’d better make some tea.”
~~
Magnus stared down into his mug, turning his spoon idly with a curl of magic. It was a good cup of tea; Ragnor’s always were. Magnus just didn’t have much of an appetite.
“Did your Shadowhunter do something?” Ragnor started, tentatively, when it became clear Magnus wasn’t going to open the conversation. He’d fixed Magnus’s shoulder, but they hadn’t gotten further than that. “I thought he might be a good one, after meeting him, but—”
“No, it’s nothing to do with Alec,” Magnus answered. “Well, it is to do with him, but it’s not his fault. It’s mine.”
“In my experience with the Clave,” Ragnor said gently—and it was always kind of unnerving when his gruff friend was gentle—“which, admittedly, is limited, as I try to avoid them whenever possible—it is very, very rarely anyone else’s fault but theirs.”
“Alec was arrested,” Magnus insisted. “Because of something I did.”
Ragnor sighed. “You should start from the beginning.”
Magnus relayed the whole series of events. In retrospect, he could see so many moments when he’d gone wrong, when he should have known what he was doing would aggravate the Clave and put them in danger. He’d foolishly assumed that he and Alec had gotten good enough at navigating Clave politics that they could handle whatever came their way. But then—
“We saw an angel,” Magnus told Ragnor, and took a fortifying gulp of his tea. It was cold by now, but he saw Ragnor swirl a subtle finger and warm it up again. “An actual angel—immortal being of ‘pure goodness’ from heaven, and all? And all it did was condemn us. I’ve never had much faith in the angels’ righteousness—not after seeing how the Nephilim behave—but, I suppose, a corner of my mind has always hoped that maybe we were all wrong about them. That the Nephilim were wrong. That the angels would be truly righteous when given the chance.” He hung his head, defeated. “But they were just as bigoted as their offspring.”
Ragnor opened his mouth to respond, but the tortured thoughts were pouring out of Magnus now.
“—And I’ve never been particularly religious, but seeing the creatures held up as paragons of goodness say that Alec and I loving each other is horrible and sinful, that me and you and other Downworlders can never be forgiven for the actions of our demonic parents—it stings. And— how can we make any progress, now that the Nephilim have heard that directly? They’ll hate us even more. Even if they don’t, they’ll never defy their beloved angels. They’ll certainly never let Alec’s equality bill pass. Oh, God, what if Alec hates me now, too—”
Ragnor laid a hand on his arm. “Stop. If he hated you, he wouldn’t have told you to run. He would have let them arrest you.”
Magnus scrubbed his hand over his face, tugging on his hair. He felt terrible for doubting Alec, even for a moment—this was all just so much to grapple with. “You’re right. You’re right, of course. He would never just turn on me like that. But he has far greater faith in the angels than I do.”
“Which only means that he’s taking it as hard as you are. I’d hazard that Alec is struggling with his faith more than he’s struggling with his feelings for you.”
Magnus knew Ragnor was right. His throat felt tight when he thought of how Alec must be feeling right then, being pushed into a cell by his own people, what little faith he might still have had in his people’s purpose being shaken, not to mention the threat to everything he had worked for. And that was before the personal threat—who knew how the Clave would react. Would they be so offended as to derune him?
Magnus drank the last of his tea and admitted, “I don’t know how to help him. I could—maybe, with a lot of effort—break him out of the Gard. But if I do that, then I make him a fugitive from his own society. We’d both be on the run from the Clave for God knows how long. I can’t see him forgiving me for that unless they were literally going to put him to death.” He groaned in frustration. “This is all my fault.”
“It’s not your fault, Magnus,” Ragnor countered. “In my personal opinion, Alec’s power should be his own—he said what you were doing was fine, and that should have been the end of it. The fact that the Clave—or the Angels—feel compelled to control things is not on you.”
Magnus couldn’t see how it wasn’t. If only he had just let things lie. His curiosity and sentimentality always got him in the end.
“What are you going to do about it?” Ragnor asked.
Magnus let out a shaky breath. “First, I have to get the lay of the land. Find out what happened after I left. I’ll see if I can get in contact with Alec’s siblings—hopefully without getting them in trouble, too.”
Ragnor didn’t tell him not to, he just said, “Be careful.”
~~
Alec sat, slumped, against the wall of his cell in the Gard. It was a meager and pathetic cell, lacking even basic furniture, which had him sitting on the cold stone floor. He imagined Magnus’s commentary on the ‘décor’ of the place, and that cheered him up somewhat.
His wings spread out behind him, feathers sticking up over his shoulders. They were sticky with ash from the fight at the loft, and damp from the poorly aerated Gard basement. Alec couldn’t put them away. The guards had given him… something that made his connection with his runes feel distant. Presumably to prevent him from using his new, stronger powers to escape.
He felt hazy as a result. He kept shaking his head to clear it, but it wouldn’t clear.
It had been easy, with Magnus and Izzy and Jace beside him, to be confident and defiant of the Clave. Alec had to protect them, and that effort didn’t involve showing weakness and emotional upset. But now, alone, facing down the crushing consequences of everything that had transpired…
He didn’t know what would happen to him now, but it wouldn’t be good. Angering an angel to the extent that it felt the need to come to earth to chastise them—there was no way the Clave wouldn’t come down with the harshest punishment. His career was almost certainly over. He’d be lucky if he got out with his runes—or his life.
At least Magnus got away. But things would hardly be easy for him, or any other Downworlder—not now that the angels had made their feelings on the matter quite clear. Frustration welled up in Alec’s throat at the thought, and he scrubbed his eyes to wipe away tears that were more anger than sadness.
How could the beings—the supposedly just and impartial beings—that they had all devoted their lives to, be so— so vengeful and hateful and uncompromising? Alec had always thought that, for all their hardline reputation, when it came down to such a simple moral concept as basic equality that the angels would fall on the right side, even if the Clave, in all its human fallibility, did not.
Apparently, he was naïve for expecting any semblance of justice in the divine.
Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—Alec was prevented from mulling over it any further by his cell door creaking open. Through the few barred openings in the door he could see a short, stiff frame, swishing Inquisitor’s robes—and then Imogen Herondale appeared in the doorway.
Alec didn’t bother to stand. They were past trivial formalities. He tipped his head up in what could have been deference or defiance. “Inquisitor.”
She inclined her head. “Lightwood. What a situation we’ve found ourselves in, hm?”
“I’m sure you’re thrilled about it.”
The Inquisitor shut the door behind her, and Alec caught a quick glimpse of a guard standing in the hall. “I am satisfied that the angel’s words have validated decades of Clave doctrine, yes. However, am I happy to have an Institute Head locked up for blasphemy? No, not particularly. Our differences aside.”
“How is using power the Nephilim were naturally gifted blasphemy?” Alec questioned. “You might want to take that up with God.”
“Because that gift was retracted, Lightwood. You can’t walk around calling yourself engaged when the ring’s been taken back.”
“I can’t really call myself engaged at all, right now,” Alec reminded her.
She gave him the knock it off with the bullshit look he was so familiar with. “You realize you are in serious trouble? You and Mr. Bane—once we track him down. The angels’ words are paramount. And they’ve made it clear they want you punished for meddling with magic you shouldn’t have access to. For mingling magics that shouldn’t be mingled.”
“No, they said they would punish us if we kept it up,” Alec corrected, and her expression tightened in irritation. But argumentativeness and pedantry was all Alec had left at this point; he was well aware he was in deep shit. Whether it was deserved or not didn’t matter, only what the Clave thought mattered once you were in their grasp.
“The angels rarely act directly on this plane, as you know,” said the Inquisitor. “We are meant to be their voice and arm of justice on earth. We fulfill punishments in their stead—and ensure that those crimes don’t repeat.”
“Oh, that’s what we do? I thought we protected humanity from demons.”
“Alec,” snapped Imogen. “For your own goddamn sake, take this seriously.”
“It’s actually very serious to me, Imogen,” Alec said, jaw clenching. “It’s serious to me how the Clave will take the slightest excuse to roll back years’ worth of progress with the Downworld. First it’s, warlock and angelic magic shouldn’t mingle. Then it’s warlocks and Shadowhunters shouldn’t mingle. I know how it goes.”
“It goes as it should,” said Imogen. “In accordance with the natural way of things. The changes you sought to make were always contrary to the nature of our society. This is merely a reversion to what’s right.”
“Mmhmm.” Alec tightened his fists in frustration, then forcibly relaxed again. “Did you come here for a reason, or just to keep futilely trying to change my mind?”
Imogen crossed her arms. It made the seraph blade holstered on her hip stand out in the dim light. Alec briefly entertained an idea of trying to grab it and escape, before accepting the fact that it would be both political and literal suicide. “Believe it or not, I came here to try to save you. You run an effective Institute, Lightwood. Political differences aside. I’d hate to lose a decent leader and have to put an incompetent fool in your place.”
Alec let out a startled laugh. “Seriously? I always thought you wanted to force me out.”
“Malachi wants that.” Her lip curled in disgust over the name. “He has no sense of longevity or perspective. Perhaps at one point I felt the same. But recent years have brought the ineptitude in the Clave’s ranks into glaringly bright light. We can’t afford to worsen the problem.”
“Wow, something we agree on,” Alec observed. “How about that.”
“This doesn’t have to be the end of your career, Alec,” Imogen continued, with the tiniest quirk of the lips. “There are many tragic pathways out of this cell. But not all end in your disgrace, derunement, or death.”
“How do you figure that?” Alec asked. He had a feeling he wouldn’t like the answer.
“Apologize for your actions, publicly,” Imogen declared. “Give up the magic—and that rune that lets you fly. Endorse the angel and the Clave’s message.”
Alec didn’t particularly want to do any of those things, but it would be better than being deruned, or, hell, killed.
“And, finally,” Imogen added, and Alec thought he detected a thrill of glee in her voice, “renounce Magnus Bane. He’s the demon-blooded one, after all. The one the angel truly wants to punish. He should take the fall.”
Alec grit his teeth. He wondered if Herondale knew she had just made this pathway impossible for him. He wondered if she did, and wanted him to orchestrate his own downfall so no one could blame the Clave for their persecution. “You know I can’t do that.”
“You won’t do that,” Herondale corrected—and, yes, she had definitely known what his answer would be.
“Sorry to tell you, but doing what’s right is more important to me than falling in line with the Clave. I’m sure you’re aware of that, even if our ideas of what’s morally right are not the same.”
“Yes, I am very aware that doing what you think is right is more important to you than ensuring the stability of our society,” Imogen agreed. She didn’t sound angry about it as she once would have—perhaps because she had him under her thumb now. Under control. In retrospect, this whole situation couldn’t have shaken out more in the Clave’s favor if they had orchestrated it themselves. “Fortunately, this time, you’re the only one who will suffer for it.”
“If you think the stability of our society isn’t already in jeopardy, then you aren’t paying attention,” Alec told her. “The Downworld won’t take much more Clave persecution. The only way to avoid additional conflict is to include them in our decision-making.”
“The way to avoid additional conflict is to eliminate the threat before it arises, as the angel made clear.” Imogen’s tone brooked no argument. “What’s up to you, now, is whether you will aid in that effort, or oppose it—and face your own downfall.”
“I’ll give up the magic, if that’s even possible,” Alec offered, even though everything in him screamed not to. The newfound magic felt right, it felt euphoric—but it would do him no good dead, and besides, Alec had more important concerns. “Hell, I’ll even apologize. But I won’t turn against Magnus, and I won’t endorse any message that states that Downworlders are inferior or worthy of persecution.”
“You’ll die on that hill, hm?” she sighed. “I can’t believe you’d throw your career away so easily…”
“I don’t throw it away easily,” Alec snapped. Any fear of what they would do to him was ceding to anger. He was so angry about their casual cruelty and their bigotry, their absolute refusal to change or to even see what was happening in front of their eyes. “There have been so many times during my tenure as Head of the New York Institute when I’ve wanted to tell you and the Clave to go fuck yourselves, but have held my tongue, since retaining the power to make things better was more important than that momentary satisfaction. But now you’ve given me no choice; you’re pushing me over a line I won’t cross.”
“Don’t kid yourself, Lightwood,” Imogen laughed. “I’ve heard ‘go fuck yourself’ come out of your mouth so many times—you just couch it in prettier words. I admire it, actually. You’d have done well in a higher-level position if your ideas weren’t so toxic. And if you didn’t have so many unsavory personal entanglements.”
Hearing about the career he could have had always hurt. Not that Alec would take back any of the choices that had gotten him here— well, he’d take back a lot of his prior choices, but not the ones that had led to him falling out of favor with the Clave. More often than not, the Clave’s favor wasn’t worth having in the first place. But it was still frustrating to think of the change he could be making, but wasn’t able to.
“What kind of leader would I be, anyway, if I threw everyone I care about under the bus to make my life easier?” he asked quietly.
“One who does what’s necessary,” said Imogen. “A good leader puts the common good over their personal relationships.”
“So, you’ll just be betraying Jace when it gets convenient, then?”
She flinched—subtly, but it was there. “I am already betraying Jace”—for the first time, Alec caught regret in her voice—“by considering deruning his parabatai.” Her expression shuttered and she turned for the door. “It’s as I said, Lightwood—our divine calling must come before all.”
“I’ll be sure to remind you of that when you’re on your deathbed and no one is there.” Alec could see Magnus wince in his head and, yeah, he had to admit to himself with a grimace that that was a low blow.
Imogen had paused in the doorway, back to him. “Was that a threat?”
“Just an observation.”
“I suppose we’ll see which of us is alone, at the end. Me, or you when the Council decides whether you should be deruned, or simply executed for displeasing the angel. I’ll take no pleasure in it, so you know. But needs must.”
She was about to leave, when Alec said, “Wait.”
The Inquisitor looked back at him. Alec looked at the stern, uncompromising woman before him and found himself wondering what she had been like when she was his age. Before she’d lost her son, had she been softer? Kinder? Had she always believed so fervently in Clave law, or had she merely clung to it as her sole bastion of reason, of meaning, after all the tragedy she’d suffered? She clearly had a soft spot for Jace, no matter that she was willing to betray him when push came to shove. Iron was not all that was in her.
He felt a sudden stab of regret for not considering it sooner, and wondered the last time someone had approached her with kindness, whether she deserved it or not.
He wasn’t in much of a position to act on it now, though. “I have a different offer.”
“I’m listening.”
“You can take it all out on me,” Alec said, already half-mourning his career, his current life. “Say whatever you want, make an example of me so everyone knows not to go against the angels. I’ll confess to whatever you accuse me of—if you stay focused on me. Clear Magnus of all charges and let him go.”
The Inquisitor considered him, and Alec wondered what she saw. A pathetic excuse for a Shadowhunter, throwing away his career for a warlock? Or someone whose backbone she could respect, even if she disagreed? He watched her deliberate, watched her judge him, watched her spine straighten in decision. He watched a tiny smile slip onto her lips, and wondered if they weren’t really so different as they assumed.
“I will consider that offer, Mr. Lightwood,” she said at last, and left the room.
~~
Alec didn’t sleep. He couldn’t. Not when Angel knew what horrible things were being decided just a dozen floors above his head. Not when Magnus was out there somewhere, persecuted. Alec had had no news of him—though when his source was the Clave, no news was good news. He comforted himself with that.
He wondered if he could have prevented all this. If he had just told Magnus not to mess around with the feathers from the start, could he have stopped this whole chain of events before it got started? Or if he could have refrained from pushing things, from testing the new runes and the wings, could have refrained from wanting them—maybe they would be safe now. Magnus would be safe.
Magnus would probably tell him that going over the past again and again was a fool’s errand. But Magnus was also a hypocrite, because Alec was sure he was doing the same thing.
He was deep in his thoughts over all of it—Magnus’s safety, the dark spiral he could see the Clave heading down, the angel’s fury—when a voice sounded outside the door of his cell.
“Alec. Hey.”
Alec looked up, wondering if he was hallucinating. Surely, there was nobody out in the hall.
The air past the door of his cell shimmered, and Lydia stepped out of her glamor, crouching down by the bars in the door. Alec sat up straighter. “Lydia. Oh my God.”
She looked pained and harried, hair escaping from her tight ponytail. “Alec. God, I’m so sorry. I don’t have a lot of time, I just came to tell you what’s going on.”
“What do you mean?” Alec shifted closer and leaned against the cell door so he could hear Lydia’s whisper. “What’s happening? How far has the news spread?”
Lydia’s expression was drawn. “The Council had an emergency session about the angel’s message. They were— God, it’s incredible how much power the angels’ words have. It’s— it’s not good, Alec.” Her lips pressed into a thin line. Nausea churned in Alec’s stomach. He could predict what she would say. “The conservative councilmembers took it as vindication of what they’ve been saying all along. All but the most progressive of the more liberal group wavered in their beliefs. I tried to remind them that all that the angel technically said—paraphrasing, of course, since I wasn’t there—was that no one should try to tamper with or reclaim this greater magic we apparently had, once upon a time, and that a Downworlder in particular shouldn’t mess with it. But, as I’m sure you can imagine, what everyone decided to hear was—”
“Don’t get entangled with Downworlders, don’t let Downworlders have equal footing, don’t let them into your lives. Yeah, I can picture it.”
“And so…” Lydia grimaced. “They’ve scrapped your bill, Alec, I’m sorry.”
Alec had expected that outcome, but it was still crushing to hear it. He had been working on that bill—which would enshrine full equal protections for Downworlders under Clave law—for so long, gaining mere inches of progress per month, but still progress. So many people were depending on it. Magnus was depending on it.
But, of course, any progress was blown apart as easily as smoke, where the Clave was concerned.
“They want to roll back our relations with the Downworld to how it was years ago. Nobody’s suggested anything crazy, yet, but there’s more of an opening for it, now.”
“What’s the response been? From the Institutes, the Downworld…?” Alec desperately hoped that his and Magnus’s messing around with his feathers wouldn’t lead to all-out war. It couldn’t possibly, could it?
“Technically the decision hasn’t been announced yet,” Lydia said, still hushed but with a fierce light in her eye, “but someone—not saying who—might have leaked it to certain friends across the Atlantic—and about three-quarters of the way through the meeting we got a fire message from the Downworld Cabinet in New York. Magnus leading.”
Something caught in Alec’s throat.
“No one knows where he is, by the way, don’t worry— and the message basically said, in slightly more polite words—” Lydia smiled as she quoted it. “If you’re going to be bigoted assholes at least own it instead of blaming some angels, go fuck yourselves.”
Alec choked on a wet laugh. “There’s a polite version of that?”
“Magnus managed it. And a moment after we got a fire message from the New York Institute that just said, ‘Seconded.’”
The lump caught in Alec’s throat grew, and he struggled to swallow. “They’re going to get themselves in trouble,” he said, tightly.
“I’m not sure sticking with what the Clave wants is worth staying out of trouble,” Lydia said. “Look, I’ll keep seeing what I can do upstairs, okay? Hang in there.” She went to pat his arm through the bars of the cell, before realizing it would likely trigger an alarm of some kind, and pulling her hand back. “I’ll see you later,” she promised instead.
“Thanks, Lydia.”
She started to stand, but Alec stopped her, urgency crowding him. “Wait—”
She froze, looking back at him.
Alec shifted uncomfortably, leaning against the wall. He wondered if saying what he was going to say would jinx things. “If things… really don’t work out in my favor with the Clave, can you— there’s a ring in the bottom righthand drawer of my desk at the Institute, can you make sure it gets to Magnus? Or, I mean— tell Iz, and she’ll find it.”
Lydia’s lips pressed tight. She tugged on the long end of her ponytail. They were so alike in some ways, with only those small tells to show they were truly upset. Especially in an unfriendly space. “Based on… conversations with New York that may or may not have occurred, I do believe Magnus intends to make you both fugitives of the law before letting something terrible happen. But, yes, I’ll get it to him, Alec. I promise.”
“Thank you.” Alec dropped his head into his hands. “I should have given it to him myself when I had the chance. Playing along with the Clave’s bullshit has never gotten me anywhere good.”
“You will.” Her smile was tight, but sympathetic. “He probably knew it was coming anyway, right?”
“He did, but that doesn’t replace actually asking.”
“You’ll still get to ask, Alec.”
Alec tugged at his hair. “I hope so.”
Lydia wavered, conflicted, but eventually stood again. “I should go before people get suspicious. I promise I’ll keep you updated as well as I can. Try to— try to keep your hopes up.”
Alec already knew how that attempt was likely to go.
When she was gone, he moved back to the corner of the cell, playing idly with the edge of one of his wings. He stared at the long feather between his fingers. Incredible, that such a small thing could send his whole world spinning out of control.
That was his life, apparently. Secrets upon secrets. Magnus’s secrets. His secrets. The Clave’s secrets. The angels’ secrets. A house of cards a hundred feet high. And it only took one card moved out of place for the whole thing to tumble.
He tipped his head back against the cell wall, and tried to rest.
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