#I.O.U.s
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UNPREPARED...
The tree’s somewhere in a box,
The train won’t run, it just flops…
Little else is squared,
He’s unprepared
Hasn’t even watched the Boston Pops!
–
For Christmas, I.O.U.s,
For gifts he’ll have to use…
No shopping for him,
Financially grim—
The offer he couldn’t refuse!
–
And after Christmas, what then,
A joy to his heart will come in….
But carefully
He’ll have to be
On his best…
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#after Christmas#anticipation#Caswell limerick poetry#Christmas#Christmas Day#Christmas trains#Christmas tree#financially grim#I.O.U.s#unprepared#with his wife
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Guess I never explained how the I.O.U.s work basically just find me once you know what you want and using a little magic and bending reality a bit whatever you want shall be yours. Though before you ask how you will find me you will know how or I will find you either way see you then - The Wanderer, Guardian of Omndell
Okay. See you soon, Wanderer.
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Oh shit! Happy birthday, Mels! Obviously I'm not exactly in a position to get you anything right now, but I owe you a present when I get home. Do something nice today!
-@ask-spider-man-61610
No prob, Specs! Guess we’ll have a birthday gift exchange to make out of these I.O.U.s for gifts.
And way ahead of you on the doing something nice bit— I’ve eaten, like, half a chocolate pound cake we got earlier, and it was very nice.
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@ofhope sent: Her footsteps thud heavily along iron flooring, fingers pulling open the door without the courtesy of a knock -- had there been a padlock present, she would have wormed her way around it. While her vision flickered, her programmed intel told her of one thing; this place could afford her fixings, or held the potential for a repair. As she made her way through, Aigis paused just feet before the shop's owner, unblinking.
"I believe you are mandated to fix machines," she said. "I do not have means of physical currency. Nor are my mechanics capable of performing intensive labor in my current condition."
She spoke matter of factly. Were she to be declined, she would simply relocate.
"However, I can provide such coinage... after a superficial repair has been made. Oh."
Manners.
"Is your business... open?"
Customers came and went all the time. It was just how running a shop worked, after all. Though he would still find a few customers he ran across interesting in one way or another, such as the woman that came into his shop, blinking in surprise at how blunt this woman was. It was refreshing, in all honesty...not to have any small talk nor try to sweet talk him. Just straight to the point. Though some minor irritation did form when she stated he was required to fix machines. He wasn’t required to do anything. He did what he wanted when he wanted in his business. Though before she could continue, she seemed to have caught herself.
A moment of awkwardness, it seemed. Something...he familiarized himself with due to his own lack of social skills from time to time. It was hard to turn her away after she had attempted to correct herself.
Damn him being soft at times...
“...I’ll admit, yer th’ first android I’ve...ever seen come inta my shop on their own,” he stated idly, chewing on one of his lower lip rings in thought. “Most a th’ time, they’re brought ta me in...well, shit condition.”
No payment on her? Hrm...he wasn’t exactly fond of I.O.U.s, truth be told unless there was some sort of leverage he could have: a guarantee that she would come back and not try to run off.
“...Yer lucky I haven’t decided ta close,” West finally stated after a minute, sighing as leaned forward from his desk, hands clasped together loosely.
“...Tell ya wha’: if’n ya leave somethin’ of importance with me as insurance that you’ll come back ta pay, then I’ll fix ya up best I can, Ma’am. Sound fair?”
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"You're the doctor they say plays rough." Bathed in darkness, just slivers of a man's face and fists are visible. Bent into the shadows of the hallway.
A fissure of split flesh lifts into the light. A red stream flows from the laceration, pooling in the creases of his battered and curled knuckles. The dreaded voice lacks symptoms of pain. "You take I.O.U.s?" (Riddick seeks out Bertha post DBD trial?)
Plays rough. That's certainly one way to put it; an accurate description since before the Entity took her. Bertha smiles behind her mask at the voice in the dark. Her mask offers some bit of night vision, but it is limited. She doesn't feel her skin crawl the way she always does when killers are around. She doesn't recognize this man as a survivor- this must be a new one.
The split flesh, the blood; the sight he offers her brings a low, pleased sound from the medic. She doesn't bother trying to coax him closer. She strides up to him with her med kit and sets to work, looking the injury over before dropping to her knees, setting the kit down, and opening it to retrieve what she'll need. Antiseptic wipes, a paste she's made from green herbs, and wrappings are taken out and slipped into a pouch of her apron for easier access before she stands again.
"You are a survivor, yes?" She does not bother trying to be gentle. She never does. The wound is cleaned as thoroughly as possible before the paste is generously slathered on. "That makes your health my duty- so long as you do not betray me next trial we have together consider us even."
The wrapping is applied tightly; she has to spread his fingers to get it on just right. Her movements are quick and fluid- this is far from the first time she's treated this particular problem. It reminds her of her time before the fog which makes her smile behind her mask. "Especially if you sustain these wounds from attacking killers. I prioritize brave teammates over the usual cowards we end up stuck with. Just do not expect pain killers."
#primitiveside#yeeeeeeees#verse: dead by daylight#i need to remember to actually tag verses i always forget that
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April Update, Part 1
A large part of what I’ve been working on for the past few months is working on the Verse’s catalog of aspects. For years we’ve had open gaps in the roster - there’s 52 of them and it hasn’t been an easy job finding ways to give each of them their own distinct identity. That’s why I’m happy to announce that, as of a few weeks ago, all 52 aspects have been placed, named, and conceptualized.
At our last update, there were only two I.O.U.s left in the system, a pair of free aspects. Those two are:
Craft, a visually mechanical aspect with influence over combinations and cooperation. It’s an aspect about multiple parts coming together to form a more powerful whole; the power of the collective as opposed to the individual. Within the world of TickTockStuck itself, it’s a key magical force behind the kind of alchemization you’re familiar with from canon.
One, an aspect that I’m still ironing out in terms of theme, but whose influence concerns isolation and loneliness. It’s an aspect about finding solace by oneself and creating strength through distance; the power of the individual as opposed to the collective. It might sound like a dreary one on the surface, but you’d be surprised what a little introversion can accomplish.
This is a big achievement for this project, but there’s a lot more left to do now that all 52 aspects have been set in place.
Chief among those is our aspect page, which right now mostly covers the canon aspects. I’m already in the process of updating the entire page with the full roster of aspects. The new page will be split up by aspect category (prime, virtue, vice, free, macro), but since getting every single aspect in there is going to be a long work in progress updating the text is going to be a gradual work in progress. The text that’s already there will be mostly preserved, just with adjustments after some review and proofreading.
In the short term: I don’t have fully realized symbols for all of the aspects yet, but I have figured out color palettes for all 52. I’ll be putting up a post with the hexcodes for all of them within the next week or two, similar to what I’ve got up for the Verse’s hemospectrum.
In the medium-length term: The new aspect page will be going up shortly after I’ve done that proofreading on the canon aspect, so expect it late April or early May.
In the long term: There’s more updates after that related to the aspects, but I’ll save details on those for once we get there. I’ll say right now that those updates include (but are not limited to): the planets of the Verse, the Denizens, and the Verse’s magic systems.
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Here's how fairies make I.O.U.s go up in smoke. From Punch, 1922.
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GOVERNMENT "I.O.U.S"?
Have you seen the news,
We’ll get I.O.U.s…
instead of our checks
While Congress
Still enjoys a summer cruise-?
–
Jonathan Caswell
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A small package arrives at Wolf's doorstep. Within it is another box covered in colorful wrapping paper. Within it along with some confetti is a flask of bourbon, a cupcake, and a birthday card. It reads: "Happy Birthday, Wolf. Don't say we forgot about you. On behalf of Team Starfox, --PH." ((peppy-pilot, AYOOOOO))
The lupine, in preparation to meet his guests down in Sargasso's basement, slips out of his office; the room decorated with stacks of paperwork: Wolfen registrations, contracts, and I.O.U.s among several other pressing matters that attack the back of his mind as he exits, reminding him, once again, to finally organize his mess and deal with the more pressing issues. But later, he tells himself, though he purposefully doesn't operate by Corneria's time standards Wolf still tells himself he'll get to it on Monday! With the weekend and means to celebrate, he couldn't possibly keep himself cooped up in his paper prison!
Stepping out of his office doesn't get him far, instead, he stumbles upon a package with his name printed upon it. Paranoia begins bubbling, as it usually does when a package randomly finds itself at his feet. It could be a bomb; perhaps the contents are laced with some kind of poison. O'Donnell was a particularly notorious individual after all, infamous for his actious against his home planet of Corneria and the large bounty on his head. How funny would it be for the man to die on his birthday?
Single eye remains on the box for more than a few moments. Tail hugging his left leg, Wolf contemplates the scenario over and over again in his mind -- he had a fairly decent security team, right? Would they be stupid enough to allow something so dangerous to reach the Lord of Sargasso?
Probably. Absolutely.
Would he be stupid enough to dare open the thing anyways?
Hell yes.
Clawed hands tear into the package's seal, ripping into its protective shipping paper and tape as quickly as he can. Unkept nails piercing the flimsy material with ease, it doesn't take O'Donnell long to discover that his anxieties had been for nothing. A decorated gift, a sea of confetti, and a birthday card had been the only threat the lupine would hopefully face tonight.
Smile cocking on the side of his snout, he chooses to read the card first. Partially to see who sent the gift, and partially to gauge whether or not it would be safe to open. Surprise is what could be described as his expression, brows shooting high up on his forehead, forehead wrinkles crinkling thus causing his eyepatch to travel. Taking a moment to adjust the strap, he reads those initials over and over again.
P.H. Peppy Hare. Star Fox.
One of his childhood heroes.
A childish sense of glee bubbles up inside of the birthday boy. Once again utilizing those claws to tear into the wrapping paper of his gift, some of the confetti spilling into a puddle at his feet. Wolf doesn't catch the sensation of his tail wagging as he unravels the final layer of paper that covers up his gift and when he finally lays eye upon the bottle of bourbon, O'Donnell can't help the warm laugh that escapes him.
"Good guess, old man." Is mumbled to himself as he admires the bottle's label, birthday card stacked behind the bourbon in his grip.
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"You sure?" Despite his verbal reluctance, Dennis is already moving to tuck away his wallet and yanks another fry, taking a parmesan one like Judas has because it looks good. "I got enough in my allowance, I don't mind."
"Nah, it's all good. Besides," he grins with his mouth half-full, "I've left enough I.O.U.s to cover it I think."
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Listen, everything on the Dream Smp could be more chaotic if they had I.O.U.s like hermits
Oh I killed your pet? Here is an I.O.U. in my name! How will it be used for in the upcoming plot? Who knows:)
#ranboo would have#so much#ngl#it would be sophisticated chaos#i want to see it#ranboo#dream smp#hermitcraft#mcyt
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Tangled lyrics starters: Nothing Left to Lose
“You’re angry, I get it! Believe me, I know what it’s like, but you are making a mistake.”
“The path of hate is a dangerous track; you take one step & it’s hard to turn back.”
"Don’t you see this path you’re on leaves a permanent mark?”
It feels good at first, then it slowly turns dark.”
“With each passing day, you’re further astray from the light.”
“Suddenly, you lose your cool & lose the thread.”
“Lose your cool & lose your head.”
“Every loss is harder to excuse.”
“You’ll lose your faith & lose your soul till you lose complete control.”
“There’s nothing left to lose.”
“Trust me, becoming the villain isn’t the answer!”
“The path I’m on is a path paved in black; I’m taking that road & I’m not looking back.”
“Each twist & each turn leads straight where I’m yearning to go.”
“Yes, it’s true, my path is dark, but I see where it ends.”
“My rivals will fall as my power ascends.”
“Despise me, that’s fine; I’m taking what’s mine even so.”
“You lost your nerve -- you lost the game.”
“But you & I, we’re not the same.”
“I’m not lost; this fate was mine to choose.”
“So I chose to lose my doubts & lose my chains.”
“Lose each weakness that remains.”
“Now that I have nothing left to lose--!”
“You have so much to hold on to!”
“I only want my rightful dues!”
“Listen, please! You’ve lost your grip & lost your mind!”
“All’s not lost; don’t be so blind!”
“Cut your losses, drop the I.O.U.S!”
“I lose no tears & lose no sleep; what I want, I’ll take & keep!”
“You can’t stop the turning of the screws.”
“Now I have nothing left to lose...”
#tangled starters#disney starters#rp prompts#rp starters#tangled lyrics starters#disney lyrics starters
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The Birthday Thing
READ PART ONE HERE
READ PART TWO HERE
READ PART THREE HERE
PART FOUR: EPILOGUE.
“I am SO moving in.” Bossuet declared.
Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta had commandeered the sofa. It was the perfect size for the three of them. They looked beautiful and happy in the sunlight pouring through Grantaire’s large windows. He almost wanted to let them take the couch home with them. Maybe he’d just trap them all in his apartment instead and never let them leave, so they’d always be there in a tangled tableaux to cheer him up.
“Rent’s due first Friday of the month.” Grantaire said.
“Do you accept I.O.U.s?”
As they laughed, Grantaire felt a buzz in his back pocket. A text from Combeferre:
we’re here! buzz us up
In no time at all, there was a light knock at Grantaire’s front door. “I’ll get it!” Jehan offered from the little kitchenette chair. He ran over to the door in his sock feet, leaping over the ever-growing pile of shoes in the entryway. He opened the door with a flourish. Grantaire smiled.
“Well, if it isn’t the triumvirate.”
“Triumvirate?” Enjolras echoed in disdain. “Like the triumvirate-triumvirate? Like the Romans? We are not the triumvirate. Do you guys call us the triumvirate?”
“No, but we’ll start if it gets you in a tizzy.” Joly giggled.
Combeferre greeted Grantaire with a hug. “Thanks for having us, man.”
“The pleasure’s all mine.” Grantaire replied. “You can throw your coats and stuff on my bed, that’s what everyone else did. Lovely hat, Enjolras.”
Enjolras snatched the hat off of his head and shoved it into his coat pocket. “It doesn’t even make sense. Who would be the Caesar?” he thought aloud.
“You would.” half of the room said in unison.
“I call Crassus.” Courfeyrac said, presenting a bottle of champagne to a delighted Grantaire. “And this I bequeath to our host.”
“Ooh, and the expensive stuff too. ‘Richest man in Rome’ indeed.” Grantaire remarked. That was two of the new arrivals greeted, and now only one was left.
“Hi. I’m not the Caesar.” Enjolras said.
“Of course you’re not. Who would suggest such a thing?”
Enjolras smiled and it was like something in Grantaire’s chest died but also a little like something came to life. A Lazarus heart, he thought. “Thank you for having us. You have a very nice apartment.”
“Thanks. Can I, uh, get you something to drink? Water? Coffee?”
“Coffee would be wonderful.”
“Just a heads up,” Grantaire warned, “I only have a Keurig, no french press or whatever it is the young people are using these days. I don’t know if you’re a coffee snob or whatever.”
“Will it have caffeine in it?” Enjolras asked.
“Uh, yeah.”
“Then it works for me.”
Combeferre watched Enjolras watch Grantaire make him a cup of coffee. He couldn’t hear what they were saying from the other side of the room (which likely had less to do with the distance and more to do with the very spirited story Bahorel had just begun to tell), but Enjolras looked happy. Actually, now that he was looking at him, Enjolras looked different than he usually did. The glow of romance, perhaps? Combeferre didn’t want to speculate, that wasn’t nice. Maybe it was just the great lighting that was making him sparkle. Like, literally sparkle. And that’s when it hit him.
Enjolras was wearing earrings.
#the end#my fic#ok uh#grantaire#combeferre#enjolras#e/r#there’s a little peripheral#j/b/m#also others but i’m not tagging everyone#les miserables fanfiction#les mis#les amis#ok#bye#oh wait#cw alcohol mention
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Hide the High Heart
(cw: violence, abuse, trauma. sexual assault is alluded to, but not directly depicted.)
To her surprise, Linawren realized that she quite likes the Beehive.
She’s not insensible to the charms of the performers themselves, of course. Bonded citizens like her are hardly their intended audience, of course-- everything that happens in the Beehive (much like everything that happens in Eulmore in general) is for the benefit of well-heeled free citizens. But gourmet cooking is more filling than meol whether or not it’s leftovers from some decadent feast for ladies and gentlemen of quality. So when Shai-Hann comes into the Beehive with Linawren on his arm-- to enjoy refined conversation, show her off to his friends, to be seen in public with a beautiful woman ornamenting his table-- Linawren is still going to take the opportunity to listen to the music, enjoy an atmosphere carefully cultivated to feel a thousand malms away from all the world’s horrors, and admire the dancers.
Especially to admire the dancers, if she’s being honest with herself.
But she also just appreciates the sort of fellowship that seemed to exist between the Honeybees. She wasn’t a Honeybee herself, obviously, but she was in more or less the same line of work, and couldn’t help but envy the sort of solidarity they enjoyed, and the way that gave them just a little bit of control over their own destinies, made them a little less at the mercy of a single patron’s whims (only a little less, granted; this was still Eulmore, after all). They looked out for one another-- and Linawren fancied that they looked after her, too, whenever she happened to be around. She spent less time worrying about Shai-Hann or one of his shitty friends taking liberties with her. She could feel confident she wouldn’t be given the truly demeaning things that might be asked of her at more private engagements.
Tonight, the Beehive is quiet. It’s late enough that most of the guests have already filtered out. Someone is lazily playing a piano, more just to set a certain tone than perform a recognizable piece of music. Linawren’s reciting a poem for Shai-Hann and a couple of his friends-- Harald, a hume, a childhood friend of Hann’s who’s grown up to be every bit as coldhearted and spoiled as Hann himself and a lanky elf she didn’t recognize but whose name, apparently, was Godwyn. All three men are watching her intently, rapt with attention.
The poem in question-- Ode to the Night Sky-- is supposedly a relic of whatever far-flung land-- long since devoured by the Light-- Linawren’s distant ancestors came from before they arrived in Voeburt. Actually, though, it’s her own composition. Free citizens like feeling that they’re in on a secret, though, so Linawren puts as much effort into the tales of where her tales come from as she does into the tales themselves. All she really knows about her supposed homeland comes from her own fading memories of her mother and father, and all they had to work with was second-hand accounts of their grandparents’ childhood memories: A song or two. A few basic dance-steps. A scattering of contextless words of a language irretrievably lost. But when Hann became her patron, he was under the impression that he now possessed the world’s sole practitioner of an exotic cultural tradition scoured from the world by the Flood of Light. Linawren wasn’t about to disabuse him of this notion-- selling him that fantasy was part of what kept her from being sent back into a shack in Gatetown with nothing to look forward to but just enough meol to starve more slowly.
Anyway, she likes writing. She was particularly proud of Ode to the Night Sky-- trying to vividly evoke a world she’d never seen for herself was a fascinating challenge. When she closed her eyes, though, she could practically see it-- a wide and wild void, openness itself, decorated with a thousand thousand pinpricks of light, cradling the pale circle of the moon. Writing was transportive-- a chance to project herself into a time or a place better than the one she lived in, even if in the end she had to attribute her work to some long-dead and mostly fictitious ancestor.
When she finally finishes, the whole table fell silent for a few moments. Godwyn is moved to tears-- Linawren isn’t sure if he was actually that affected by her words, or if he just sees some advantage in appearing to be of sufficiently sensitive temperament to be so moved by poetry, but she doesn’t particularly care-- either possibility meant she’s earning her keep. Harald, as usual, is just trying to look down her top, but at least he’s not actually talking to her. Hann affects cool nonchalance, as if to say this is the sort of artistry I take for granted, but he has enough of an air of smugness for Linawren to know he was pleased.
Hann breaks the silence. “Beautiful as always, my treasure.”
She takes a bow, pointedly ignoring how carefully Harald’s eyes track her movement. She smiles warmly at the men. Learning how to smile the right way is a skill every bit as important to Linawren as singing, dancing, or writing. Free citizens can spot a fake smile that doesn’t reach one’s eyes from malms away, and they feel insulted by it-- they want you to be genuinely grateful to be in their presence. So she smiles-- encouragingly to Godwyn, coquettishly to Harald, knowingly to Hann.
“So!” Godwyn says, “Shall we call it a night, gentlemen?”
Harald groans. “Do we have to? Waiting for your eyes to adjust once you go out into the light after spending so long in here is quite disagreeable, and frankly I’d rather put it off as long as possible.”
“Not like we’ve got anywhere to be,” Hann says, laughing, “Why don’t we prolong the night’s festivities with a bit of friendly wagering, eh? Hide the High Heart, maybe?”
Linawren doesn’t actually look longingly at the bar-- her smile never falters-- but she does so in spirit. She’s going to be stuck here for hours, probably. Whenever Hann gambles, he expects Linawren to perform-- to distract his opponents enough to keep them off-balance enough for Hann to get the upper hand, but not so much they realize that’s what she’s doing.
So while Hann pulls out a deck of cards and shuffles it, Linawren does a few stretches. When he deals the first hand, she begins to dance, an enticing twirl of flowing silks and lean muscles.
***
It is hours later-- if the sun could still be discerned through the thick soup of light blotting out the sky, Linawren supposes it would have long since risen.
It has been a disastrous night for Shai-Hann. Maybe it’s because Godwyn is an unfamiliar opponent-- Hann hadn’t taken his measure yet, hadn’t learned his tells. Maybe it’s because Harald is sick of being cleaned out every time the cards come out. Or maybe it was just plain bad luck. Whatever the reason, though, the mystel gentlemen has been hemorrhaging money in hand after hand. He quickly burns through the sack of gil he’d set aside for gambling, followed by the rest of the gil he’d brought along, and then anything else of value he had on his person— his lucky Voeburtite goldpiece. An electrum pocket-watch. The elven rapier he always wore at his hip.
Godwyn keeps his head above water and calls it quits after he’d turned a tidy profit-- he didn’t want to stay this late anyway, so he had no reason not to just take his windfall of gil and go. Harald, though, smells blood. He’s amassed a veritable treasury of Hann’s possessions on his table, coins and jewelry and golden bric-a-brac glittering in the lamplight. The two gamblers are locked in a death struggle-- the more Hann loses, the more urgently he tries to win it all back, the more recklessly he bets. Harald extracts the deed to Hann’s private airship berth, then the airship itself, then a series of promissory notes for increasingly astronomical sums.
“You should probably just cut your losses at this point, Hann,” Harald says, watching intently as Hann signs yet another check and slides it across the card table.
“One more hand,” Hann says, insistent.
“What, so you can write me some more bloody I.O.U.s?” Harald scoffs, “Past a certain point, gil’s just a number in a ledger somewhere. I don’t really feel the need to stake any of this on the possibility of that number getting a bit higher. At this point, I feel like some sort of… mercy rule, or what have you, ought to be invoked. To save you from yourself.”
Linawren is still performing half-heartedly, but she can tell neither man is paying much attention to her at this point. She gives her patron an appraising look; she can practically see the gears turning in his head as he works out what he could still bet that a.) wouldn’t run the risk of actually putting a dent in his obscene wealth compared with the vast majority of people in Norvrandt, but more importantly, b.) actually entice Harald into playing another hand.
To Linawren’s surprise, Hann meets her gaze. The look in his eyes is cold and calculating, even by Shai-Hann standards. He then directs that baleful gaze towards Harald, but Harald barely seems to notice-- his own attention seems to be fixed firmly on Linawren’s ass.
“I’ll bet Linawren,” Hann says, finally.
Linawren stops dancing mid-step. Through a superhuman effort, she manages to keep her face arranged into a pleasant expression-- she’s a professional, after all-- but she’s still visibly stunned.
“What?” Harald says, laughing.
“I know you’ve taken a liking to her ever since I took her on,” Hann says, “So if you stake the pot, I’ll stake her. I win, I get my things back. You win, I sign over the papers and she’s your bonded citizen.”
“Deal!” Harald says brightly, not hesitating a bit.
“Are… are you sure about this, Hann?” Linawren murmurs into Hann’s ear.
“Shut up,” he hisses, sweat beading on his forehead, “You’re distracting me.”
Harald winks at her.
As Hann deals the cards, Linawren can feel a cold, dead weight settling in the pit of her stomach. By the time Hann and Harald are ready to flip their last card, she’s standing stock-still, her heart is pounding. She felt as if all her scales were about to just vibrate off her body.
Hann flips first. It’s the ten of hearts-- a fairly respectable draw, all-in-all. Hearts trump the other suits in Hide the High Heart, so unless Harald has a hearts face card, the hand goes to Hann.
So of course Harald flips over the Lord of Hearts.
Like most decks of cards designed and printed in Eulmore, the Lord of Hearts is rendered in the image of the city’s honored leader, patron of patrons, Vauthry. Whatever bonded illustrator drew this tried so hard to flatter Vauthry with their likeness that it barely resembled the man himself-- he was an avenging angel with flowing golden locks, flanked by docile sin eaters in the form of semi-nude women with alabaster skin and golden blindfolds. With one hand, he’s dispensing a cornucopia of meol to the huddled masses of Kholusia. In the other, he’s plunging a spear of pure light into an allegorical figure representing the forces of darkness who would destroy the concord between man and sin eater which made all of Eulmore’s wonders possible. But the angel was still recognizable as Vauthry because it had the same insufferably smug air about him.
Linawren stares at the table. Vauthry’s awful smug fucking face stares back at her.
“Well,” Harald says, leaning back in his chair, “Suppose that’s that, then.”
Hann sulkily begins to gather up the scattered cards. “That’s that,” he says.
Linawren takes a stumbling step backwards, eyes casting about the Beehive, looking for-- help? Sympathy? Anything, really. But no one present-- not even the Honeybees-- deigns to even meet her eye.
“I’ll need to dig out her papers to make it official,” Hann says, “The Bureau of Registration will pitch a fit otherwise.”
“Fair,” says Harald, magnanimous in victory, “Remember that time I forgot to let them know I’d turfed out-- what’s his name, that fellow who did those little engravings of seascapes-- and within a day half the guard was out looking for him in case he was lurking in the bowels of the Understory, a rebel or an assassin or whatever. I can pick her up tomorrow morning, if you’d like?”
“All right,” Hann mumbles.
“One last night with her, eh?” Harald says, “Since you’ve been such a good sport about this.”
“Wow,” says Hann, unimpressed, “Thanks.”
***
Shai-Hann’s suite, perched atop the loftiest heights the Canopy has to offer, was decorated with the same gaudy abandon everything else in Eulmore was. Every table, every chair, every embroidered cushion and silk bedsheet, every porcelain plate and silver fork was a concrete manifestation of the blood, sweat, and tears of the bonded citizens upon whose backs Eulmore was built.
Hann was sitting at his desk (built by a bonded carpenter), dipping an ornate fountain pen (forged by a bonded silversmith) into a dainty-looking bottle of ink (made by a bonded glassblower) as he looked over the pile of forms and papers (filled out by a squadron of bonded clerks) which constituted the legal existence of Linawren, dancer, singer, and poet, bonded citizen of Eulmore.
He notices that Linawren is standing behind him, fidgeting apprehensively. He rises from his seat, turning to face her. The dazzling light pouring in from the window behind him throws his features into sharp relief-- the tufts of hair on his ears, his bright silver eyes, his classically handsome face. His tail swished this way and that in agitation.
“You know I wish I didn’t have to do this, my treasure,” he says, sadly.
“You don’t, though--” Linawren says. She hates how much she sounds as if she’s pleading, but she hates the idea of being sent into Harald’s household more. “Can’t you just-- you know-- call off the bet? I don’t think bets made at the Beehive at four in the morning whilst extraordinarily inebriated are legally enforceable--”
“If word gets around I don’t pay my debts, no gambling table this side of the Sea of Light’ll have me. So, as much as I really do value your company, as much as I’ve genuinely treasured our time together, I can’t back out of a bet just because I really want to.”
“If you value me so much,” Linawren says, trying her hardest to keep any anger from seeping into her voice, “why did you bet me in a hand of Hide the High Heart?”
Hann shrugs. “Ah, my treasure… you can’t gamble without gambling,” he says, as if this explains everything.
“Harald is clearly a boor,” Linawren says, changing tack, “Do you really think he’d appreciate me like you do? You’re a man of culture, of refinement, an appreciator of literature and the arts. His interests are considerably more… base. I--”
Hann stiffens. “Watch your tone. Whatever my opinion of the man, he’s a gentleman of quality and a free citizen of good standing. Someone like you has no right to refer to him like that.”
Linawren takes a step towards her patron, hands balled into fists so tightly that the fingernails digging into her palms draw blood.
“Remember that your presence in this city is a privilege which has been graciously extended to you by the free citizenry,” says Hann, fangs bared, his tone venomous. Behind him, the pitiless sky continued to blaze with light. “In return, your responsibility is to do whatever is required of you without question. Or would you like to go back to Gatetown?”
Linawren freezes in place. She feels her immediate surroundings slough away; Hann’s voice is nothing but a murmur of white noise. She’s somewhere else entirely. She feels the sharp terror of eaters swooping down from the sky, the grinding pain of constant hunger no meager ration of meol could banish. She sees her mother, hears her last words as she pressed a dagger into her daughter’s trembling hands. She feels the weight of decades with nothing to hope for but this bearing down on her. She--
The world snaps back into focus-- an opulent study, a bay window with a splendid prospect of Kholusia’s white cliffs, a stack of papers authorizing a man to trade her away like a bird in a gilded cage, and the man about to do it. “If Harald wants you to lick his boots, you should do it and feel grateful for the opportunity to earn your keep. If he asks you to lick something else, you—”
Linawren shoulder-checks him into the window. She’s stronger than she looks, with a dancer’s speed and a dancer’s grace.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he says, flailing as Linawren presses him against the glass, “Let go of me, you crazy bitch—”
The window shatters. Its fine glass and slim panes were built to look pretty, not stand up to sustained force; it had been a century since a storm last marred Kholusia’s brilliant sky.
Hann, desperate now, grabs hold of Linawren. He kicks and screams. He sinks his teeth into Linawren’s bared shoulder. She knees him in the groin and suddenly his hands have nowhere to gain purchase but empty air.
The highest levels of the Canopy to the choppy seas below is a long, long way to fall; a sharp cry fades into silence, punctuated by a quiet splash.
Linawren stares out the broken window, aghast. Her eyes are wide and she’s shaking like a leaf. The pale blue speck that used to be Shai-Hann, free citizen of Eulmore is caught in the riptide and swept out to sea.
Linawren exhales sharply. She sinks onto the ground; she realizes too late that she’s kneeling in the broken glass littering the parquet floor, but by this point the pain barely registers.
I just killed someone, she thinks.
I just killed my patron, she thinks.
She scrambles towards the window on all fours, leans over the edge, and throws up.
***
Darkness.
A dark room-- impossibly dark-- lit only by a paper lantern. A drahn woman sits-- no, kneels-- at a low desk. She’s writing something with a brush in an elegant, vertical script Linawren can’t read. The woman turns towards the lamp and her features are illuminated by a soft, warm light. She has Linawren’s face.
Brightness-- not the choking light of the skies Linawren knows, but a wide blue expanse punctuated by fluffy white clouds. The landscape below is endless rolling green steppes, continuing as far as the eye can see. Endless-- receding into the horizon, with no great wall of Nothing constricting it. She sees the drahn woman again, her red silk robe billowing in the wind, wielding a thin, curved blade. The expression on her face is impossibly confident. Across from her stands another drahn. She has dark skin, close-cropped white hair, black scales and horns, an improbably large greatsword in her hands.The women move towards one another, swords flashing in the sunlight. They look to be fighting a duel, but both thoroughly enjoying themselves. Eventually, the other woman knocks Linawren’s twin to the ground, and gently-- tenderly, almost-- places her boot on her face. They both burst out laughing.
A steel cell in a steel fortress. The woman who looks like Linawren is sitting cross-legged in one corner. Her expression is blank, but her eyes defiant. The door flies open. The corpse of a soldier in black armor clatters onto the metal floor. The woman with the pale hair strides into the corridor, her sword slick with blood. The woman in the cell grins ear to ear.
An impossibly huge city. The stars above echoed by a constellation of lights below. Linawren-- or whoever she is-- is standing on a high, arched bridge in a garden. The duel’s victor approaches, a swaddled infant in her arms. They both look a little older, now.
They’re standing on the deck of a ship. Linawren’s holding the child, this time. She now has a long, thin scar cutting through the scales on the side of her face and neck. Her companion is next to her, a hand on Linawren’s shoulder. The familiar silhouette of the spires of Eulmore looms over the horizon, but they’re somehow more austere-looking, more severe. The decks on the lower levels are bustling-- even from this distance, dozens of ships seem to be coming and going. Soldiers in red uniforms are crowding around the side of the ship, excited for their first glimpse of home in months--
The color red. The color blue. The color black. The color gold.
***
Linawren opens her eyes, groggy and disoriented. She looks up at Shai-Hann’s antique clock-- she’s lost an hour or so, somehow. The shining sky framed by broken panes and shattered glass betrays no sign of time passing.
For the first time since she was ushered out of Gatetown and into Eulmore, she doesn’t know what her life will look like a month from now.
Or a week from now.
A day, an hour.
But what she does know is that if she sticks around here, the question of what happens in the rest of her life will be moot.
Unsteadily, she gets to her feet and slips out the door.
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Kiss Prompt #33 Any pairing of your choice!
Hello,
So many pairs, this was a hard choice! But I do hope you enjoy! =)
Devilish I.O.U.s...
Constantine felt that the universe hated him. He had to think that because that was the only fucking explanation for this bloody situation!
He just wanted out of this damn room, he had already carved his fuck off runes, and hieroglyphs, he had already written out his exact thoughts to this damn situation, and he had started in on the summoning.
Leave it to fucking Queen to get in a mess with a Prince of Hell, and not just any fucking Prince either. The Prince of Hell, Dalkriig-Hath wanted Artemis of Bana-Mighdall, and the last person to encounter her was Roy fucking Harper who was residing with the Queens right now as Jason was godknew where with some chick who showed up out of the blue. Constantine was both thankful and miffed about that news, but if Jason wasn’t about then he couldn’t lie to the lad about her. The lass was a troublesome lass, and her memories were coming on their own, the only way it would be resolved though was if she found Jason on her own and no one took her to him.
Rachel was currently on her own case with one of the Winchester brothers, Thank God for that. Though she had given God a piece of her mind; it was funny watching the all powerful presence getting an ass kicking from his extremely pissed off, amnesic great-granddaughter.
Back to the point at hand, he had cast his protection seals, and was now working on the summoning.
“What the fuck!” Roy gasped holding Lian tighter and closer to him.
“We’re all going to be okay,” Oliver promised.
“We better be, or I’m going to be really mad at you buddy, and Roy what do you know about this Dalk dickhead!? I mean really, who names themselves that!? I should probably not insult his name, but still!” Felicity babbled. The house shook and he put the final touches on the summoning spell. There was a blast of light and bemused, Lucifer stood there.
“You rang?” Lucifer purred.
“You bloody wanker, took you long enough, fix your fucking mess!” Constantine shouted as the house was hit harder and a deafening roar pierced the chaotic air.
“Oh… and what do I get in return?” Lucifer purred.
“Whatever the fuck you want! You want the rest of me damned soul have it!” Constantine shouted over the ruckus.
“I’ll take an IOU for now,” Lucifer decided.
“Whatever you want!” Constantine promised.
“Very well, stand back!” Lucifer ordered as he walked between the horde of Queens here, Oliver grabbed Felicity, as Artemis trembled and the lads hugged each other. The ceiling was cracking. Lucifer unfurled his wings as a massive midnight black blade. There was a flash of light another roar and Lucifer reappeared by his side.
“All done,” Lucifer purred.
“What the fuck was that thing!?”
“That was Trigon’s younger brother, and I’ll see you later. Maze asks you wear the tie only,” Lucifer purred before there was a hard kiss on his lips and the Fallen Archangel was gone.
“Fuck!” Constantine gasped.
#bluboothalassophile#fanfic#hopes for a bastard universe#hopes for a bastard#john constantine#lucifer morningstar#lucifer x constantine#lucifer/constantine#constantine/lucifer#constantine x lucifer
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