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Summary: Zaun is free—and must grow into its unfamiliar new dimensions. So must Silco and Jinx. A what-if that diverges midway through the events of episode 8. Found family and fluff, politics and power, smut and slice-of-life, villainy and vengeance.

AO3 - Forward, But Never Forget/XOXO

FFnet - Forward, But Never Forget (XOXO)

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Chapters: 1| 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 |8 | 9 | 10 |11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54

CH 13: Silco and Mel Medarda renegotiate the Peace Treaty. A blood bargain is struck.

Mirror, mirror you're so vain Would you sell yourself for fame? Are you the vulture or are you the dove?

~ "Dirty Pretty" – In This Moment

The night drains from the edges of a paling sky.

Piltover's yacht is anchored at the edge of the riverside shipping district. Against the surreal landscape of pipes and twirling smoke, it gleams with the shellacking of cold currency. Massive intramodal cranes bisect the skyline. They haul cargo from a docked procession of vessels. The river stretches out in cascading shades of pure cobalt enveloped by putrid browns.

The demarcations where Piltover ends and Zaun begins.

The shipping district is the oldest part of the Undercity. Known formally as the Ironworks—and more slangily as the Black Minge—it is a gigantic orifice hidden beneath veils of smoke. Its womb is Factorywood, ensconced deep in the fundament of the Fissures.

From its fount issue marvels of manufacture: textiles, brassworks, crockery, canned goods. They are hauled, day and night, by freight vehicles: steampunk behemoths adorned with spiked hubcaps and canted headlights. They trundle along rough tracks laid out like railway lines across the steep ravines. At this hour, five thousand logs of Ionian teak from the Ironworks are being hauled belowground to be cut into furniture at Factorywood. In exchange, a yearly export supply of thousands of metric tons of Zaunite steel is being carted from the bowels of the chem-seams to fill the cargo hulls of Ionian tanker ships.

A constant flow of trade keeps the wheels of business turning, and legions of Zaunites gainfully employed. In turn, their social shadows in the criminal underbelly—fences, procurers, forgers, smugglers—keep the channels open for Silco's private network to do business beyond the red line. The web of dark and light is at once impenetrable and vital to the city's survival.

From the smokestacks, red effluvium spews. The whiff of coal hits Silco's nostrils.

The perfume of progress.

He stands at the yacht's bow pulpit, arms laced behind his back. Six blackguards are behind him, wielding chem-fueled crossbows. They are mirrored by six Enforcers, each at an angle from Silco's security team, a hexagonal target with himself as the bullseye.

Over his shoulder, Silco tips them a half-smile. One Enforcer's shoulders flex; a muscle in another one's jaw twitches. They seem poised to fire—or flee.

A gilded voice says:

"Busy night, Chancellor?"

"For both of us," Silco replies, and turns on his heel.

Mel Madarda ascends the stairs from the cabin belowdeck. Her hair is upswept with a heavy golden pin, its curling enamel petals inlaid with glittering rubies. Her dress is a brocaded black-and-white two-piece with matching fingerless gloves, and a sarong-like skirt slitted along the sides so her shapely legs flash out of the swirling fabric.

Shanks like hers are best described in equine terms, especially if one plays the horses, and Silco does. But the question remains: is she a show pony or a mudder?

He keeps his eyes—mock-respectfully—on her face.

"You chose a good time," he says. "Get a late start, and the harbor fills up."

"Indeed." Almost within arm's reach, Medarda bestows a smile. "How fortunate that I am an early riser."

"And I, a late sleeper."

They shake hands, black and red gloves interlocking.

A place is laid for them at the canopied outdoor bar. It is a monochrome oasis: pearl countertop, ivory swivel seats, alabaster fittings. It offers a view of the riverside stretching beneath the green-gray dawn. Silco and Medarda sit side-by-side. Their entourages remain at a distance. No need for a show of force; they both have already been stripped of the smallest accoutrements, from smoking-cases to switchblades.

More's the pity.

Even empty-handed, neither one is unarmed.

The table is laid out with an array of canapés ranging from sweet to savory. The smoky breeze flows over an ice bucket filled with gleaming bottles of beverages.

"Care for a drink, Chancellor?" Medarda asks.

"At six in the morning? Best time for a tipple."

And the remainder of the twenty-three bells, but who is counting? Not Silco. Gods, he'd like a smoke to go with the drink. A smoke, and three-quarters of narcotic mixed with one quarter of Shimmer, to deal with the throb in his ribcage, where Vi's blow has blossomed into a blue spiderwebbing bruise.

It hurts like hell. Yet he almost admires the girl. The odds were stacked against her, but she'd taken the gamble and attacked him anyway. A futile attempt, but that's no fault of hers. It shows perseverance. And stubbornness. He thinks of the punch she threw. The blow resonating through his ribcage. A strong will; as strong as Vander's.

Silco will use that strength for his own ends.

And when the time comes—devour it.

Meanwhile, there are satisfactions to savor. Like checkmating the Council by snapping a collar of leverage around their necks. Like making them comply with his demand to collect Vi within a two-bell span. Like Medarda's private yacht sailing to his waters rather than him traveling to their borders with Vi in tow.

The haste is one more sign of the old superseded by the new. A playful havoc as the status quo tips in his favor.

What we need here, as Jinx sings, is a little bit of panic.

Not that it's all fun and games.

He hadn't lied to Violet. Not about the sham Peace Treaty, nor Piltover's setup. The dead blackguard? A few details embellished there. The man hadn't died in the throes of violence. More because he hadn't received timely medical care.

A deliberate delay on Silco's part? On the contrary. His first priority was to order the injured men sent to a medick. The news of the blackguard's death was shocking, moreso because it was an outcome Silco hadn't planned. There are always mishaps in battle. But that doesn't mean Silco revels in the casualties. Zaun has suffered enough bloodshed.

Zaun has suffered enough—period.

The death was a setback, but Silco has people looking to him for leadership. One of the necessities of leadership is prioritizing the issue itself, rather than one's feelings about it. One dead blackguard is workable if it maintains his upper-hand over the Council. There is business, and there is business. Silco has always enjoyed dishing out a nasty seeing-to for those who get in his way. Likewise, he's lost men in the bargain and understands that the loss, like his own gain, is part of the mission.

Zaun's safety is paramount.

(Like yours, Jinx.)

(Always.)

A liveried barman emerges from the cabin, ready to serve drinks. "What would you prefer, Chancellor?" Medarda asks, "Champagne?"

"Champagne is for celebrations."

"I gather you're not in celebratory spirits?"

"Far from it."

"My, my." A coquettish pout. "Perhaps we can remedy that. What are you in the mood for?"

"A robust red. Hits like a punch to the ribs. Yourself?"

"A dirty martini. Burns at first sip. Then it mellows into intrigue."

Silco quirks a brow. "A tall order, that."

The barman serves their drinks—a slim stemware of Syrah and a frosted V of martini—then withdraws. Medarda tips her glass up and back in a languid swallow. Silco settles back with his own drink, one leg folded over the other, wineglass balanced between spread fingers to warm it up. Sunrays cut through the low-lying clouds. They hold no warmth, but he has always found the sinewaves beautiful as they ripple across the gasoline rainbows at the harbor.

Fit for a painting.

In the glow, Medarda could be a painting herself: all flawless harmony of Art Deco to Silco's sharp-cut irregularity of Art Noveau. The combination is no centerpiece, except as an unconventional slap to épater la bourgeoisie. But in the tug-of-war for balance, Silco has witnessed stranger unions and shakier bargains.

Idly, he asks, "How is Peacekeeper Violet?"

Medarda doesn't glare. But something shifts beneath the silken surface of her poise. "The medics are tending to her. The gash on her cheek needed stitches."

"Unfortunate to hear."

"Then perhaps you should not have cut her."

Silco turns the winegless in his hand, slowly, sunlight striking off the vibrant reds. "What makes you think I did that?"

"She told me."

"And you believe her?" He feigns a sigh. "I'm not allowed the benefit of the doubt?"

"As you pointed out, Chancellor, my family hail from Noxus. I've known my share of hard men. Men who will act without mercy if they are threatened." Medarda's gold-edged eyes lock on his. "Although I hoped you wouldn't so thoroughly be the type."

Silco takes a musing sip of his wine. "The same way I'd hoped your Peacekeeper wouldn't be a Shuriman Horse."

"I assure you—"

"Too late." He sets the wineglass down. "You see, that's the problem with dealing with foxes. So many lures to sidestep."

"I am not sure what you mean."

"Aren't you? That girl you trained is no Peacekeeper. She is a rabid dog who'll bite anyone in range. As you planned, she went rogue. Except she's bitten off more than Topside can chew. She attacked me. She spied on my headquarters. She killed one of my blackguards. Now she's persona non grata in Zaun, and a bureaucratic headache for the Council—unless we keep the news quiet between us." His smile gleams like an unsheathed razor. "Tell me, Councilor. How do such overtures bode for mercy?"

Medarda is too well-seasoned to flinch. She already senses how coiled he is. Silco wants her to. He wants to see what tricks she'll use to calm him down. That's why she's here. Since their first meeting, she's been trying to manage him, if not manipulate him, into a chess sequence of her choosing.

Keep him close; keep Zaun in line.

"I can't help but notice…" she says.

"What?"

She rests her chin on her locked hands, the pose of an angelic Cupid firing off a devilish arrow.

"You describe Violet almost like a jinx."

Silco doesn't miss her emphasis on the last syllable. His notched lip curls. So that's how she wants to play it, hm?

"Jinx," he says, "has nothing in common with Violet."

"Are they so different?"

"As different as the doleful shades from the fiery deluge."

Medarda crosses her elegant legs, the martini balanced in her fingers, "...Such place Eternal Justice has prepared/For those rebellious," she quotes. "Here their prison ordained/In utter darkness…."

"…As far removed from God and light of Heaven," Silco finishes.

Medarda blinks. Perhaps she's under the impression that Trenchers are unlettered. Or that Silco is. Or perhaps she's unaccustomed to quotes from her favorite poets being delivered with the deadpan of a rally slogan.

But that's a former unionist for you. They even hurl poetry like bricks.

She begrudges a smile. "You've cracked open your share of classics, Chancellor."

"Only the pornographic tomes."

"They must be literary giants."

"You're too kind."

"What I am is curious. Especially about Jinx." She sobers. "For instance, I hear she's prone to bouts of violence—"

"Teenaged moodiness."

"Her hobbies include arson, thievery and torture—"

"She also knits."

"She kills in the blink of an eye—"

"And steals hearts in half the time."

Medarda's eyes go vivid. "And that she is your lover."

Silco's temper flattens to icewater. Lover. The gall of these people. To spend a lifetime courting corruption, then to dole out judgement like alms. Except he understands Medarda's game. It's the same she'd played during their first meeting. How better to bypass a supercilious persona than to root out, through deft probing or shock-tactics, the secrets it stubbornly conceals?

Except the reverse is also true. If Medarda pushes hard enough, he'll learn more by opening his jaws rather than snapping them shut.

Let's see what she reveals once she's off-balance.

"Your source is a fool," he says, "and you another to believe her."

"Then enlighten me."

He affects distaste. "Tsk, Councilor. We barely know each other. Familia Supra Omnia, as the Shurimans say. Do oblige my reticence."

"Your reticence? Yes." Medarda's serenity squares into steel. "Your obfuscation? No."

"Whatever do you mean?"

She drums her nails along the stem of her glass, a series of chiding clinks. "Officium praecedit familiam, as the Shurimans also say. Your family matter threatens to catalyze regional instability. As such, I must know about the relationship between you and your charge."

"My adoptee, rather."

"You've acknowledged her as yours?"

"Four months into Zaun's independence."

Medarda falls silent. It is clear she hadn't anticipated this turn of events. Wresting Jinx away would've been easier if she was a foot-soldier on his street, or a concubine in his bed. Progeny is different. She is now Silco's sole issue; political royalty. Spiriting her off in the dead of the night could spark a cross-border catastrophe.

Medarda's expression goes inward. Silco recognizes the look. Reassessing the chessboard with a cool eye, before strategizing the next course of action.

"I confess," she says, "you did not strike me as the type."

"To safeguard what's mine?"

"To ascribe it value in plain sight."

Value.

Somehow, that's as insulting as Lover. As if Jinx has a price tag attached. In truth, her value goes beyond any generic noun. She is his. His child, his confidant, his continuity. He'll not see her trounced under Vi's fists, nor imprisoned for Piltover's politics. He'll keep her safe, until she pushes through the burnt-over field of tragedy, a blue sapling reaching exuberantly towards the future.

Like Zaun.

Medarda's expression shutters. "It seems we are at an impasse."

"Is that so?"

"Like you, Violet also values Jinx."

"Her actions suggest otherwise."

"She only seeks proof of her sister's safety."

"Become a solicitor since we last met, Councilor? Since when are you the mouthpiece for sump-strays?"

"Perhaps I feel a measure of sympathy. An émigré cast off by her homeland…”

“She chose her own path.”

“A path in direct opposition of yours." Her eyelashes dip. She regards Silco through them with a beguiling sincerity that conceals the elicitation at its heart. "To hear Violet, you are a shark from the stygian depths."

"Do you believe it too?"

"It's in the cards. Mostly, I believe she sees something in you. Something dangerous. It's the same thing you see in her. Why else go to such lengths to play the monster?"

"Even monsters guard their legacies."

"And Jinx is yours?"

Silco tips a wry smile. "Jinx is a virtuoso. She shines on her own merits."

"A virtuoso? She has music in her blood?"

"And magic in her bones. In another life, she would be an alchemist from the Shuriman epics. As it is, she's an artist." His mouth twists, rueful. "Turns rot into rainbows."

Monochrome verbiage wrapped around a multicolored riot. But with Jinx, Silco can never find the right words. His reactions are instinctive; his impulses tactile. Everything real sits underneath.

Medarda's scrutiny deepens. "I'd scarcely imagined you partial to rainbows."

"I am partial to anything she does. And I will do anything to ensure her safety." The doting expression recedes from Silco's face. Something else splits through. Dark and bladelike as a shark's fin. "So stop this fishing expedition for my weaknesses. Whatever your Peacekeeper insists—Jinx doesn't rank among them."

Caught out, she demurs, "I meant no offense—"

"Your line of inquiry suggests otherwise." The smokestacks spray fire. The glitter refracts in his bad eye. "Fortunately, I am willing to keep this debacle quiet. Provided Vi never re-enters our borders."

"Let's not be so hasty..."

"Then our press goes public with the attack. The Peace Treaty is forfeit. As is Zaun's willingness to play ball."

"Now Chancellor," she cautions, "There are better ways to mitigate this situation."

"How so?"

“'Peacekeepers are a new division. They have yet to hone their diplomatic acumen. Unlike ourselves." She smiles, a smile to make even a blind man stumble in its radiance. "We could, between us, deflect the blame elsewhere. An inquest with a foregone conclusion, perhaps? Meanwhile, your blackguard's family would receive compensation from Piltover. We would also work behind the scenes to address our Peacekeeper's misconduct. Suspension, followed by rigorous retraining."

"That seems more bribe than mitigation."

"Are you so ardent for a pound of flesh?"

"My appetite is fobbed off by little else."

Her lip curls at the corner. "I daresay you enjoy making double-entendres."

"On the contrary. I prefer explicitness."

Under the table, Medarda's gloved palm drops to his knee. The gesture comes off as effortlessly natural. Her smile is eye-to-eye; an enticement.

"Shall we be explicit now?" she purrs.

Silco says nothing. On Zaun's streets, the overture would earn her a slit throat. In the brothels, she'd be put through her paces, and put in her place. Here, she gets no reaction at all.

This isn't a seduction. This is gamesmanship.

To her, he is no different from the scores of fools she's finessed in the Council. She knows exactly how to wield her wiles, to leave a man witless, and herself victorious. That's how they are, these Topsiders. All lesser beings are public domain to be exploited for personal gain.

And the Medardas lead the pack. In Noxus, their wealth is as legendary as their greed. A dynasty built upon bloodshed; a family name synonymous with warfare. All of the Council's holdings in total would likely not be worth a jewel on General Medarda's dagger.

Her daughter is no different. She is steeped in her family's heritage of ruthlessness, even as she envelops herself in the diaphanous costume of goodwill. In Piltover's gilded halls, she plans her conquests like military strategies, cloaking them in the sublanguage of alluring glances and elusive promises, followed by the tactical precision of bold decrees.

Going against Topside's ethos of never instrumentalizing magic, she'd finessed the Council into funding Talis' Hex-tech research. In the span of six years, thanks to the Hex-Gates, she had transformed Piltover from a charming city-state into a technological juggernaut, rivaling empires like Demacia.

And the price of the progress was paid by the Undercity.

What was once an independent industrial zone whose technology, raw material, and labor were centered on local means, had already been systematically desecrated by Topside through taxation, legislation and outright coercion. The Fissures had lost their autonomy piecemeal: first the mines, then the smelteries, and finally the refineries. Their auto-dynamic industrial system was diametrically opposed to Piltover's aims for monopolizing those resources for itself.

The Hex-Gates worsened the decay. Year after year, they brought forth trade delegations, each bearing waves of change. New goods flooded Topside's markets in exchange for those the Undercity held dear: stone, iron, copper. And bodies. With each delegation, the cost rose higher. From a few hundred workers per annum, to thousands. From one million tons of raw materials every five years, to triple that amount within one. Every time there was a fresh influx of goods, the prices rose hand-in-hand with the death toll.

The Undercity's crippled development, and the creation of a dependent, one-legged economy, led to stagnation in legitimate growth and a spike in organized crime. By the time Silco became the luminary kingpin of the Lanes, the Undercity threatened to collapse into bedlam.

But who sees bedlam beneath the feet of Piltover's rising towers?

At the surface, the Gates glowed as bastions of progress. Belowground, Silco's forces took to the streets. His men ran roughshod over both the criminal underworld and the self-ordained overlords. Through the profits of Shimmer, he bought off the Enforcers. Through subterfuge and violence, he asserted control over the gangs. At his zenith, almost all of the Undercity was his domain, gripped not by an iron fist, but strings pulled from the shadows.

In the end, none of it mattered.

There were a million luxuries his domain would never experience, no matter how much power Silco accrued. He was a faceless king, his crown forged with Fissure-bled steel—but his kingdom was a slag-heap compared to Piltover's blue skies. Even the chem-barons, perched high above the ugly rookeries of the Sumps, were like birds in wrought-iron cages; their lives devoted to money, sex, drugs, and depravity. All to distract from the putrefaction of the smog, the poison in the waters, the corruption in the air.

All to avoid contemplating what came after.

The Hex-Gates stole more than just the Undercity's livelihood. They swallowed its soul. Talis, by building the Hex-Gates, was the architect of their downfall. But Medarda was the one who signed the decree—and sealed their fate.

Now here she sits, hand on Silco's knee, smiling.

He seizes her wrist.

Medarda jerks: shock, resistance. But Silco's grip is inexorable. With a sharp tug, he drags her closer. Their faces are inches apart. Her hyacinth aroma suffuses his lungs. Her hand knots into a fist. Silco imagines real knots biting into her wrist. Imagines the husked music of her voice debauched into shrieks.

Lechery is the wrong word for his ideations. He wants to devour her as he wants to destroy Piltover. Wants to strip the skin from her bones with his teeth.

For months of doublespeak. For a lifetime of unfairness.

For Jinx.

Silco meets Medarda's eyes. Lets her see past their inky blight into the abyss at the center.

"Are you familiar, Councilor, with the etymology of seductress?" he says. "It stems from the old Shuriman seducere. To coax someone astray, so they desert their allegiance, and lose an integral piece of themselves."

Medarda's body-language betrays no anxiety. But Silco feels the thrum of her racing pulse. Her smile comes easily, too easily. "Is that so? Then are you aware, Chancellor, that the word rake comes from the word rakehell. It alludes to a man who rakes hell's coals as recompense for his devilry."

"Indeed? How curious."

Silco loosens his grip. Medarda yanks her hand free.

Wariness scrubs the sheen off her composure. Her pupils are expansive in the sunlight. She'd expected him to bite the lure. Instead he's bitten her. Silco takes in her discomfort with a voyeur's relish. It's like thumbing the colorful lipstick off a woman's mouth to find it more succulent bared of camouflage.

He straightens from his slouch, body rousing itself to indolent attention. His voice is pitched to a slither.

"You asked for explicitness. So here's an earful. You'd run screaming from my devilry—and I'm too far gone to be led astray. So let's put the games aside. We're not here for fancy drinks or flirtation. We might, however, be able to salvage the Peace Treaty. But not if you keep attempting to play me like the needy old roues dangling from your string at the Council."

Medarda volleys a halfhearted tease. "You think I am playing you, Chancellor?"

"You do try. It's what you're good at. Making of your sweetness a mirror that you hold up to each dupe, so he sees his cleverest and most accomplished self reflected in your lovely eyes." Silco beholds her over the rim of his glass. "Impressive. Truly."

An arch glance from Medarda. "Your method is much the same. Only your mirror aims to overwhelm and intimidate, infecting others with a sense of weakness, then bypassing their instinct to resist."

"You're not so easily bypassed, my dear."

"Nor you so easily duped."

Silence falls. A strata of smoke boils off the Ironworks.

Medarda says, "It seems we're in mirror-image positions. Perhaps we can help each other."

"Two mirrors facing each other are a void. I'd suggest we angle ourselves sideways." Taking his glass, Silco knocks back the rest of the drink. "Your turning the Peace Treaty into a chokehold makes it difficult for Zaun to achieve its goals. My stubbornness in cooperating with Piltover makes it difficult to accomplish yours." He wipes his lip with a row of red-gloved knuckles. "We ought to give each other leeway."

"How much leeway?"

"A few inches worth."

“I can’t decide if that’s too little or too much.”

“An inch is all it takes.”

She chides, "I thought we weren't playing games."

Silco irons his expression innocently smooth. "Did that come off as a double entendre?"

"You are incorrigible."

"And intractable. Mustn't forget that."

She stifles a smile. Fleeting, but he catches it. A good sign. She's ready to stop playing seductress to his snake charmer.

Now is the time for business.

"Well," Medarda says. "How do you propose we stop tripping over each other to achieve our goals?"

"Explain why you used Violet to sabotage the Peace Treaty."

He says: You. He means: You, not the Council.

Talis isn't sly enough to turn a wildcard like Violet into a winning hand. The rest of the Council aren't bold enough. That leaves only one person who has the guts and the guile to pull it off. Except her gambit goes beyond undermining Zaun, or making a bid for political power. In each tactic, there is significant long-term strategy.

Silco is ready to know her end-game.

Stiltedly, Medarda says, "Sabotage was not my aim."

"What then?"

For the first time, her poise slips. She sets her glass down. The flower-pin sparkles at the side of her updo like a signal. "Vi's recklessness was a contingency I'd prepared for. But I failed to anticipate how rapidly the situation would escalate. My intention wasn't to see her harmed. Nor to cause violence in Zaun. Rather, it was to steer matters in a certain direction."

"Turn the Peace Treaty into a gridlock."

She nods.

"Against Noxus."

Medard's silence takes on an uncharacteristic depth.

"Your mother has crossed swords with a prominent enemy," Silco goes on, "You believe that if Zaun achieves official independence, our nation will ally with him. And move against Piltover."

"You hold an indisputable grudge against us."

"Indisputably justified."

The creeping daylight traces Medarda's profile. Gone is her seductive languor. Her gaze is haunted.

Silco senses he is seeing another side of her, a part kept painstakingly concealed. He prefers it. Her Councilor's persona holds no allure. It is too affected; her coyness redolent of a courtesan. Beneath that is woman who has aestheticized her old wounds into an art form. She carries them in her embellishments the way Silco carries them in his scars.

Except Silco earned his wounds as an idealist in a hopeless hellscape. He wonders what could inspire the look in Piltover's most privileged at three and thirty. Wonders, too, what damage awaits her in double the time.

Perhaps at his own hand.

Medarda says, "A house divided protects no one in a storm."

"We are not a house. We are two separate nations."

"Our nations are sisters." Her dulcet do-re-mi hardens. "It would behoove us to be allies."

So that's her game, Silco thinks.

Since their first meeting, she's worked to secure his cooperation, wheels within wheels. Checkmating him as he's checkmating Vi. Safeguarding her agenda as he safeguards Zaun. But if she hopes to outplay him with the age-old pitch of My-Enemy's-Enemy, then she's got her work cut out for her.

Her talent lays in setting traps, not starting fires. Silco's expertise lies in both.

"Sisters," he says, "are not bound by subterfuge."

"Agreed. They are bound by trust."

"Lobbing Violet like a grenade between us isn't trust. It's duress."

"I understand you might be reconsidering the Peace Treaty—"

"I am not."

She stops mid-sentence. "What?"

"I am not," he repeats, laying out each word precisely. "It's why I'm here. With your Peacekeeper in tow—instead of facedown in the Pilt. But first I must know something. Why this elaborate stratagem? Why not use your influence with the Council to help your mother."

Medarda's eyes, fringed with thick lashes, hold a foxlike gleam. "It is precisely because she is my mother."

"Care to elaborate?"

"It's a family matter. Please indulge my reserve."

"Your reserve? Yes." Silco's scarred features chisel themselves in steel. "Your obtuseness? No."

Medarda's eyes dip down to the clasped hands in her lap. A golden ring glints on the dark interweaving of her fingers. Her family crest. She twists it, and says, "War means different things to different nations. To Zaun, it is defiance. To Piltover, it is a blow to our pride. To my mother's homeland, it is a way of life."

My mother's homeland.

A distancing. A house divided.

"Now," Medarda continues, "she seeks to turn Piltover into her private armory."

"With Hex-tech as the bullet."

She nods. "As a daughter, I am duty-bound to safeguard my kin. But as a Piltovan, I can see the writing on the wall. If we engage in conflict with Noxian warlords, the outcome is destruction. Ours—and Zaun's." Her see-no-evil expression wavers. "Tell me. Have any of Noxian parties approached you for a partnership?"

"That would be telling."

"Not to mention unfortunate."

"I trust that isn't a threat?"

"It's a reminder of what we have in common. The threat—"

"The threat beyond our walls," Silco finishes.

Talis' words in her mouth. He understands that they spill from the same bleeding-heart fount. If there is one thing to be said about Talis, he is chockful with good intention. But so was Vander. So was Silco, once.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

"I see your dilemma," he says. "But we are neither of us naïve. You posit Zaun and Piltover's relations as a sisterly dispute. But sisterhood suggests equals. Our relationship is the opposite."

"Chancellor—"

"Let me finish. Because it seems you've neglected your history lessons. Else you'd remember that Piltover's progress was carried on the backs of Zaunite labor. You exploited our mines for your factories. You devoured our children for your scutwork. You shrank our enterprises with your taxes." His expression slices from civility to a sharp-eyed contempt. "You've fucked us balls-deep, as the Undercity saying goes. Now you expect us to fight alongside you against a 'common threat'?"

Medarda stiffens. "There is no reason for crudeness."

"You bled us dry for decades. But it upsets you when I say fuck?" He pronounces it with a devious glide, so the F is like a blade cutting effortlessly across satin, and the K ends with a switchblade-soft click. "What a coy lot you are. I'll have to teach you to say what you mean. Topside's rotten legacy can no longer hide behind pretense."

"Rottenness can be remedied."

"And blood unspilled?"

"Or shared." Her eyes implore him to see reason. "Zaun's legacy hangs heavy on Piltover, too. Not only because the Fissures accounted for one-third of our mineral resources. Zaun's loss has dealt a blow to Piltover's foundational myth: that we are a city of equality."

"A blow Zaun was privileged to deliver."

"Blows are a short-term solution. Consider the long-game." She takes a breath. "Very well. I will be explicit. Cooperation between Zaun and Piltover would not only fortify our defenses. It would encourage commercial partnerships between our businessmen. It would foster dialogue among our academics. Dialogue that leads to financial packages—and atonement for Zaun's stolen dignity."

"Are you speaking of trade? Or reparations?"

"Do the semantics matter?"

"Semantics always matter. Piltover's wealth was bolstered by Zaun's resources. Reparations mean forfeiting that wealth in its entirety. Tallying billions of hours into the currency of blood. Not to mention compensating for countless lives ruined by maltreatment, disease and starvation." Uncrossing his legs, Silco reclines into a more comfortable spot. "High stakes. The Council would never take the gamble."

"Would you settle for mercy?"

"Mercy lacks teeth. What Zaun needs is payback."

Medarda doesn't flinch. "Payback has limits. Moving forward does not." Her voice drops to a solemn hush, "Do you know of the legendary blacksmith, Ornn? The Freljordian spirit of the forge?"

Silco nods. "He crafted the talisman known as Salvation."

"An enchanted weapon to safeguard nations. Paired with a second talisman known as Redemption, they could summon a lance and shield of pure energy to defend cities." She leans closer, her warm breath playing across his face. "We could, between us, be the same. Redemption and Salvation. We could set a precedent. Show our people how to evolve beyond their differences. Act as a unifying force against foreign incursion."

Silco doesn't care for her premature use of We. His expression reveals little beyond a jaded amusement. "Better the devil you know, eh?"

"Mirror images."

Dawn creeps in a surreal glow. The air between Medarda and Silco warms. A tantalization of intimacy, with its kissing knees and nearly kissing lips…

Silco yawns, exposing a row of sharpened teeth. Medarda blinks, the yawn catching, a gloved hand demurely covering her mouth.

Their eyes meet. The tension is offset by humor.

"My word, Councilor," Silco says, "you've a talent for putting a man to sleep."

With tart sweetness, she replies, "I hoped you'd have more stamina."

"Coffee is in order."

"I'll call for two cups prepared."

"No need."

The salt-and-pepper strands are slipping from Silco's pomade. He smooths them back, and stretches past Medarda, grabbing a bottle from the ice bucket. A coal-black coffee liqueur.

Silco's good eye idles over the label. "Zhyunian brew, hm? Bitter as death."

"Bitter is not my preferred fare."

"Then let me make it yours."

"Would that be part of our deal?"

"Let's not be hasty." His smile is no more than a sharkish contraction around his eyes. "We've not even undressed down to our terms."

Into two glasses, he pours three fingers' worth of liqueur. A dollop of cream; a clinking of ice cubes. He nudges one glass toward Medarda. She accepts it with a mute distaste. He doubts she favors such concoctions. But she'll have to accustom herself to such unsavories—and worse.

Especially if this alliance is to be.

Not bothering with a toast, Silco drains his glass in half at a go. Medarda does the same—and grimaces. In Va-Nox, she breathes, "Er schmeckt schrecklich."

"Man gewöhnt sich daran." Silco nudges the sugar pot toward her. "In Zhyun, they hold the cubes in the mouth between sips."

"That seems a choking hazard."

"Only if one's tongue lacks dexterity."

Her features twist, a scowl reined in. Or is it a smirk? After a moment, she plucks out a cube, tips her head back, and opens her mouth. Her tongue is pink as a sea-anemone. Silco watches it curl delicately around the cube. She takes another sip, and swallows.

"Mmm. Better."

"A little goes a long way." Silco sets down his own glass. "In some trades, sharing a cube is like sharing a handshake. It cleanses deception from the palate. Or so Noxian warmasons claim."

"Warmasons?"

"Zaun has been contacted by one. He and his cadre represent the man your mother antagonized. General Jericho Swain."

The tiny hitch in Medarda's breath is the only sign of alarm.

"They've made Zaun an offer. Five years' unlimited trade through the Ironspike Mountains. Grain, textile, weapons. In exchange, help them infiltrate Piltover's borders, and stage an attack somewhere in Mainsping Crescent. Plenty of fire and blood. In the disorder, our agents will abduct a dignitary. Engage him in a man-to-man tête-à-tête—with alligator clips to his bollocks. All to ensure his cooperation, so General Swain's life is made easier."

"Who, precisely, is this dignitary?"

Silco's chuckle rolls hollow as a smoke ring. "Jayce Talis."

Medarda falls still. Silco traces the distress creeping below her poised surface. A cold gleam rises in his eyes, a smile gone inward. He does enjoy that iron will of hers. It strikes a match in counterpoint to that sadist's spirit inside him.

It strikes a match below the belt line, too.

"Swain," he says, "would be a profitable ally for Zaun."

Her eyes narrow. "I imagine so."

"However I turned down his deal."

"You—what?"

Silco smooths out the perfect white knot of his cravat. "Short-term gains should never eclipse one’s end-goals."

"Which are?"

"Zaun's survival."

"As your private enterprise?"

The thin line of Silco's upper lip suddenly peels away from his teeth, an inchoate snarl. "As my home, Councilor. Warlords have no place here. Soon, they become landlords. We've terminated our lease with one. I'll never bargain with another."

A vein throbs along Medarda's neck. "But you will bargain with me?"

"You are not a warlord. You are a businessperson. So am I." His good eye slits. "But I am also father to a nation—and to a child."

The message is implicit: A threat to either will be met in kind.

Medarda sits haloed in toxic green sunlight. The glittering pin is working its way out of place; she untwists and repositions it. Her expression holds a dark-eyed ambiguity, as if her opinion of Silco has taken an unexpected trajectory.

Reaching for the liqueur, she refills their glasses.

"Rakehell," she says.

"Excuse me?"

"There is devilry in your devotion, Chancellor." She extinguishes her smile in her drink. "But I applaud it. It stems from a worthy cause."

Silco tips his own glass in ironic salute. "One I am determined to rise to."

They click glasses together. The liqueur goes down as if coldly aflame. Silco savors the burn in his gut. Medarda drains her own gamely. Silco notes the softening slope of her shoulders. A good sign. Preliminaries are done; the rest is a matter of haggling.

"Well," Medarda says. "We've had our toast."

"Indeed. Let's state our terms."

"Go first, Chancellor." A playful flirt of lashes. "I shan't consider you ungallant."

Silco doesn't hesitate. "A reworking of the Peace Treaty. Henceforth, a Treaty of Mutual Cooperation, Trade and Security. It will entail economic exchange on the private-sector. The establishment of mutual wings of government dedicated to political engagement and commercial partnership. Quota-free trade volume in goods and services."

Medarda stifles a smile. "I daresay you came prepared."

"I'm not finished."

Her smile fades into a coaxing lift of eyebrows.

"The Council will balk at reparations. Instead, Zaun will settle for reformation. We will agree to a press blackout for your Peacekeeper's crimes. We will allow Topside to conduct an inquest—with a foregone conclusion. In exchange, a real committee consisting of Piltovan and Zaunite activists will be formed to investigate Enforcer brutalities in the past decade. They will undertake a thorough public consultation process. Look into organizational malpractice, oversight and accountability. Emphasis on accountability. We've not forgotten the atrocities on Bloody Sunday and the Day of Ash. Now our dead demand just desserts."

Medarda challenges, "Did the dead request this?"

"Dead is dead. But the survivors will have restitution. And names."

They lock gazes. Silence stretches.

Evenly, Medarda says, "I will see what can be done."

"Do."

"Is there more?"

"With me? Interminably." He folds his hands together and brings his fingertips to his lips. "All former undercity prisoners at Stillwater will be handed over to Zaun. Your courts will cooperate with ours to ensure they undergo re-trial and resentencing. Those found guilty will be transferred to Dredge prison. Those deemed innocent will be freed."

"Chancellor, I hardly think—"

"Do keep up." Without giving her a chance to interrupt again: "Piltovan journalists will participate in a public relations strategy to promote Zaunite interests. Diplomatic incentives for Piltover's foreign allies to invest here. Particularly in sectors of education, health and housing. We aren't looking for mercy. Our citizens are hard workers. What they need are the opportunities thus denied."

"By your criminal empire."

"By your collective negligence."

Again, they stare at each other, challenge contained in subtle lines.

"I shall need time," Medarda says, "to persuade the Council."

"I've great faith in your persuasive abilities."

"Let's not overreach, Chancellor. Your proposal is—" A headshake, "—novel. And you've yet to mention the Security aspect of the Treaty."

"Simple. I propose an independent body to monitor the Treaty's implementation. It will be composed of Piltover's agents and ours. High on mutual disarmament. Low on non-proliferation." He rests his chin on his steepled fingers like he does in the war-room. "Given the Noxian threat, it will prove useful. Zaun's agents can move unimpeded within Piltover. Often and at short notice."

"Are you mad?" she asks, as if inquiring whether he prefers veal or venison.

Silco pops a sugar cube into his mouth. His tongue is a playful roll along the sharp row of teeth. Medarda's eyes follow it, before she snaps them back front and center. Her stare gives off a discomfited heat.

As it stands, the conversation is risky. Well beyond the bounds of political propriety. Medarda is the one who chummed the waters. But she may have second thoughts. She may reclaim her scruples, scramble ashore, terminate the Treaty altogether.

Conflicted allies, allies with ideals, are cowards. Silco must play this with precision.

"If Swain is attempting to undermine Piltover," he says, "Then Zaun's refusal won't deter him. He'll try again. This time through a different source. Sooner or later, his warmasons will breach your territory. They will enact worse crimes. A coup. A string of terror attacks. A bloodier reprise of the Piltover-Zaun war." The cube shatters between his teeth with a brittle crunch. "Whatever it takes to destabilize Piltover—while simultaneously smoking out your General-Mother."

Medarda's scowl is querulous. She says nothing. He has a point.

"It would—what was your word? behoove—our interests if my network kept a weather eye on the horizon," he concludes. "My men can slip through gaps yours never even knew existed. While the warmasons are in Zaun, my network will shadow them. Should they make moves on Piltover, I'll supply a contingent of talented agents to liaise with yours."

"On the record?"

"Off the books."

Medarda's lashes dip. He senses her thoughts ticking over.

"I assume," she enunciates with care, "your network will keep their hands clean?"

"Clean?"

"Curb bloodshed at Piltover's expense."

"We cannot succeed by playing contradictory scales."

"Contradictory?"

Silco's hands make a languid pattern in the air, describing the time signature in an opera. "My dear, if you play a major mode with your left hand and a minor with your right, you've massacred the symphony beyond salvaging."

"Must it come to massacres?"

"If you've cold feet, we can terminate the deal."

"I didn't say that."

"You needn't." He shoulders back in his chair. His bruised ribs twinge. But in the game of wordplay, and its inverse of bloodplay, he is in his element. "You Topsiders have no stomach for massacres, do you? Not unless they're kept out of sight."

Medarda's glossy mouth purses. "May I ask you a question, Chancellor?"

"Of course."

"How often a month do you kill someone?"

Silco's lip quirks, alerting Medarda that this is a risky rhetorical game.

She shakes her head. "Do you fail to see the wrongness? How many men are even posed such a question?"

"I can't say," he retorts. "But I imagine those who pose it have the luxury of never dirtying their hands. Their lives are a joyride, while an engine of drudges break their backs to keep it so. When they die, more drudges take their place. On and on ad infinitum—right until the wheels come off, tossing its pampered passengers arse over teakettle into the filth of their own making."

Medarda glowers.

Good, Silco thinks.

Hypocrisy has its uses. Denial does not. Especially from a woman as complicit in murder as the Shimmer in his factories. Moreso—because the Shimmer was a cheat-code against Piltover's rigged game of progress.

A progress patronized by Medarda's ambition.

"Councilor," he says. "If we're to coexist, then any shared threat to Piltover and Zaun must be struck down with decisive action."

"The rationale of zealotry."

"Piltover is complicit in tenfold worse."

"You can't blame us for all the evil you practice."

"Blame has no bearing in a war," Silco snaps, a flash-point of temper in seething slow-motion. "All that matters is survival. You forget that, you lose your head. Remember, it was not through ideals that your forbearers forged the Immortal Bastion. It was through trickery and bloodshed. They had the minds of foxes and the hearts of wolves. Unless you want to return to the days when Piltover was a pauper's backwater, you'd best remember their lessons."

The statement sinks in, casting tiny ripples across Medarda's face. Her stare hardens.

"Grim words," she says, "for a potential partnership."

"Life can be grim—with angels of mercy in short supply."

"Is that what you believe I am? An angel of mercy?"

Silco's malice thaws into mockery. "Oh, I know better."

This time, it is he who leans closer. Medarda's hands make reflexive fists in her lap. Another time, he'd heed the gesture, respect her territoriality. Abide by the rules of sovereign conduct. But they've left behind the safety of those shores.

The waters now are an encircling darkness.

Silco doesn't touch her. But his thumb circles the stem of her glass, as if entitled. A high thin note vibrates through the air. "Angels of mercy seldom condescend to visit Zaun,” he muses. “Nor do Councilors bargain with cutthroats. Which, I wonder, are you?"

Her scowl is leashed but fierce. "Not a cutthroat. But—"

"Strange times bode strange bedfellows?"

"When you phrase it that way, it sounds—"

"Crude? Clandestine? Adulterous?"

Her anger isn't quite so leashed now. "—dangerous."

"But profitable." Silco's voice drops from raw silk to rough stone. "And what is profit without a taste of danger? I must warn you, though. This isn't a deal you can back out of. Nor one you want to lose. It's one thing to sanction fires from one's tower. It's another to be locked in a burning room with no way out. Every order you issue could bring you closer to the flames. Consider carefully if you wish to be partners."

Disquiet flickers across Medarda's features. But she is too shrewd to be dragged under.

"If we're to be partners," she retorts, "then we must abide by the same rules? Yes?"

"Absolutely."

"In the case, I'll begin first. Our future correspondence shall be conducted through my personal pneumatic courier. If I'm unavailable, my secretary, Elora, will be assigned to receive messages."

"Understood."

"Next: does Zaun have a speaking telegraph system?"

"Not at present."

"Allow me to recommend a Demacian communications firm. They specialize in inter-and-intra city communications. With a direct line in place, you may contact me at any hour of the day. Or night." Through her lashes, she imparts the warning: Hold the double-entendre.

Silco does—narrowly. "Suppose one uses the channel for unsavory purposes?"

"Our bargain is predicated on trust, Chancellor. After all, our interests align, don't they?"

Slyness curls around Silco's words. "As mirror images."

The sky has lightened into ashen fullness. The Ironworks, limned by the glow, power full-steam ahead. The monstrous edifice begins bleeding bodies. Works scurry everywhere. Foremen, dockhands, runners. None can afford to dawdle. The day has begun, and every minute is a coin lost. But those with a few minutes to spare gawk at the yacht in the deep dock: a pristine pearl in Zaun's filthy waters.

Silco gazes back.

Once, he was like these men and women: a cog in the wheel of progress. Shivering with Vander in the grey chill of the mining barracks at dawn; smeared in soot and sagging with exhaustion at night. A brute vestige of his nature is their nature, such that he knows why that girl is dawdling by the alleyside with a red rag on her arm (a floor sweeper making extra coin with a knee-trembler); why that man is filling a pail with water from a pump (a scrubber preparing to debride the docks of scum); why that boy is running up the stairwell with a bag slung over his shoulder (the tea boy late for his shift).

Silco's expression downshifts. Coveting Zaun in all its potential—not blighted but beautiful. To live in this city is to know its sorrows and joys. And to be the Eye is to have an intimate peek into its cruelest vices—but also its most cherished dreams.

And think also: only a few miles to the southwest, under the same brightening sky, still asleep, is his own dream.

His child.

It stirs him with a solemn sense of wonder. The old feelings he used to try to pen down in pamphlets, yet made brand-new. The connectivity of the city, the intimacy of the streets and its people, their sufferings and triumphs, all unbreakably linked.

When he glances back, Medarda is watching him.

"Hail, infernal world!" she says, quoting Paradise Lost again, "and thou, profoundest Hell, receive thy new possessor!"

"The mind is its own place," Silco retorts, "and in itself can make a Heaven of Hell/a Hell of Heaven."

"This is your Paradise, then?"

"There are better places than Paradise."

Curious, she tips her chin, "Perhaps someday you'll give me a tour?"

“Is that a tease, or a dare?”

Their stares catch and hold. No need for pretense. He's on her hook. She's in his jaws. Almost literally.

Silco takes a triple-shot of the liqueur straight from the bottle, then blows idly across the lip, a melody like a signaling ship. "I've one last question."

"By all means."

"You posit yourself as representing the Council. But is the Council privy to our meeting?"

"Would you refuse if they were?"

Silco's good eyelid curves half-shut. "Councils are dangerous to work with. Each member has their own off-the-books way of getting things done. The outcome crosses wires and causes muddles."

"May I ask what you're driving at?"

She already knows his answer. She is merely testing how many moves ahead he is thinking. Same as her.

Mirror-images, indeed.

"If you expect my cooperation," Silco says. "I expect a full disclosure on silent partners."

"There are none."

"Not even Councilor Talis?"

Her expression doesn't change. But her spine straightens as if pinched. "It's complicated."

"That is neither a yes, or a no."

"Should it matter?"

"In point of fact? It does. You've a reputation for a level head. The Golden Boy? Not so much."

Especially after the attack he and Vi pulled at Silco's factory. It hadn't been so disastrous as to get under Silco's skin. But it had drawn blood. Casualties on the frontline; casualties behind the scenes.

He'd rather avoid a byplay.

"Councilor Talis trusts my intentions,” Medarda says delicately. “He understands that a good deal of the Council's policies are… outmoded. He believes there must be change. The conflict between Zaun and Piltover has proven as much. In that vein, he needn't be privy to every decision I make. Just as long as we're both doing the right thing."

We're both doing the right thing.

The phraseology of a couple, not of colleagues. Yet the discord in her body-language is plain. As if her feelings for Talis, and her strategies against her mother, are creating an inner-rift. Tempting to pry deeper. Turn the rift into a crack, and discover what secrets it disgorges.

Now isn't the time.

"I have a question of my own." Medarda says.

"Of course."

"Peacekeeper Violet. Will you deny her reentry into Zaun?"

Silco feels a chill touch his spine and seep into his balls. By Kindred, he thinks, and tastes the old premonition like blood. "I'd be well within my rights."

Her Sphynx-eyes glimmer. "I hope you reconsider."

"This is a family matter, Councilor. It will be settled accordingly."

"By Janna's grace, I hope not."

"Excuse me?"

She leans closer, in a dizzying waft of perfume. "Peace is a fragile thing. So is sisterhood. We may end up locked together in a burning room. But we must be careful to burn no more bridges. All the better to move forward, yes?"

Through her lashes, she imparts her message. Let Vi live.

Silco stares.

Gods, she's a devious hellcat. She's trapped him with his own checkmate. Again. Offering him in equal measure the promise of perfect simpatico between Zaun and Piltover, or the threat of the worst possible outcome. All contingent on his choice to keep Vi onside.

To show mercy.

He wonders how many times she replayed variations of this game in her head, with the different prices she can afford to pay. He imagines her calculating his reaction, and knows she is right in every set-up: he has no choice but to accept the bargain.

For now.

"No need to sell past the close," Silco says flatly. "We are in accord."

Medarda proffers her hand. Silco shakes his head.

"Not that way."

"What?"

Silco unsnaps the glittering pin from her updo. Her glossy locs tumble around her face, with a bracing whiff of her body's perfume.

Medarda jerks. In the periphery, the Enforcers spring, weapons ready.

Silco ignores them. His fingers turn the pin over, inspecting its stiletto point. "Tsk. So much for playing by the same rules."

Medarda's features go rigid. "How dare you—?"

"You dared first."

She snatches for the pin. Evading, he wields it blade-first. The exchange sets off a chain-reaction: the Enforcers flex their firearms, and the blackguards uncoil to strike. One false step, and a massacre shimmers on the horizon.

Medarda makes a soothing motion. "Hold."

The closest Enforcer falters, "Councilor—"

"I'm sure Zaun's Chancellor was only admiring my bauble, Jaden." Her hands form into fists in her lap, then relax. "That's all you were doing, yes?"

"A memento of our partnership."

Silco makes a pirouetting flick with his finger. As one, the blackguards melt away. Medarda inclines her head at the Enforcers. Likewise, they retreat. The furor ebbs into silence.

Medarda says, "Respect would not be remiss, Chancellor."

"Give to get."

"The pin was a precaution."

"Now it's a prop." His stare orients on hers. "If you'd lend me your hand?"

"My hand?"

"We'll square the deal the proper way. Blood for blood."

Her expression darkens. "A blood bargain signifies life or death."

A shadow-smile touches Silco’s lips. "What in hell do you think this is?"

Medarda glowers. Her temper is real—and damnably attractive. The breeze stirring off the Pilt carries the motes of her perfume: hyacinths musked with body-heat. She's a tough one, all right. Toughest so far. But that makes the payoff all the more promising.

Silco extends his hand. After a moment, she lays hers inside it. He takes her wrist and tugs her glove off, baring silken flesh to harsh sunlight. Her palm is small and exquisitely shaped. The lines hold an interesting pattern of notches.

The palmists at Janna's Temple would call it an unlucky hand. A childhood of suffering; an adulthood of complications.

Silco smooths a thumb over her life-line. Her breath hitches. He meets her eyes, and mock-soothes, "It only hurts a moment."

"I'm not afraid of pain," she says evenly.

"Just the scars, hm?"

Letting go, he starts to remove his own glove. She beats him to it. Finger-by-finger, she strips off the suede. Unsheathed, his palm feels chilled in both her own, then warms. Curiously, Medarda traces his fingertips, as if manifestly disinterested in anything but the state of his callused flesh.

He traps her fingertips in his own. She doesn't balk. Her eyes glint with defiance.

"Not all scars are obvious," she says.

Wielding the pin, Silco takes her wrist. The point slices into her palm. Medarda's brow tightens. The cut oozes blood. Silco repeats the action on his own palm—a deep red notch. Then he extends his hand to Medarda.

"Now our deal is done."

Medarda's mouth firms. She takes Silco's hand. Her grip is unlike their previous handshakes. No politeness, but a fierce squeeze with a hint of fingernails. There is determination, even wildness in it. A fox who submits to no traps. And yet trapped she is, by the undertow of imperatives between them. He will try to drag her down to his level; she will try to lift him to hers.

Whatever it takes to safeguard their sovereignty, and their secret prizes.

Jinx; Talis.

They sit eye-to-eye. And the Ironworks spray fire, a cascade of red sparks like blood.

FLASH MESSAGE

SUBJECT: ?

You are alive.

Lookouts confirmed it.

END OF MESSAGE.

FLASH MESSAGE

RE: SUBJECT - ?

UNDELIVERABLE - RECIPIENT NOT FOUND.

Also: fuck off.

END OF MESSAGE

(Correspondence recovered from Entresol Zone C)

#arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane fanfic #forward (never forget)/xoxo #forward but never forget/xoxo #arcane silco #arcane jinx #arcane vi #silco #jinx #vi #arcane mel medarda #arcane mel #mel medarda #silco x mel #melco

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herroyalbubbliness · 2 years

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P-Valley

♤♤♤♤

S2E8

Photo Credit: IG @pvalleystarz

◇◇◇◇

I was laughing when she said this @GIF.

I always enjoy the conversations between Mercedes and Uncle Clifford, they are sharing some deep truths and dropping nuggets of wisdom for free. It's also how they challenge themselves to do what needs to be done.

Roulette don't play but with the dead cold look in her eyes, I was hailing her one minute, and the next, I was legit scared.

I always thought Lil Murda was just a stage and street name but apparently, the joke was on me cos that name is literal. He saw red. And I'm still not over Teak. I still just want to know what headspace John Clarence Stewart went into to channel those emotions cos I felt instantly cold and I still feel cold when I think about it and still cried in this episode.

Pico be talking out the sides of his mouth and how do you do such a foul thing? Talking about having a kid. It don't matter, you gotta carry the weight since you wanna run your mouth!

There have always been these preconceived notions about women that work in strip clubs. P-Valley has done a fantastic job in unmasking the veil behind these women and you get to see them loved, respected, vulnerable and so much more, most importantly human. I'm so invested in each character, so well-layered, complex and I love that the bodies portrayed are natural bodies and not artificial ones, there's a level of confidence, that instills in one.

From the female writer to female directors and the nudity is so expertly handled. I'm in love with these series. And anywhere black women are shining, I always wanna be there.

And don't get me started on the bars and lyrics banging every episode!!! The story and bars just keep getting better and better. Can't wait for the next episode and I'm glad the eighth ain't the last.

#p valley #p valley starz #lil murda

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epic-song-lyrics-showdown · 6 months

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Random Assorted Artists with songs in the showdown Pt. 1

This is the first list of random artists that have been submitted. This is pretty much anyone that didn’t get many submissions. If you see a song and are like hey this should be somewhere else the answer is no. Unless there is a repeat of a song somewhere or the artist shows up on another list they are meant to be here. Check out the other lists here.

Sail - AWOLNATION

Sinners - Barns Courtney

My Frankenstein - Kody Kavitha

An Alien’s I Love You - Utsu-P

Beneath the Brine - The Family Crest

Gladiator - Jann

Light - Next to Normal

Gut Punch/Don’t Meet Your Idols - Everybody’s Worried About Owen

Us - Chxrlotte

It’s the end of the world as we know it - R.E.M.

Trouble - Valerie Broussard

A Meadow - Open Book

Serenade - Kamelot

The Bard’s Song: In the Forest - Blind Guardian

The Weekend Whip - The Fold

Achilles Come Down - Gang of Youths (Four different lyric submissions)

Farewell Kabarista - Vagabond Opera

Tango Dancer - Dave Malloy

Cold Day in Hell - Delta Rae

Still… - Sophia James

Mirrorball - Elbow

Waltz #2 (XO) - Elliott Smith

One More Try - Mariam-Teak Lee & Jordan Luke Gage

Marie - Townes van Zandt

City of Lights - The Music Tapes

Bloody Motherfucking Asshole - Martha Wainwright

On Melancholy Hill - Gorillaz

Don’t Let’s Start - They Might Be Giants

Touch - Daft Punk ft. Paul Williams

The Hounds - The Protomen

Infinite Lives - Mega Ran ft. D&D Sluggers

Nights Like These - Bears in Trees

Slumber - Slløtface

gum v6.4 - Devon Again

head - Devon Again

Dissociate - Atlas

Introduction to the Snow - Miracle Music

Wait for It - Hamilton Musical

Ice To Never - The Black Queen

Progress - The Dear Hunter

Warrior - Paradise Fears

Windowpane - Opeth

Voodoo Dust - Urfaust

Yen - Slipknot

Order - Heaven Pierce Her / Hakita

VI: Sons of Fate - The Protomen

Charlie’s Inferno - That Handsome Devil

Paradox - Survive Said the Prophet

This Too Shall Pass - Danny Schmidt

Light - Chonny Jash

Mad IQs - I DONT KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME

Worms - AlicebanD

The Mighty Echo - The Family Crest

Ride - Bligh

Jesus Christ - Brand New

Your Heart is a Muscle the Size of Your Fist - Ramshackle Glory

The Summoning - Sleep Token

In The End - Black Veil Brides

Don’t Break Me - Milo Murphy’s Law Soundtrack

For You - Barenaked Ladies

Sober - Tool

Bullets - Archive

Relay - Fiona Apple

Let Me Stay - Heather Maloney

New Radio - Bikini Kill

The Marriage of Bigfoot and Mothman - The Forgetmenauts

What’s With You Lately - Car Seat Headrest

Armarillo - Gorillaz

Dark Lover: A Love Song To A Vampire - Tempest

Smile Like You Mean It - Tally Hall

Fine, I’m Fine - Chonny Jash

Rightfully - Mili

Give It to Me - The Northern Boys

We’re All Leaving - Karine Polwart

Matches - SIFU HOTMAN

Unbroken - Man on the Internet

Hell’s Comin’ With Me - Poor Man’s Poison

Necromancin Dancin - Bear Ghost

I Got No Time - The Living Tombstone

Labyrinth - Miracle Musical

Hello and Goodbye - JT Music

A Poem - AJJ

People 2: The Reckoning - AJJ

Your Voice, As I Remember It - AJJ

The River - Bruce Springsteen

Jungleland - Bruce Springsteen

You Only Know - PhemieC

Girls in Love - PhemieC

Evidence - DaisyxDaisy

Portrait of a Woman on a Couch With Cats - Michael Cera Palin

The Moss - Cosmo Sheldrake

Found (Forever) - Caamp

4 Morant (Better Luck Next Time) - Doja Cat, Com Truise

Box Fort Baby - Papa Jake

Flowers - Eva Noblezada (Hadestown)

You - Keaton Henson

rock + roll - EDEN

Tourniquet - Leanna Firestone

Close to Home - Vienna Teng

Spring and a Storm - Tally Hall

You’re the Reason I Don’t Want the World to End - The Wonder Years

I Earn My Life - Lemon Demon

Twisted - Team Starkid

Time, As A Symptom - Joanna Newson

The Party - Regina Spektor

I’m Just Your Problem - Rebecca Sugar (in Adventure Time)

#epic song lyrics showdown #songs in the showdown

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patioproductions · 8 months

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Teak and Wicker Chairs that Fit Any Outdoor Setting

Teak and wicker are a beautiful combination. They combine two of the most popular outdoor furnishing materials into a remarkably stunning combination. You can choose natural brown wickers that will match the hues of stained teak or opt for something with a modern veil. I first started seeing this trend start to pop up last year and since then, many manufacturers have begun to offer more and more teak and wicker chairs. Here are 5 reasons to love teak and wicker patio furniture as well as some examples. 5 Reasons to Choose Teak and Wicker Patio Furniture 1. It's Economical By splitting the design between materials, the cost your teak and wicker chair will be more economical. 2. Low Maintenance Teak is often times times considered to be one of the most maintenance intensive woods to care for. By opting for a blend between wicker and teak, you reduce the amount of time you will have to spend sealing your teak. Both materials teak and wicker can be washed with a pressure washer, some mild soap, and a little bit of water. Learn how to clean outdoor wicker furniture here. 3. Unprecedented All Weather Durability Teak is the best wood for the outdoors. It produces its own natural oil that is what gives it such a golden brown glow. Synthetic wickers give you the look and feel of a natural rattan but they are much more durable in outdoor conditions. 4. Wicker is Fade Resistant Quality wicker is infused with UV inhibitors that prevent fading in the sun. You can learn how to tell the difference between quality by reading this page. 5. Won't Blow Away in High Wind Areas Teak furniture with wicker weave works well in windy areas. Wicker is typically woven on lightweight-aluminum frames to maximize mobility. In areas that experience high wind gusts, it makes sense to choose a teak frame that adds weight to keep your patio furniture from blowing away. Wrapped around teak frames, wicker can give your backyard patio the look you've been dreaming of! Teak and Wicker Chairs You can browse more Teak and Wicker Furniture by visiting Patio Productions.com. Looking for more tips to help you along your shopping journey? Be sure to read our Teak Patio Furniture Buying Guide! Other Suggested Readings: - Natural Wicker vs Synthetic Resin Wicker - Teak Furniture Care and Maintenance About the Author Cheryl Khan is able to lend her insight on this topic after spending years in the design field. She has learned that all outdoor furniture is not the same. She is a contributing author to the Patio Productions Blog where she shares outdoor living tips to transform your backyard! Read the full article

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cnstv · 1 year

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December 25, Rincón, Puerto Rico. I find the luxury of this villa we rented mysterious. The walls plastered brilliant white, arches everywhere, tile floors in a large diagonal checkerboard pattern, the double doors that open onto the sea made of teak that shimmers like whiskey, brass hardware. The furniture is of darker wood, it is richly but not exuberantly ornamented, with rattan covering. Two floors, upstairs a giant bed with canopy, from which thin white veils hang, downstairs the terrace with a small pool, whose steps start just below the threshold of the double door. It is illuminated in two levels – either constant yellow-orange, or in fluently changing colors.

If it were just a matter of pulling together enough aesthetics to justify the price, you'd need less. It wouldn't have been necessary to prepare a dinner for us, with double cutlery and double plates, cloth napkins and the food next to them in plastic boxes, an orchid on the table, champagne and a cake from the best bakery in Puerto Rico, Someone must have a joy in it, a passion for it that goes beyond the mere need to make money from it.

Stars extremely clear, even Milky Way, although pool and terrace lit and the lights of Mayaguez on the horizon. Orion unusually vertical above us. And iguanas in the garden this morning. They glide across the lawn like streamlines, slender as an arrow, almost a meter long. Then we see one sitting motionless under bushes at the edge of the garden, which I, because huge, at first think is a mockup, but it is alive, eyeing us intently, and then shuffling off into the undergrowth.

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funnygreys · 2 years

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Ulysses yacht

ULYSSES YACHT WINDOWS

She also houses room for up to 9 crew members. Ulysses has a fuel capacity of 176,021 litres, and a water capacity of 31,797 litres. She is powered by a twin screw propulsion system. She is powered by a twin screw propulsion system Ulysses also features naval architecture by Trinity Yachts. Ulysses has a steel hull with an aluminium superstructure.Her exterior design is by Trinity Yachts. Ulysses measures 58.50 metres in length, with a max draft of 2.80 metres and a beam of 11.00 metres. Speed, seaworthiness and unique quality workmanship characterise the American shipyard’s builds. Trinity Yachts, a world leader in the realm of building full-custom superyachts, has been producing first-class vessels since its inception in 1995. Ulysses too is spending time in the Mediterranean on her maiden season and many will no doubt be waiting to see which parts of the globe she is to explore next.Ulysses is a custom motor yacht launched in 2003 by Trinity Yachts. Since she changed hands, Andromeda has circumnavigated the globe with her new owner and recently returned to the Mediterranean where she is currently based. Photo: Tom van Oossanen / SuperYacht Times Photo: Tom van Oossanen / SuperYacht Times The owner's suite also received a new fixed balcony on either side that has drastically opened the apartment to more natural light and fresh air when needed. Ulysses's maximum range is estimated at 8500. She is powered by Caterpillar engines of 2200 hp each giving her a maximum speed of 16 knots and a cruising speed of 12 knots. This adds up to a gross tonnage of 6862 tons. With a beam of 18 m and a draft of 5.7 m, she has a steel hull and steel superstructure. Andromeda today cruises with a freshly-painted hull that is finished with a smooth layer of fairing and a high-gloss layer of dark grey paint. Ulysses is a 116 m / 3807 luxury motor yacht. Since these images of Andromeda were taken in 2016, the yacht received some notable cosmetic changes ahead of the yacht's change of ownership in late 2017. Photo: Thierry Ameller & Tom van Oossanen / SuperYacht Times Of course, there are many more elements that sets Ulysses apart from Andromeda such as her custom RWD interior and reimagined deck spaces, but as the yacht remains covered under a veil of secrecy, these details will, for now, remain a mystery. Ulysses’ helicopter-carrying capabilities too have been untouched and like her smaller sister is capable of accommodating a Bell 429 or ACH135 on the landing pad, or in the helicopter hangar that comes complete with its own refuelling station. Click here for more detailed images of Ulysses's tenders. The famous U-21 multihull dayboat on Andromeda’s bow has been ditched for a more refined Princess 68 on Ulysses and the two 14-metre Naiad RIBs from New Zealand on each side of the owner’s deck have been replaced by two custom Van Dutch runabouts. The tenders themselves, however, differ greatly to those on Andromeda. The forward well deck and overall tender-storage capacity remain largely the same on the two yachts except for the touch of synthetic teak that gives Ulysses a more refined look on the foredeck. This luxury vessel's exterior design is the work of Mondo Marine and she was last refitted in 2012. Her interior is styled by design house LUCA DINI Design & Architecture and she was delivered to her owner in September 2009. Villa Reis) was built by Mondo Marine in Italy at their Savona shipyard. Two extended viewing decks have also been added to Ulysses’ design just below the crow's nest and ahead of the wheelhouse. The 40m/131'3' motor yacht 'Ulysses' (ex.

ULYSSES YACHT WINDOWS

Noticeable differences are visible in the forward section of the superstructure below the bridge, where the owner’s apartment on Ulysses now have wrap-around forward-facing windows as opposed to Andromedas’ totally enclosed and upward-angled forward bulkhead. Both yachts are built on the same MT5006 MKII platform and therefore only really differ in length more than their shared height, draft and beam. Andromeda is around nine metres shorter than her sister at 107 metres compared to Ulysses’ 116 metres total length. Photo: Thierry Ameller & Tom van Oossanen / SuperYacht Timesīoth Ulysses (blue hull) and Andromeda (grey hull) were commissioned by the same experienced owner and built at the Kleven shipyard in Ulsteinvik, Norway and later moved to Bremerhaven in Germany where the two vessels were outfitted to a superyacht standard. The following recreated images will give you a better idea of the Ulysses evolution as captured on each of their maiden voyages shortly after delivery in 20 respectively. To answer some lingering questions and put to rest any speculation about the two vessels (in their original states), we felt that a closer look at these two Norwegian superyachts was needed. Ever since the unveiling of the first Ulysses explorer yacht (now Andromeda) by Kleven in 2015 and the announcement back in 2014 that a second, larger version will also be built, these two projects have been followed with great interest by our readers from all over the world.

#Ulysses yacht

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the-pontiac-bandit · 3 years

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Kalasin + sword

Kalasin would call herself a fair hand with a sword. Had she been a knight, she could have been great. She still dreamed, sometimes, of her blade flashing through the air like Alanna the Lioness’, its speed causing the air to sing in its wake as she fought the Realm’s enemies in the same royal armor her brother wore. Instead, though, she had trained doggedly, her mother putting a sword in her hand and shoving her off to find a knight to practice with. Sir Raoul had been patient and encouraging. Sir Geoffrey hadn’t gone easy on her, even when she was a girl of only twelve, still tripping over her own feet more often than not. Sir Alanna--Kalasin’s favorite adoptive relative was Aunt Alanna everywhere except the training yards--was fierce and difficult to please, encouraging her to be stronger, faster, better. Sir Gareth was Kalasin’s personal favorite, though, because while the others had left her, sometimes one at a time, others all at once, off in a service she’d never perform, Sir Gareth was at the practice courts each morning she was at the palace, sword in hand, ready to teach.

She thought of all of her teachers as she unpacked her sword. Her new chambers were tastefully decorated in the Tortallan style. It felt familiar and comforting, in the midst of this new palace where everything was strange. She suspected her husband-to-be must have had a hand in it--even in the short three days she’d known him, he’d shown himself to be far more kind and considerate than she’d imagined possible of anyone whose title was your Imperial Majesty. Her sword shone, having been polished with care by her youngest brother Jasson as he sat on her bed at home and pretended to help her pack. She traced the enamel raven on the hilt for a moment, finding comfort in its grooves and contours, the same textures she’d felt on the weapons of her loved ones for longer than she could remember. She’d never thought to appreciate it before, but suddenly, her throat felt tight at the thought of playing with the hilt of her father’s dagger while he perched her on one hip, at the memory of sprinting through the winter snows at the palace, her first sword, a Midwinter gift from Aunt Alanna, held triumphantly in her fist.

To shake off the feeling, she pulled off her veil--an unpleasant necessity she hoped to eliminate from Carthaki fashion as soon as she’s been crowned--and kicked off her delicate Carthaki slippers. Her chambers were large, easily large enough for a few simple passes. She was certain she would not be allowed to train publicly in this new, strange land, but even His Imperial Majesty could not prevent her from practicing here.

She began one of the drills she knew best, warming up her muscles with the simple combinations of blocks and strikes. The warm air felt suffocating, daring her lungs to burn as she pushed her body further. She felt the pins holding her hair back fall, heard them clatter onto the stone floors, but she only paused long enough to kick them under her bed, where they wouldn’t cause her to trip. She’d intended only to swing the blade once or twice, to loosen her shoulders in an attempt to loosen the knot she felt in her chest, but the harder she worked, the more relief she found. Her straining muscles, exhausted by the weight of the weapon and the weight of her heavy dress, worthy of an empress, protested each pass. Her calves burned, unused to the exercise after days at sea, followed by days of pretending to be a proper and worthy bride. Despite the pain--or perhaps because of it--she found herself starting to grin, her breath coming harsh between her teeth.

The knock on her door was loud, loud enough to startle her. By its insistent tone, she guessed that her guest had knocked several times, but that she had been too engrossed in her swordplay to notice. She spared a moment’s regret for her hair, cascading down her back in an unladylike tangle, and for her veil, which would take minutes to affix properly to her head, before she opened the door, doing her best to control her breath.

It was Kaddar. She could have sworn, for just a moment, she saw a hint of surprise in his dark eyes. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, if it was ever there--he could hide his emotions better than any Yamani, she’d discovered in her days at the Carthaki court. His eyes flicked down, to the sword still in her hand, his expression unreadable.

She dropped the sword, wincing as it clattered to the floor, and bent her protesting legs in a deep curtsy. “Your Imperial Majesty, to what do I owe the honor?”

“Please, don’t,” was his reply, even as he bowed deeply in return. “Lady Lynette mentioned that you’d chosen to unpack your belongings yourself, and after the meeting with the goldsmiths’ guild, I thought I’d come offer my aid.” He smiled then, a true smile that reached his eyes. It warmed them, making him seem far more like the gangly teenager that Daine had described in agonizing detail to a nervous Kalasin than the self-assured emperor who had met her on the docks.

“Oh,” was all Kalasin could manage for a moment, doing her best to hide her shock. She could hear the Countess of King’s Reach groaning good-naturedly at Kalasin’s inarticulate response, but the Countess was now an ocean away. “I would never expect such help from Your Imperial Majesty,” she replied courteously. “But if you wish to join me in my chambers, I’d welcome your esteemed company.” She patted her back internally at the response, proud to salvage her initial shock.

“Truly, it’s Kaddar,” he smiled, stepping through the doorway. Kalasin stepped back, allowing him to pass, but instead he paused at her side. He bent down and picked up her sword, examining it with care and a hint of awe in his guarded eyes. “You fight?”

Kalasin’s hand went to her hair, intending to twirl a strand--a nervous habit she thought she’d shaken years ago only to discover it had returned with her move to Carthak--and found instead that the combination of fallen braids and complex swordplay had rendered it a veritable birds’ nest. “I was trained on the sword,” she replies, pausing for a fraction of a second as she weighed his name against his title before deciding to avoid addressing him entirely. “I still find joy in the practice, although I certainly would never expect to use it in combat.”

“Would you show me?” he asked, in a tone devoid of all imperial grandeur. It was not a command, not even an imperial request. It was kind, and he sounded as though he was already prepared for her to politely demur and redirect the conversation.

She knew that she could refuse, knew that every lady in both the Tortallan and Carthaki courts would have thought her mad not to. Instead, though, she reached a hand out for her sword. He handed it back wordlessly, retreating to take a seat on a chaise in the corner while she took a moment to shake out her shoulders.

She began one of her more complex drills, praying to the Goddess she wouldn’t stumble on the unfamiliar floors or take a chunk out of her beautiful teak four-poster a few feet away. If she was showing him she could fight, she intended to show him, after all.

She could see her blade flash in front of her, but she knew better than to follow its path. She kept her eyes trained ahead, utilizing the wardrobe a yard in front of her as an imaginary foe. It would not serve, Sir Geoffrey had reminded her over and over, to be distracted by the beauty of the blade and lose track of one’s opponent. She was light on her toes, thanks to hours of drills with the surprisingly agile Sir Raoul, and sure in her movements, thanks to Sir Gareth’s consistency in her training. Sir Alanna’s speed, and the wickedness with which she fought, were imbued in her style, and in the slashing strike with which she finished the drill, drawing the blade halfway across her body before whipping it back around her left side to finish with the point directly at the wardrobe’s imaginary throat.

She stood, truly panting now, as Kaddar started to laugh. She felt her cheeks burn as she moved to the bed and re-sheathed her sword. She put off looking at him, staring at the enamel raven for another few seconds until it would have been rude to continue avoiding his gaze.

When she turned, though, she was surprised to find joy on his face. His laugh was not mocking, she could see. It was delighted.

“That was excellent, although I don’t know how I expected anything less, with Alanna the Lioness as your godsmother. You’re quite a sight with a blade in hand,” he grinned. “And I’ve no doubt you could hold your own against any Carthaki knight.”

“Thank you,” she replied as she felt the shame sliding off her shoulders, leaving them feeling light despite the strain she’d just put on them. Her muscles still burned, her lungs still screamed for air, but she’d once again found the wide, genuine smile she’d had alone in her chamber.

Another knock on the door startled them both this time. He rose to open it, and she could see from behind that his shoulders fell. His prime minister was at the door, looking frantic with a large stack of papers weighing down his arms. Kaddar turned back to her, the disappointment even clearer on his face.

“I have to go, it seems. But I practice the sword each morning at the first bell after dawn, at the practice court on the southwest corner of the training yards. I’d really appreciate the company, as all my current sparring partners are far too concerned about my status to give me a proper fight.”

“I’d like that,” she replies, a small warmth filling her chest where it had felt knotted with grief that morning. “I’ll do my best to provide a challenge,” she paused again before adding, "Kaddar.”

#carrie answers #persephoneofhades #my writing #tortall #tamora pierce #kalasin of conte #kaddar iliniat #WHOOPS GUESS WHO SAID 100-1000 WORDS #AND THEN IMMEDIATELY WROTE 1700 #THATS RIGHT ITS ME #anyway feel free to send me more of these if y'all want (i have some i'll work on this week!)#also proofreading is for babies we don't do that here #so sorry if there are errors haha

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tabletoptrinketsbyjj · 3 years

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Trinkets, 40: Interesting baubles, semi magical objects and items touched by mystery.

A brown wooden mask sports green stripes that appear to be the color of the wood instead of being painted on. A single studded iron plate runs down the nose of the mask, stamped with a decorative "L" on the forehead.

A glass flask messily labelled “Alchemist’s Fire”. It actually contains a highly-potent cinnamon whisky.

A small bag containing a large brass coin stamped with the insignia of the archdemon of Random Evil Domain, along with a red cultist mask. There is also a map of the nearby area that indicates a meeting location somewhere in the distant woods. A perceptive PC will notice that the map reveals a passphrase “Bloodmoon” hidden within the drawing.

A scrap of parchment that reads; "Leave the jewel in a sewer grate by the church, or the next time you look into her eyes they won't be in her head."

A tool designed to crack nuts. It disintegrates shells, leaving the nuts untouched. Bloody marks between the teeth and weird stains on the handle leave disturbing thoughts as to what it has been used for recently.

A military banner bearing a black on yellow pattern with a crimson border, the center dominated by a grinning human skull spit upon a lance. Knowledgeable PC’s will recognize the sigil as that of the Mad Lancer’s an infamous cavalry unit that was a force of nature as much as a military company.

A tattered remnant of a sermon written on vellum. A certain passage reads “With the certainty of stone, we shall persevere. Each crack, each mark is not a blemish, but a testament—a history of defiance writ upon our flesh?”

A tiny porcelain doll with unnervingly human eyes.

A slender hand harp, graceful of design, small and light enough to be played in one's lap. It is carved of teak wood engraved with designs of waves and fog, with silver wire for strings.

A set of four horseshoes that seem to be magnetically attracted to hooves, requiring no additional fastening.

—Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A glass flask messily labelled “Alchemist’s Fire”. It actually contains a highly-potent cinnamon whisky.

A scrap of parchment that reads; "Leave the jewel in a sewer grate by the church, or the next time you look into her eyes they won't be in her head."

A tiny porcelain doll with unnervingly human eyes.

A slender hand harp, graceful of design, small and light enough to be played in one's lap. It is carved of teak wood engraved with designs of waves and fog, with silver wire for strings.

A set of four horseshoes that seem to be magnetically attracted to hooves, requiring no additional fastening.

A linen handkerchief embroidered with a pentagram design, surrounded by arcane symbols.

A banner in black with the image of a crow sewn into it with white silk, surrounded by arcane runes stitched in black thread. Three white silk ribbons flutter from it.

A horrific black mask carved in the likeness of a demon’s face. Massive curved horns sweep up and back out of the forehead and behind the ears, while the fangs seem to glisten as if ready to bite at any moment. When worn, the mask’s eye sockets become covered with a glassy shield that glows red. When the bearer speaks, his voice is broadcast as a guttural growl.

A small dirty wooden figurine, that of a crudely-shaped blackbird. Its eyes are glass gems, pupiless; gazing into them feels like falling into an ocean’s black depths. In its tail is a hole, through which one may string a lanyard or band. When you hold it to your ear, you can hear the faint beating of a heart that is not your own.

A four foot long rod capped at each end by a six-inch-wide band of gold and steel. The rod has a three-foot long section of clear crystal in the middle, filled with a swirling white fog.

A silver monstrance, set with gold detail, intricate in its design and covered with tiny curlicues that resemble angelic beings.

An ornately carved pipe, its bowl fashioned into the head of a satyr; whose expression is one of malicious pleasure. If the pipe is used for smoking tobacco without cleaning it out first, the bearer will be plunged into a vivid, momentary dream wherein he is being pursued across a moonlit landscape by baying hounds.

A large, sumptuous shawl or scarf of deep red and heavy silk. It is finished along all of its edges with red and golden silk tassels, and is embroidered with outlines of stylized flames in golden thread.

A woolen scarf that is knitted with the words of an ancient elven supplication to the God of Random Domain.

An ink black statuette of a beautiful woman, clothed in gossamer-like veils, holds a large bronze bowl.

A rectangular wooden box labelled “Rawshins” containing dozens of red wax spheres. The balls have some give to them and the wax can be peeled away to reveal the pickled eye of a horse. The eyeballs while horrendously unpalatable is remarkable nutritious due to the herbal mixture used to preserve them and the box contains 2d4+1 days’ worth of trail rations.

A wooden talisman carved into a screaming human face that when stared at it for more than a few seconds the observer can almost hear the sound of screaming from far off.

A silk bag with drawstring that open easily, revealing a glint of white. Inside is an elegant bone reliquary, smooth and pleasing to the touch. Polished, silvered fingerbones interlace to form a simple gate, operated by twisting a knob at the top formed from a single smooth vertebra surrounding a porcelain mechanism. Inside the small cavity is a cage formed out of rib that could have held an ancient curiosity of some sort, but now lies empty. The faintest touch of necromancy suffuses the curio, but surely any power it once held has long faded...

An incredibly detailed drawing of an alien creature.

A barnacle-encrusted piece of ancient stonework. Its touch fills the bearer’s ears with a great pressure that pulses like a dreadful giant’s heart.

A small wooden box with some silver markings on its surface. Something can be heard shifting inside, however it has neither a lock nor hinges. Cutting it open by force reveals it to be solid wood.

A Randomly Colored handkerchief with a knot in it, the owner probably had something important they didn’t want to forget.

A black shiny disk with dozens of embossed rings.

A tubular instrument that gradually broadens towards the lower end. It is made out of wood, with a double reed at one end and a metal or wooden flared bell at the other end. Known as a shehnai, its sound is thought to create and maintain a sense of auspiciousness and sanctity and, as a result, is sometimes used during marriages, processions and in temples although it is also played in concerts.

A pair of clay tankards decorated with waves of blue coral.

A well-worn brass locket with a small drawing of a dwarven woman inside, she has a fantastic beard.

A well-worn ivory drinking horn etched with indigo leaf patterns and silver cap attached by slim yet robust chain.

A small obsidian horse headed idol with peridot eyes.

A large poster that reads; “Diplomat wanted. Must fluently speak the oceanic dialect of High Draconic. Come dressed in waterproof clothes to the beach by moonrise on the seventh full moon of the year.”

A piece of paper that refuses to become uncrumpled until a spell similar to Dispel Magic or Remove Curse is cast on it. Inside is the true name of a weak outsider such as an angel or demon.

A waxed scroll on which is written a complex alchemical formula. The recipe is not titled and seems to be for some sort of explosive but an knowledgeable PC can determine that it’s actually instructions for making soap.

A small silver tuning fork. When used, the ringing sound it creates can only be heard by those who have split blood in the last 24 hours.

A beautiful piece of quartz carved in a strange but unclear style. It is perfectly still until a certain tone is played near it whereupon it then begins to vibrate and move, gyrating sinuously. The carving causes the moving rock to resemble a lithe dancer.

A petrified basilisk’s egg carved into an elaborate diorama of a strange but beautiful landscape.

A disk of clay with extremely fine etchings of semi-concentric lines that seem to spiral outwards from the center in tight, semi random wiggly spirals. It has been broken into three equal shards.

A handful of jasper puzzle pieces speckled with flecks of semiprecious stones (Citrine, amethyst, garnet, etc.) that can be assembled into the likeness of a bird of prey.

An astrological chart with alien characters drawn in silver ink.

A blood red fiddle that seems to have strings made of human veins. The music produced by it always sounds horrible and terrifying.

A six-sided die that sometimes rolls a seven

A war banner that's shredded, torn, and stained with blood, this standard has seen more than a single battle. The image of a red maw devouring sacred flames stands atop a field of black.

A wicked wand made of two withered and twisted branches, with one single leaf to the side and a small skull tied by a string at the base. The wand has a uncomfortable chill to the touch and sometimes sends shivers through the body.

A gruesome hand fan made of plucked faerie wings

A painting of a red-eyed wolf-man eating a corpse while making eye contact with the viewer. The corpse always vaguely resembles the viewer.

A stylish jet black long coat with a furred neck.

A knotted garment that fades in and out of nothingness. Knowledgeable PC's know that an order of religious monks one covered their eyes with such bindings. It is a perilous act to stare directly into the mouth of infinity. But once unburdened by vision, salvation shall be revealed.

A frozen, crystalline gland from some unknown ancient being. Hard as stone, it thaws slowly but eternally. The alien object is nearly translucent, revealing a void filled with nothing but bright, cold light. The glowing core holds a strange allure, turning the mind toward rapturous reminiscence.

A speckled owlbear hide, tooled with raised marks.

A baleful gem that glows a sickly green and tingles unpleasantly warm when touched. The sparkling object is less like a precious stone and more like the withering glare of corruption, made corporeal and pellucid in crystal.

A child's doll made from dyed, woven coconut fiber and dressed in linen.

A selection of maps, all rolled tightly together, and crammed into one tube. The maps all show the expansion of the same location over a period of 60 years, one new map every 10 years.

A dried caul wrapped in gauze, brittle but intact.

An old, fraying coat of the type a ship's captain would wear in bad weather. There is a small singed hole through the outer layers that stops at an inside pocket.

An eight inch wide roll of silk, which when unfurled is revealed to be an elaborately decorated sock kite in the shape of a koi.

A ball of high quality waxed twine with a platinum netting needle stuck through it.

A child's wooden toy animal with a note tied to it with twine that reads in childish writing "so u arnt lonly".

A crystal vial containing a pebble, ash, water and a measure of air.

A burlap bag large enough to hold a coconut. It is smooth to the touch and found in the color purple with a golden strap.

An arcane wand that is rough to hold and twists like a wild vine.

A bill from a sorcerer listing an exorbitant amount of gold for a spell to cure a terminally ill child.

A horn hair brush inlaid with small peridot stones.

A copper door handle of a manticore head holding a ring in its mouth.

A one gallon cask of Shump's Shield, a white beer with with the colour of horchata and stout beer consistency. The flavor profile is that of a milk stout with a very light hint of peppermint and nutmeg. It is typically brewed at temples to the God of war and distributed locally.

A demonic iron idol with bloodstone eyes.

A crude and somewhat obscene silver statue depicting a goblin chieftain.

A owlbear skin run.

A burlap bag containing 3d6 days’ worth of trail rations, each individually packed in waxed parchment and sackcloth and tied with string. Each packet contains an assortment of jerky, dried fruits, hardtack and nuts.

A decorative bronze key with a rose quartz in the bow.

A black-lacquered pyx decorated with pornographic images. On the sides and the lid of the small box, colorful hand-painted scenes of lurid degradation depicts men and women copulating not with one another but with jackals, hyenas, goats, and serpents. The box is brimming with coal-black crackers flecked with red. The unleaved bread has a faint but repellent odor or herbs, sulfur and vomit

A foot stool with silver-plated eagle claw feet and silken pillow.

A violet satin facemask with purple silk ties.

A quartz and horn prayer beads on a silk cord.

A crystal, bell-shaped terrarium with an easily identifiable, miniature apple tree with fruit laden branches growing from its mossy soil. The terrarium and tree within are three inches tall.

A dark leather pouch with silver clasps set with a tiger eye.

A lock of faded reddish brown hair bound and wrapped with a red ribbon strung with cowrie shells. The ribbon is embroidered in tightly stitched green thread "Return to me, my love".

An obsidian statuette of a leering gargoyle.

A porcelain pitcher with arboreal imagery.

A petrified toad with a variety of crystals growing from its back, diverse in material, color, size, and shape.

A prosthetic bronze hand with ivory fingernails.

A deed to a plot of land signed over to the church.

A bronze-plated trophy etched with two jousting figures.

A darkwood lute with silvered strings, decorated with a painting of a djinn flying island.

A silver snuff box etched with a portrait of the night sky.

A brass censer dangling from lead chains that emits smoke resembling writhing vines.

A crystal canine skull that continually burns with yellow flames that are painfully cold to the touch.

A wooden abacus with fortune telling symbols painted across its beads. It occasionally self animates and acts of its own accord, locking up for a brief moment before the beads spin wildly then stop with several symbols facing upwards before moving as normal again.

A mahogany cane tipped with corkwood and thin red leather covers its gracefully curved handle.

A cloudy white orb with a scarlet sheen to it. When the bearer stare into its depths he see shadows flickering throughout it.

A glass globe that has no visible opening on its dark clouded surface, and it is warm to the touch. Its contents appear to be a faintly glowing roiling cloud of flame.

A glass jar filled with clippings of dwarven hair and toenails.

A silver thimble containing a shimmering ballgown of spun moonlight. The ballgown is ... very see through, but can be worn over another nice dress of plain material to good effect.

A diagram of a hollow earth showing major access point below nearby city.

A porous stone flecked with emerald and sapphire dust that always feels damp to the touch.

A beautiful deck of cards resting in a strong leather pouch with an etching of a joker on the outside. The same etching is on the back of the cards.

An automaton crab. If wound up with the key in its brass carapace, it will menace any nearby animals with its snappy little mechanical claws.

A snowball warded such that it cannot melt. At its center is a small glyph-etched stone.

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thatdressgivesyoubackfatt · 3 years

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Wood Furniture Online

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djinmer4 · 4 years

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More headcanons

From the Church AU, list of the 2nd generation kids in order of birth. Culturally, most children in the Church take their mother’s last name except in unusual circumstances. For the sake of keeping things straight, I am using Kurt’s age when they were born to determine their age. He’s the oldest person (besides Logan) to appear onscreen in the fic so he’s a good benchmark for how old everyone is.

1. Talia Josephine Szardos (Sister Nocturne)

Parents: Kurt Szardos (born when Kurt was 16) x Wanda Lensherr. Talia has Kurt’s last name because Wanda left the Church to marry Vision when Talia was 5, but Kurt kept full custody of Talia.

Powers: Has a carbon copy of her father’s vampire powers.

Appearance: Straight black hair, blue skin, yellow featureless eyes, fangs, pointed ears, no fur, no tail. Has Kurt’s hands and feet. Her features mostly come from Wanda though, and so does her height; she can look her father in the eye easily.

Talia is very much a Daddy’s Girl and idolizes her father. She’s the most obedient of all his children, but also very outgoing and social. She’s not very ambitious though and has no interest in rising beyond her current position in the hierarchy. Talia adores Kitty, but she’s more a friend than a step-mother and they’re all fine with that dynamic. Talia has no children, having been rendered sterile from a miscarriage during her first pregnancy.

2. Blue Kurt Keller (Prelate der Zweite)

Parents: Kurt Szardos (born when Kurt was 22) x Mara Keller

Powers: Touch psychometry

Appearance: Probably looks the most like Kurt out of all his children, except he has brown hair instead of black and needs to use glasses.

Blue was conceived during a three month period when Kurt was investigating some embezzlement at the Winzeldorf Convent. His mother Mara was obsessed with the Inquisitor and hoped that by conceiving his child she could convince him to stay in an ‘arrangement’ with her. Kurt thought of it as a fling, and while happy to provide Mara with a stipend, he didn’t even ask to see the child. Due to her obsession, Mara has done her best to turn Blue into a carbon copy of his father, giving him his name, dressing him up in similar clothing, even forcing him to join the Inquisitor branch of the Church. Unsurprisingly, this has left Blue cold, bitter and resentful of his entire family. (Had Blue his choice, he probably would have become a musician.) Since reaching the age of consent, Blue has cut off all contact with his mother but remains in the Church since frankly, he has no idea of what else he would do. He remains an inquisitor and actually rises to the rank of prelate at an abbey (not Winzeldorf). He’s met one of his half-sisters, but the meeting ended in a screaming argument and has made no further efforts to contact anyone from his father’s side of the family. He has no children by choice (pretty much scaring anyone off during the Choosenings through hostility).

3. Dwayne Martin Luther King (no alias)

Parents: Kurt Szardos (born when Kurt was 25) x Linda King

Powers: None

Appearance: And now the kid who looks least like Kurt. Dwayne strongly resembles both his paternal uncle and his paternal grandfather, being tall (almost 2 meters), with a long face and dark, almost teak-colored skin. He cuts his hair into a short afro. The only feature he inherited from Kurt, and his only mutation are his eyes, which are human-shaped, but bright gold in color with black scelera. Since he lives in Ultramar, he usually covers this up with sunglasses.

Dwayne was conceived during a one-night stand during the same trip where Kurt recruited Katie into the Church. Linda is a prominent civil rights lawyer, and she and Kurt were celebrating the repeal of a law that barred mutants (or the Blessed) from voting in Ultramarine elections. Like Mara, Linda also received a stipend during Dwayne’s childhood from the Church, unlike Mara she was fine raising Dwayne as a single parent with the help of her extended family. Upon growing up Dwayne decided to follow in her footsteps but prefers a less legal method, working with an organization that smuggles mutants and sometimes their families out of Ultramar to countries more friendly to them (either west past the Mississippi River to the Corridor or overseas to the Church). Friendly and highly charismatic, he also participates in ‘Robin Hood’ operations designed to get funding for this version of the ‘Underground Railroad’. He knows who his father is, and while he admires him, he has no desire to follow in his footsteps or contact him. He hasn’t met any of his half-siblings, but if he did, he’d probably get along best with Talia.

4. Evan Sabah Nur (Brother Messiah)

Parents: Technically none, he’s a clone of the Church’s founder, En Sabah Nur. He was created when Kurt was 28.

Powers: Many and gaining more all the time.

Appearance: Blue-grey skin, dark eyes, bald but coves it with a black wig.

Evan is essentially a ‘proof of concept’ clone, part of a project backed by Priest Szardos. After proving their Messiah could be cloned (and no one got struck by lightning for blasphemy), Evan was raised by Betsy Braddock and Jean-Philippe outside the Church, in the hopes of giving him a normal childhood and keeping him hidden from organizations hostile to the Church. Betsy and Jean had intended to tell Evan the truth of his background when he turned 18, and have him join the Church for a career then, but when Evan was 16, the Friends of Humanity (an Ultramarine political party) discovered his existence and did a bombing run of the farm where they lived in Gallicia. Betsy and Jean died, and Szardos essentially picked him up and hauled him to St. Xavier’s for his own protection. Needless to say, when last seen, Evan was not handling the change in circumstances very well, but currently has no other place to go (not that the Church would let him leave). Szardos wants to formally adopt him, but Evan wants no relationship with the man he feels has destroyed his life. (Intellectually, Evan knows it’s more the fault of the Friends of Humanity, but Kurt’s manipulative tendencies mean Evan already has to fight for what freedom he has. Adoption would just put him more under Kurt’s control.)

5. Mikhail Cameron Pryde (Father Freedom Fighter)

Parents: Piotr Rasputin x Katie Pryde. Kurt’s adopted son, born when Kurt was 30.

Powers: Melding with solid objects. With practice, he can bring other people with him.

Appearance: Completely human in appearance, with pales skin, freckles, straight dark hair, and blue eyes. He was very short and looked a lot like Katie when he was young, but a late growth spurt shot him to about 190 cm tall when he was 17.

Mikhail grew up thinking he was Katie and Kurt’s first child and was very surprised at age 12 when he learned that ‘Uncle’ Piotr was actually his biological father. Kurt had initially trained him to follow in his footsteps in the Inquisition, but a gruesome rescue mission traumatized Mikhail into not wanting anything to do to with that branch of the Church. Instead, he followed his mother’s path into IT, and eventually became the head of that department at the Sanctuary of St. Xavier’s. Mikhail had five children by the time he was 25 (only two of whom he’s met), then opted out participating in Choosenings ever again. Kurt thinks this is due to being gay, like his biological father, because Mikhail is currently in a relationship with male Acolyte. In fact, Mikhail is asexual and decided that having his ‘5 for Forever’ was the best way to never have to have sex ever again. Of his family, only his mother knows that he’s asexual.

6. Bluebell Christine Pryde (Matriarch Lorelei)

Parents: Kurt Szardos x Katie Pryde. Born when Kurt was 32.

Powers: Very, very weak receptive empathy

Appearance: Essentially the reason Mikhail didn’t know he wasn’t related to Kurt. She resembles him greatly, with curly black hair, blue eyes, pale skin and also looks completely human. She looks mostly like her mother but inherited Kurt’s cheekbones. Unlike Mikhail she never had a last-minute growth spurt and remains at 167 cm.

Bluebell has the weakest Blessing of all of Kurt’s children (except for Dwayne), and initially thought she was the ‘failure’ of the family. When it became clear that she was never going to develop another Blessing or strengthen her current one any further, Kurt took a sabbatical for a year to help her work through this issue. During that time, it was discovered she was essentially a musical prodigy, with a genius ability for singing. Using this talent, she’s rapidly risen through the ranks, becoming the Pope’s favorite vocalist and a celebrity even outside the veil. She has fraternal twin children (a boy and a girl) who she takes with her on tour.

Bluebell is the older twin by about 50 minutes.

7. Edelweiss Terry Pryde (Prelate TRON)

Parents: Kurt Szardos x Katie Pryde. Born when Kurt was 32.

Powers: Technopath

Appearance: Like her twin sister, she mostly has Kitty’s features, but with Kurt’s tail, hands, feet, blue skin, and fur. She’s the only child to inherit Katie’s brown hair and eyes. She’s also a little taller at 175 cm which she lords over her older sister as much as possible.

Initially, when they were born, Kurt wanted the older twin to be named Edelweiss and the younger one to be named Bluebell. The twins both agree that they were very lucky that Katie talked him out of it. Edelweiss is the one child who has inherited Kurt’s ambition, although she’s also proud enough to try to make her own way through the world with as little help from her father as possible. In order to facilitate this independence, she actually transferred out of Albion to become the Prelate of an abbey in Bavaria. While she lacks a genius intellect, powerful Blessing or unique talent like some of her other siblings, Edel is a very capable administrator and it is pretty much a given that’s she’ll eventually become a Matriarch, even if not as quickly as she might like. Edel is also known for having a contrary, aggressive personality. She has a long-running (friendly) argument with Mikhail over the pros and cons of free will and is the sister who had the screaming (extremely hostile) fight with Blue. No children currently, but not due to lack of trying.

Edelweiss is the younger twin by 50 minutes.

8. Damien Carmen Pryde (Commander Black Sheep)

Parents: Kurt Szardos x Katie Pryde. Born when Kurt was 36.

Powers: Pyrogenesis and pyrokinesis.

Appearance: Has Kurt’s blue skin and yellow eyes, but no fur. Also has his hands and feet, but no tail either. Features are closer to Kurt’s but somewhat softer and rounder. The same height as Kurt but noticeably more muscular.

Growing up, Damien was the child most likely to argue and fight with his father, which contributed to the fact he decided to join the military branch of the Church and moved all the way across the Mediterranean to join the Crusade against the Sub-Saharan African Confederacy. It was essentially as far as he could get from Kurt while still being in contact with the rest of the family. (Yes, he did get to pick his own code name.) And eventually, even that wasn’t enough. Damien had one daughter who died when she was six from childhood leukemia after that Damien faked his death and defected to the SSAC. Unsurprisingly, he has not been in contact with any member of his family since that point.

9. Theodore Joseph Pryde (Acolyte Firebird)

Parents: Kurt Szardos x Katie Pryde. Born when Kurt was 41.

Powers: Seer, with fire as a medium.

Appearance: Fairly short, about 150 cm. Has Kurt’s eyes and blue skin, but otherwise is mostly human (no pointed ears, tail or fangs). Still growing, but facial features resemble Kitty, albeit slightly elongated.

Theodore Joseph gets his name from Talia, who joked that she wanted at least one sibling named after herself. As this was soon after her miscarriage that rendered her sterile (and this was going to be her last child) Katie obliged, although she couldn’t think of what the male form of Talia would be, so she chose Theodore instead. Like most of his siblings and his mother, Tedd was groomed to follow his father in the Inquisition, unlike them he hasn’t been traumatized by watching Kurt torture or kill anyone, so it looks like he’s finally managed to find a successor. Tedd’s pretty on board with this plan, he likes the investigative part of it and while like the others he finds the bloodier bits unpleasant, he considers them a tolerable minor drawback, after all, it’s not like Kurt spends most of his time torturing people. His current goal is to figure out a way to use his Blessing to fly since he can’t teleport people the way his mother can with hers.

10. Dominique Nell Thurman (no alias)

Parents: Piotr Rasputin x Neena Thurman. Born when Kurt was 44.

Powers: Metal-shift skin

Appearance: Tiny. Black hair, brown eyes, pale skin, remarkably chubby for her age, but considered very cute.

Dominique was conceived as a favor to Kurt by Prelate Singularity, essentially so Piotr would have his ‘2 for Time-Off’ and Katie wouldn’t have to keep monitoring him to make sure he was fulfilling his duty to ‘multiply’. Once again, Kurt offered to adopt the girl once she was born, but Prelate Singularity prefers to keep her with her in Ultramar.

#Headcanon #procrastination #Church AU

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tri-chiy · 2 years

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We're just beautiful people with beautiful brown eyes

----- I haven't drawn her in a while. Teak, my angry angsty child 😔 I think her family is the only ones with brown eyes and most of them have yellow eyes.

#Blue Stone #bluestone #teak #Teak Veil #my characters #original stuff #princess #hearts and stones #triart #tri-chiy

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tacitwhisky · 5 years

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Fic: Jon of the Kingsguard, pt 3

Jon x Sansa - AU where Jon goes to Kingslanding instead of the Wall, there’s no war, and he becomes a knight of the kingsguard even as Joffrey marries Sansa / AO3 Link

It happens suddenly. One moment King Robert is a laughing, roaring mountain of flesh, and the next his heart gives out and all that flesh had gone slack. All the court but for his lady wife mourns him. If Cersei feels any sorrow in her lord husband’s passing it never reaches her face, but Jon cannot bring himself to blame her for it. He has never forgotten what Robert let happen on the Kingsroad and Jon has been too many years at court to think the fat man any but a poor sort of king. Still a chill shivers through him when he hears the news.

“He’ll dismiss you as Hand,” Jon says without preamble when he finds his father in the tower of the Hand. “The moment he’s crowned Joffrey will send us back north.”

“It is his right.” Ned says wearily, the chain of interlocking hands hanging from his neck clinking softly. His few years in King’s Landing have aged him more than all those in Winterfell, beard streaked with grey. “The king chooses the hand.”

Somehow, Jon thought his father would resist the loss of Handship. It makes him pause. “You won’t fight it?”

Ned shakes his head. “Joffrey is our rightful king now, no matter what we think of him, Jon. And truth be told I am tired unto death of being Hand. I would see Winterfell again.”

Winterfell. For a moment it is all Jon can think of: the scent of weirwood and pine, the crunch of snow beneath feet and cold wind on his skin, the warmth of Winterfell’s hearth and the sight of Robb and Bran and Rickon striding forward to greet him. But he knows too what returning north would mean, and before his eyes flits again the sharp, fragile line of Sansa’s clenched jaw, the way her fingers had fisted in his sleeve on her wedding night. “Arya and Sansa cannot come with us. One is betrothed and the other married.”

“They are good matches. Sansa will be queen.”

“To Joffrey.” The name is sour on Jon’s tongue. “You know what he is, father.”

“He is the rightful heir,” Ned says sharply, and Jon frowns at the sudden change in his voice. “And it is too late to change that, not without seeing the realm bleed. No, when his grace Joffrey demands it we will go north again and Arya and Sansa will stay in Kingslanding.”

“Let me stay too.” And suddenly Jon knows what he must do, the answer to why Ned brought him south with him all those years ago even if his father had not known it then. “Name me a knight of the Kingsguard. Bastards have served before, and you have the power as Hand. No one will question your right to name a brother of the queen’s own blood.”

Ned frowns. “It is no small thing to become a knight of the kingsguard, Jon. Till death you will serve, and for whoever holds the Iron Throne, no matter how little you may love him. It is not a decision to be made lightly or on a whim.”

“You kept me from taking the oath of the Night’s Watch once, but for what?” Jon draws himself up. “I will never inherit lands or hold titles. Not in the north, and not here. But there is honor in serving in the Kingsguard, even for a bastard.”

“Even for a bastard.” Ned studies his face. “You’re sure?”

Till death you will serve. But Jon knows the answer, has always known it. I will never be a Stark but I can still do the duty of one, father. He nods, once and sharp. “You must do it now, before he is crowned, while you still hold the power of Hand. Joffrey will never name me himself.”

Ned nods, something tired in his eyes. “I will speak to Selmy.”

Tyrion answers his door with a scowl, rubbing sleep from his eyes with the heel of his palm. He blinks when he sees Jon standing in the dark of the hallway outside his chamber. “Snow? I must admit if this is a dream I’d prefer if you were rather more woman and rather less dressed.”

“Your whores.” The word grates Jon’s tongue, but it is the one that fits. There is no hiding your shame with pretty words, Snow. Half a hundred times he’d tossed and turned in his bed unable to find sleep, a shameful and restless energy grating his nerves until he’d thrown himself to his feet and dressed in the dark. Tall and forbidding the walls of the Red Keep had stared down as he slipped from his chamber, like he was a thief caught stealing through them. “Where do you find them?”

The little man shrugs. “Here and there. When you’re a lord’s son, even one grotesque as I, they find you.” His mismatched eyes peer at Jon, a shrewd look in them. “Why trouble yourself with it now?”

“I-” Tyrion is no more friend to Joffrey than Jon. The knowledge of his knighting is safe with him, but still Jon hesitates. This is the path you’ve chosen. “Tomorrow I join the kingsguard.”

Tyrion studies Jon’s face with his mismatched eyes, then abruptly grins. “Well Snow, it seems I must introduce you to Chataya then.”

It is not so late that Kingslanding is yet sleeping. Lanterns seethe like embers under the skin of the city as Jon and Tyrion ride through winding streets that lead them to an elegant two storied house. Its windows shine a deep purple and blue and crimson like a many faceted jewel peeking out from among the drab walls of the behind it. Its door is inlaid with writhing vines of bronze that flash in the lantern light as a tall woman with skin black as teak opens it before them. “Lord of Lannister,” she says to Tyrion with a bow of her head. “And your squire?”

“Oh no,” Tyrion claps a hand on Jon’s back, “this is Lord Snow, soon to be Ser Snow of the kingsguard. I’ve brought him to taste what he’ll be forswearing for a white cloak.”

“A noble cause.” If the knowledge surprises the woman she does not show it. She raises a hand to invite them inside, and Jon follows Tyrion into a common room lit by bronze lamps twisted and teased into ornate shapes. In their flicking light are scattered a half dozen girls more lovely than any Jon has ever seen, slender and curved forms reclining in cushioned alcoves. A knife of shame stabs Jon’s gut at the way lust rises in him like an ocean swell, and he jerks his gaze away.

“Marei will be ready for you shortly, my lord,” the tall woman says to Tyrion. She pours wine into a pair of copper goblets and passes them to Tyrion and Jon as she nods her head to one of the girls half hidden behind a Myrish screen. “Might I suggest Dancy for Lord Snow?”

“She does have a wicked tongue,” Tyrion muses aloud, mismatched eyes sliding to Jon beside him. Jon flushes. The girl is beautiful, freckled and lushly curved, with long red hair brushed to a copper sheen that reaches to her hip. As if she can feel his eyes on her the girl glances up at him, a slow, wicked smile turning the corners of her lips. There is nothing of her but for the red of her hair that is like Sansa, yet her smile coils something sick in Jon’s gut, and for a moment he can again feel Sansa’s fingers tangling in his sleeve, the fragile weight of her in his arms, the way her eyes had pled with him.

Jon wrenches his gaze away. I am no Joffrey. He downs the goblet in a single swallow, tongue barely recognizing the smooth ripple that marks it as Arbor Gold. “Not her.”

“Alayaya then?” The tall woman beckons forward a girl teak black and near as tall as herself. The girl rises gracefully and crosses to them, dark eyes regarding Jon calmly for a moment before bending and kissing Tyrion on the cheek. “Thank you again for the history you lent me, Lord Tyrion. A strange line the Durrandon kings.”

“Are they not?” Tywin smiles crookedly at her. “But for now your thought should be to Lord Snow here. He’s come to make himself a man.”

The young woman meets Jon’s eyes. She takes his cup and gently pulls him towards a stair off the common room. “Come my lord, I will refill your cup.”

Jon lets himself be pulled away, the Arbor Gold warm in his chest as Alayaya leads him up the stairs and to a modest room with a silk veiled bed and a mural on the wall of a pair of women caught in the throes of release. Her fingers slip from his palm as she moves to the sideboard and refills his cup.

“I’m no lord,” Jon says abruptly. He meets Alayaya’s gaze as she finishes refilling his cup. “That’s only Tyrion’s jape. I’m bastard born.”

“I am bastard too counted your Westorosi way.” Alayaya tilts her head to the side as she returns to where he stands. She hands him his cup. “My father was a summer islander like my mother, a sailor passing through Kingslanding on his way to Braavos. But among my people there is no shame in bastard birth, for the gods made not only us but our desires too, and in that way we bastards are a gift of the gods.”

“I’ve never felt a gift.” Jon laughs, the sound more hollow than he expected, and takes a long swallow. A fine vintage, but just as before his tongue catches little of it. He looks up to find Alayaya stepping closer. He swallows, finds his tongue thick. “I mean not to father a bastard tonight.”

“And I not to make one.” Alayaya smiles faintly, soft and lovely, and splays a hand on his chest. Her height makes it so all she must do is tilt her head to the side and then her lips are parting his, splayed fingers tangling in his shirt as she draws him beneath the canopy of the bed.

Jon does not last long. Alayaya stretches beside him after, lithe and dark in the lantern light as she traces faint circles across his chest and stomach, fingertips a whisper. And when those fingertips have again begun to coil a heat she slides down and takes him into her mouth, makes him as achingly hard as though he’d never spent his seed.

The second time Jon lasts longer. She sways above him, lantern light flickering along the curves of her arms and throat and dark tips of her breasts, hips grinding slow circles against him. She leans over him, arches against him, skin fever-hot, and then he can hold the growing pressure in him no longer. Alayaya seems to know without words, teeth nipping the hollow of his collarbone as she reaches down and pulls him from her, fingers milking his length as he spends into her hand.

“You may stay, my lord,” she tells him after, as he gathers his breeches and shirt. She rolls onto her stomach, dark eyes shining up at him. “We will speak or sleep and perhaps after a time lie together again.”

Jon shakes his head. Shame he expects the stab of, but instead all he feels is a marrow-deep calm. This is the path you’ve chosen. This is what you will forsake. He pulls his shirt over his head. “Tomorrow I am knighted.”

“Ser Snow,” Alayaya sing-songs, tilting her head. “A good name. Come back to us when you have it and I or Dancy or Marei will moan it in your ear.”

“Tomorrow too I take the oath of the kingsguard.”

“And?” Alayaya rolls to her side, stretches like some great languid cat, the curves of her sweet against the mattress in a way that even though he is twice spent makes Jon's groin ache. “Come all the same. You will not be the first of your white brothers to visit our house.”

All men are weak. Even his father had succumb to temptation once, but what worth is a knight who cannot keep his vows? For some reason again Sansa’s face floats before his eyes, and Jon shakes his head. “I mean to keep my vows. But… thank you. For this.”

Alayaya accepts with a dip of her head and a faint smile. “Fare well, ser knight.”

AN: Just as a heads up, though she is one of my favorite side characters, this isn’t going to be a Jon/Alayaya fic.

#fanfic #jonsa #jonsafic #gotfic #jon snow #sansa stark #alayaya #jon of the kingsguard #my fic

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bubblesthemonsterartist · 5 years

Note

Cat in the Cradle: is the witch really going to give up that easily, having been thwarted once by Obi?

Prompts are currently closed while I catch up. I will announce when I am open! :)

A/N: An installment of Our Place in the Stars.Takes place after Nightmares.

Content Warning: This entire series has allusions to ahistory of sex work and involuntary servitude. This chapter is no different.

He wishes he took Miss’s orders to sleep a little lessseriously last night.

For now that his fast has been broken, with so few hoursto boot, he is delirious, disoriented, and dizzy. The motion of his hands andhis mind no longer work in perfect concert with the other, the distancebetween one place and the next is longer than his memory.

But the draught had done it’s duty, lulling him to slumber deeper than he had any right to.

(“Take this,” Miss says, pushing the steaming mug intonumb hands. The brew is black. Nothing good ever came from a medicine that wasbrewed to black. “It will help.”

Eyeing is dubiously, he takes a delicate sniff, thenrears back, nose traveling up his face to escape it. “Can I take it tomorrow?”

“Obi,” she huffs. “You haven’t slept through the night indays. This will help.”

He peers up at her from under the veil of his lashes, ather puffed up cheeks and her tiny body forming a barrier between him and thedoor. Then back down to the drink.

“I’m fine, Miss,” he smiles, every beautiful tooth baredas he holds the cup back towards her. “Our walk was very refreshing. I think Ican sleep just fine without it now.”

She crosses her arms, staring down at him.

Wilting, Obi cradles the mug against his chest. Takes in the potion again. Hecan already taste the bitter that hovers in the air, the particular mix ofherbs meant to numb his brain to something approaching quiet. It looks like ascrying mirror, it is so thick, like something a traveling nomad would brew to tell him that he would soon come into a fortune if he would part ways with just a little bit more gold.

A little twigthat the strainer didn’t catch floats about its depths.

Oh well. Nothing to be done about it. “Down the hatch,”he mutters, and tilts his head back to take it whole.

Ye gods, what is inthis? He only manages about half the draught before his tongue rebels, throatclosing against it, and then he’s coughing, liquid spraying as the mugdisappears from his hands. Swallowing, he bends over his knees, gasping betweeneach wrack of breath that escapes his body.

Miss is already sitting on the bed next to him. “See?”she tries, patting him on the back as he rubs the moisture from his eyes. “Itwasn’t that bad!”

If he could sit up straight, he tell her with his facewhat he thought. As it is, he has to find his words.

“Au contraire,” he wheezes, wiping off the liquid drippingfrom his chin with the back of his sleeve. “It’s worse.”)

But if his men notice, they don’t say anything. Makiricertainly doesn’t, instructing him in passing to oversee the security for the meetings.

So he does. Just… alone.

(“Are you sure, commander?” Jirou asked, leaning inclose. “I can send one of those idiots to take care of sweeping the meetinghalls.”

Obi thinks of Hiro, with his round, boyish face and hiswide smile. Of Kune, with his new wife and a baby on the way. Of Shinto, hissoft voice and brass laugh. Each and every one of them didn’t sleep for two nights in a row after he told them about his first days in Laxdo.

“I’m sure.” Obi claps his second on the shoulder, smilefirmly in place. “Though if I’m bewitched again, it’s your responsibility getme the best scratching post and only the finest collar.”

Jirou grunts, crossing his hulking arms in disapproval,but he says, “Would you like it to be belled or spiked?”)

It’s not a hard task, not in this city, where a glare ora pointed look is enough to send any busy bodies scrambling. After scatteringthe third anthropologist and the second historian from their hiding places, he thinks that the wingmight be close to ready.

Though, he muses, rounding the corner. He might have totake extra precautions from keeping that biologist from returning to her study spacethat shouldn’t have ever been a study place in the first place.

(“But it’s quiet here! And all the study rooms in thelibrary are taken. I’m working on my thesis,” the woman whines in a way that reminds him too much of Suzu,piling one paper on top of another so slowly that he might tear out his ownhair. “Are you sure I can’t stay? I’m only taking up a corner!”

Obi smiles through grit teeth. “Only if you desire to beturned into a mouse. There’s a Samese witch here, you know.”

Her lips press together in a thoughtful manner, the roundlenses of her glasses making her grey eyes enormous. “I always wondered howtransfiguration affected the body. If it existed, I mean,” she mulls, hands staying upon her task. “Doyou think it is even possible to make something the size of a human intosomething as small as a mouse? I imagine I would have to be turned intosomething of like size, maybe a wolf. There’s so many bones in the human body,though. Do you think they break to condense into a smaller form? Or fusetogether? I wonder if the internal organs mo-”

He really should have known not to give her that option.“Mistress Kazune,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Please leave. Now.”)

The room at the end of the hall is the last, and most obnoxious.The carved teak has been primed to shine, the glossy surface of the tablereflecting the centerpiece of evergreens. Circling, he runs his fingers underthe edge, ducking down to check the legs of each chair and each cushion, when asudden blast of cold air sends the curtains of the far wall billowing.

Skin prickling, Obi bristles, crossing over to close thebalcony door. For a city so northward, so obsessed with every burner going at all times,you would think they would only open themselves to the out-of-doors to thespring, but it is a constant battle to explain to his Miss’s maids that doorsand windows lock for a reason-

Clucking his tongue, Obi pushes aside the curtain,grabbing hold of the knob.

“Leave that open, if you will. The air is so stagnant in theserooms. It’s like no one ever uses them.”

Obi has not spoken Samese in years. Has not evenpracticed the syllables on his tongue. But, as Garrack and Shidan and everyscholar he’s ever met is so prone to pointing out, his memory is excellent.

Slowly, he cranes his head, looks over his shoulder. It’snot often that someone is able to sneak up on him, but if anyone were to, itwould have to be-

Them.

Between her two hulking guards, the red of her veils burnagainst gray stone. Her other guard, the giant dog who stands as high as themeeting table, sniffs at the floor. Eyes following, Obi hopes that it is not inspiredto take a piss. It would really be a hassle to put the maids through securityagain on such short notice just because of a little puddle.

“Thank you. It is… refreshing,” she says, hands claspingtogether. Then, with a twist of her head, her voice lowers. Carries authoritywhen she says to her companions, “Leave us.”

Back drawing up straight, Obi’s shoulders go so tightthat it is pain. And her guards don’t so much as answer as grunt, turningtowards the exit. Obi moves to follow.

“No, no.” Something in her voice trembles, sounds amused. “Not you.”

It’s nothing short of an order, though, and while he hasnot been- been that since he was aboy, his joints lock up, rooting him to place and staring helplessly as thedoors close behind the two behemoths. And he wishes, just once, that Miss washere. Or Jirou. Or even Makiri. That someone was present that would rescue him,too.

The touch of a wet nose to the back of his hand bringshim back to himself, eyes coming back to focus on two brown eyes and a lollingtongue staring up at him.

“And what about him?” he asks, voice as dry as a two daytrek across a desert.

The dog licks its great maw, tail giving two quickshakes, and then it- it licks at hishand. Like a connoisseur of flesh. Like it’s testing if he is going to need a little seasoning before enjoying a mid-day snack of escaped-slave a-la-mode.

“Her,” the witch corrects. “What’s wrong? Does the littlekitten not like the big dog?”

She laughs, pleased with herself and Obi’s jaw ticks asher pet nuzzles at him, sliding its nose underneath his palm.

“Come now, it’s a joke,” she tsks, patting her leg, andhis assailant is immediately called away. “I’m very funny.”

Subtly turning his hand towards his trousers, he rubs offthe lingering sensation. “As you say.”

She hums, floating towards him, and his heart gives threeloud bangs inside the cavern of his chest.

“Don’t.”

Obi pauses, blinking, and he- he takes stock of himself,tries to figure out what he has done, and-

His left hand flexes around steel, the tip of his pinkytouching leather behind his back. His heart still races, though, his mind stillscreaming danger! so he lets themlinger, lets them hold that reassuring cold of tempered metal still tucked awayin his belt.

“You,” she sighs, dipping her head to catch his eyes. Heturns them further away. “You’re one of ours, aren’t you?”

His lip curls, fingers wrapping around a hilt. “Never.”

Arms crossing, she straightens herself and he can feelthe weight of her glare like a physical touch. “No need to hiss, kitten. I knowyou belong to her.”

Blinking, Obi forgets himself, head snapping in herdirection, but she’s moving away, looking towards the window at the snowfallblanketing Lyrias.

“Still, though,” she comments, voice distant. “You are a brave little one, living so closeto the border. It would just take the wrong set of eyes and a greedy hand tocarry you back.”

A cold sheen of sweat spreads across his face, and it’snot like- not like he didn’t know that. Not like he didn’t weigh thepossibilities when he followed his Mistress from the safety of the south to theuncertainty of the north, but still- It’s been years since the wars. Yearssince someone has seen another with a face like his in these lands, and- “Noone here knows.”

“Kitten,” she looks her shoulder at him, and he’s madebreathless, the light striking through the material of her veils just so he cansee the white of her eyes. “Everyone knows.”

The cold sickly feeling spreads, eyes watering as ifpunched straight to the nose. “Then why? Why,” he swallows, words battling fordominance between the world he was born to and the world his mistress insistedwas reality. But, despite Miss’s insistence, her tempered demands that he believeher and not them, he can think of no better word. “Why enchant me?”

“Ah, that… embarrassment.” She sighs, rolling hershoulders. “That was not meant for you.”

Obi stares, lost, then whispers, “Then why her?”

She hums, and fabric ripples as she moves, as she comescloser. “She makes herself too small. Like you.”

He’s not expecting it, though he should. He’s far too outof practice, unable to stand still any longer as those above him take him into appraisal, holding hisjaw between forefinger and thumb, turning his head one way then the next,prying back lips to check teeth and pressing on the skin below his eyes tocheck for yellowing. So when her hand appears, still gloved in that thickfabric and so near to his face, he roots himself to the ground. And waits.

After several breaths, his eyes slowly flutter open – hehadn’t even known he closed them – and he- stares at her. At the way her handhovers between them.

“Your witch,” she says slowly, carefully. “She treats youright?”

Obi rears back. “My mistress,”he hisses, “is only kind. Even if I were to deserve-”

He cuts himself off, biting his tongue. But it’s toolate. He’s revealed too much. Stirred up too many memories of that day in theforest, of how she bowed to his failure, asked him to fail her again-

Her hand lowers. “And why would you deserve it?”

Brows furrowing, he blinks at her, trying to figure outwhat she’s about, why should would ask him to state the obvious. “I’m cursed.”

She tsks, breath strong enough to move her veil. “Nowthat’s some lie.”

He stares at her. “But- in Wati-”

“Wati.” Shespits out the name like it’s a blasphemy, drawing herself up while he shrinks.Even though she is no taller than Miss, he is like a boy before her. “Thatcountry of heretics? Why would you go to such a place?”

Gaping, he stumbles over his words, “It wasn’tintentional. I just crossed the steppes and-”

A noise, not unlike the grumble of an aggrieved camel,vibrates from beneath the veils. “What gives warmth to this world?” she clips.

It’s a struggle to remain standing, to not follow the urge to sit at her feet,to retain and recite like the schoolboy he used to watch through open windows in the summer, but that’s not what she wants. He doesn’t think so, atleast. Obi’s lips part and, for once in his life, he is unsure of whether tospeak.

Palms smacking together, she raises her voice. “I askedyou a question, kitten. What gives warmth to this world?”

His mind, the sure thing that it is, goes perfectlyblank. “The, ah, sun?”

“Yes!”

Obi jolts at her enthusiasm, the way she claps her glovedhands in praise instead of as a method for drawing his attention. And issomewhat shamed with that pleased little warmth that blooms in his chest.

“The sun gives light to this world,” she says, her voice softening.“Grows the plants that the animals eat. Melts the snow at the end of winter.And what color is this sun?”

“I- Uhm.”

“What color are your eyes, kitten?”

Swallowing, Obi shakes his head, backs a few steps awayand- and this can’t be happening. This has to be some sort of dream. Some sortof new nightmare. She can’t be serious.

“You have eyes like a leopard that are the color of thesun,” she says earnestly, closing the distance he creates. “Why would that becursed?”

His mouth parts to answer, so sure, so very sure that sheis wrong. That he is right. But he can’t. Not before a Red Witch, of all people.

“My- my Master. When I was a boy. He kept me hidden, toldme I would only do harm if I left his house.” Not that it stopped him fromtrying. The marks that etch up and down his calves are proof enough of that. “BeforeI- I left, he said I was damned. That’s why the temples wouldn’t have me.”

“Sit, boy.”

He stares at her, so lost, so disbelieving. “But-“

“I said sit.”

It’s been years since he was so easily beckoned, but hedoes what she wills, tumbling to the ground, legs barely crossed, and she- she joins him.

“Look at me.”

His eyes try to latch on to anything but the color ofred.

“Look.”

There is nothing else to latch onto, so he does.

“I feel warm just looking at you. Blessed,”she says, so simply. Like she isn’t tearing down and putting back together hisentire world. “Just like when I stand next to your witch. Though I am starting to see why the two ofyou found the other.”

His mind rebels. Screeches and spits. No matter what she said, he still has his memories. He knows the way people’s eyes fell from his when he looked upon him is the truth. The way the others scurried from his path is not a lie. It isn’t his imagination that remembers the whispers into ears and the exchange of coin - the goldthe same color, they said, as his eyes.

Whata lucky find, they murmur, touching his chin to tilt his head back. Hewill bring so much more of it.

“But my Master-”

“He lied to you,” she interrupts. And her words arefinal. Law. Touched with the heat of anger. “He was selfish. Kept you from oursight. All of them did.”

He shifts, uncomfortable, until the slippery slide of herglove touches his face and he jolts, staring straight into the veil.

“If we had known-” She clucks her tongue, thumb smoothingdown his cheek, and he’s been a man for years – years longer than he shouldhave been – but it takes every last bit of his will not to bow forward, to not buryhis face in her lap and let her soothe whatever hurt she could find. “If we hadknown, you would have been brought to the coven, been given a true Mistress.And oh, how we would have spoiled such a face as yours.”

His shakes, and- this room is cold, suddenly. So cold.“But I-”

“Hush,” she commands, a single finger to his mouth. “You would have beeneducated and dressed well, never knowing cold save when you went outside toplay. Been given a bed of your own alongside the other little boys blessed justlike you. And we would have protected you, little one. We would have made sureyou were safe.”

“I-” His voice chokes out and he shakes his head to clearit. “That sounds… nice.”

“It’s the will of the gods that we witches shelter you,”she says, so certain. Like she didn’t lay every single dream of his since he wastaken from his parents at his feet. “That a foreign one found you that is proofenough, hmm?”

To his everlasting horror, his eyes blur, leaking withouthis will, but he can’t look away. So he simply nods.

“So lucky,” shemurmurs, almost to herself as she runs her fingers through his hair. He’s followsthe touch, helpless. “That’s the reason your Master kept you like he did,child. He was trying to keep that luck for himself.”

He weak, so weak. And it’s that weakness that makes himask, “But how can I be lucky if I can’t-” Heat prickles his face, the beginningof a blush more mortifying than him purring like a housecat on his mistresseslap, but he pushes forward. “I can’t- be touched. Even by those that I want totouch me.”

The snort, he is not expecting. “Spirits,” she mutters, headtilting towards the ceiling and the boreholes of stones above them. “You sendme here to find an unimaginable treasure in this desolate place and it is ashorny as a young buck in the spring.”

His lips twitch, but then he flattens them, mustering upsomething like a glare that only makes her laugh more.

“Kitten,” she sighs, moving closer. “You don’t seem to becomplaining right now. Are you sure you can’t stand to be touched?”

He stares at her, uncomprehending, but then her handmoves again, carding through the bristles of his hair and he- his eyes pulsewide, mouth falling slack.

“All wounds can be healed, little one,” she cooes, thesilk of her gloves brushing his temples, smoothing down his neck.

He stares. “But-”

“Your woundscan be healed.”

Obi shakes his head, the whole world trembling beneathhim. “That’s not- it’s not-“

“That doesn’t mean they go away,” she whispers, takinghis hands between hers, thumbs rubbing along the lines of his knuckles. Across the memory of pain. “Woundsscar. Especially ones that have been left to fester. But that doesn’t mean theywill never close. You just have to stop picking at them.”

His mouth opens and shut, unsure of how to work. Unsurehow to pass the enormity of what he’s feeling, so he says, “You’re not going todrug me again, are you?”

All at once, she sags, the weight of her palm heavy inhis lap as she slaps the other to her forehead, but his chest- it feels lighter. He thinks he just made her laugh. Hehopes he did.

“That enchantment wasn’t meant for you,” she says, flat.“But the spirits work in mysterious ways.”

His lip twitches. “Is that a no or-”

If he could see her face now, he is certain he would haveearned himself a full glare. It’s a wonder that this knowledge doesn’t terrify him.That he finds himself breathing so easily when it would be nothing for her tostrike him down. “I don’t think either of us would survive that humiliationshould it happen again.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but then he remembers whatit had felt like, waking up on his mistress’s lap, how warm she had been, howsoft and giving, and the exact way that his heart had shattered with the simpleknowledge that he could not bear it.

“Unless you would like more gifts of catnip. I heard that it can be particularly daunting to keep the stockrooms in the pharmacy stocked in the winter. Really, your King should learn how to better manage his roads-“

Flushing, he bites back, “Point taken.”

Humming, she says, “Glad to know we’re on the same page, then.”

He eyes her, words carefully chosen. “It may be one ofthe few places that we are.”

Her hand clasps his, fingers wrapping the back of hishand and she squeezes. Hard. “Come early tonight. To the ritual. I will haveyour brothers show you what should have been yours.”

Before he can answer, he has a face full of dog, it’sgiant paws crawling up his thighs and great pink tongue lapping at his cheek sosuddenly he nearly topples over. It’s the shock of the door banging open thatkeeps him upright, that keeps him from scrambling away from the cumbersome thing,and he turns his head, wide eyed and shocked to find Lady Haki and Lord Makiri staringat him.

The great dumb creature, having done its duty ofembarrassing him further, leaves him, barking twice at the newcomers as ittrots up to the Arleon heirs.

“Ah,” the witch says, clapping her hands together. “Excellenttiming. I was just about to teach your young kitten here the secrets of uswitches. I’m glad you stopped me.”

“We are eager to continue the exchange.” Mistress Haki’sface is cool, composed, but he sees himself reflected in the tail of her gaze,the look she casts over him concerned. “When we heard you came early, it wasdecided that we need not wait.”

“Very good, very good,” The witch hums, a pleased noise,smacking her lap and levering herself up. “No need to waste any more precioustime.”

#bubbleswrites #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #obiyuki #brothel backstoy au #claudeng80

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arabella-beaumont-blog · 6 years

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“Good luck.”

// Night washed over the landscape, turning the hills that surrounded the small valley into black monoliths that loomed against a midnight-purple sky speckled with bright stars. Suddenly, two figures materialized seemingly out of the mist in the middle of the narrow stone road which cut through the dark heart of the surrounding wood; one frame small and lithe, while the other was large and broad. The two began their walk forward at a leisurely pace, their footsteps masked almost entirely by the gentle, wicked whispers of the late autumn wind.

“I fucking hate apparating.” The hulking figure shrugged in an uncomfortable way while he spoke, as if trying to physically shake off the unpleasant feeling of the magical form of travel. “We should have just taken my new bike out for a spin! I just got it back from this shop in London which put chrome all along the trim and-” The female shot him a glance, a perfectly manicured dark eyebrow deviously arched and a deadly smirk full upon her blood-red lips, and he stopped mid-sentence. “My father pays you so well, and yet all you can think to spend your money on is some muggle death trap? Why am I not surprised.”

Her gaze turned away from the look of obviously feigned offense on his face and back to the path ahead toward the Manor she had called home for most of her life, letting out a small scoff. Ivareth absentmindedly brushed a stray, sienna curl out of his eyes as his expression melted from its dramatic mask of hurt to its true form of devilish mischief. He draped one of his tree-trunk sized arms around her slender shoulders casually, her posture reactively bending slightly under its weight, and pulled her closer for what might have been a hug, though he was not quite that foolish, so the gesture was more of a calculated embrace. “You and I both know that nothing fun ever came without a little risk, darlin’. What are you so afraid of, anyway? I think, if you ever gave it a proper ride, that you’d be absolutely mad for it.”

He flashed Ara a would-be suave wink of his gunmetal orbs, and was met with a greatly aggravated sigh and the roll of her own honeyed-hazel ones. It was not the first time in the thirteen years she had known him that he had made a thinly veiled innuendo, and it would surely - and unfortunately- not be the last. In their youth, Ara had blamed his childhood upbringing in America for making him so forward and crass, but now she knew it was just an intrinsic trait that came bundled along with the rest of his annoyingly rogue-ish personality. “Someday you’ll realize you’re not even half as clever as you think you are, Rouge.” The witch was the one to shrug this time, removing his arm from her and quickening her pace.

A chuckle rumbled deep from Ivareth’s chest as he easily lengthened his gait to keep up with her. “You know you love me. Otherwise, you would have killed me a long time ago. Yet here I am, standing tall, purely thanks to the good grace of the one and only Arabella Beaumont.” His tone was once again dripping with sarcasm, and she gave another roll of her golden eyes, but this one was lighter than before; more out of the downright absurdity of the idea that she could ever be in love with him than anything else. One corner of her mouth raised in a venomous half-smile, and there was a rare, genuine flash of amusement at their banter glinting in her eyes as she shot a glance at him. “And don’t you forget it.”

Ivareth opened his mouth to quip back at her, but their conversation was abruptly cut short by an extreme wash of cold as they stepped through the defensive enchantments - their wands being automatically recognized by the wards her parents had put in place long ago. Before them now was the sprawling expanse of Grimoire Manor a short distance away; home to the Beaumont line for as long as anyone in the family could remember. It was an incredibly imposing building, with a high, pointed, wrought iron fence lining the walkway to the great teak doors - whose black wood contrasted against the bone-white ivory of the main house - and all of its pointed spires clawing viciously towards the midnight sky. It was the beautiful cage Arabella had been locked in for most of her life, and returning here put her in a particularly foul mood - souring what spark of dark mirth had ignited on her walk with Ivareth.

The two walked in silence now, their footsteps echoing off of the mottled marble pathway. Ivareth knew better than to try and playfully irritate Arabella when she was so close to the source of a lifetime of seething anger and painful memories, and she was mentally putting up all of the walls necessary to protect herself for the task that lay on the other side of the huge, dark doors ahead. When the two reached the doorstep, Ivareth turned to her. The mischief in his eyes had been replaced with concern, and he stared at her for a moment as he tried to find words. Shenarrowed her gaze, staring daggers at him as a cold rage began to bubble up from her core as she let out an angry hiss. “I don’t need your sympathy. Stop looking at me like that.” Ivareth did as she asked and looked away, rubbing the back of his neck with his broad, calloused hand as he accepted that there was nothing he could do to help. The man grudgingly turned away, a heavy sigh escaping the part in his lips as he did so. But before he strode off back into the night, he couldn’t help but utter one last phrase to her; “Good luck.”

And with that, Arabella stood alone on the doorstep to a place she loathed above all others. She took one final, deep breath of the cool air as she steeled herself for what was to come and blocked the flood of horrible memories that this placed held. After a few seconds, a small, pale fist raised and rapped thrice on the black wood. The sound echoed around her for what felt like a small eternity as she waited for an answer. Finally, there was a flood of wan, bitter grey light as the massive door swung open, revealing the tall, thin frame of a man before her.

His hair was her own swirling raven color, with elegant streaks of silver which somehow only served to enhance his refined air of style. He had the same high cheekbones and gaunt expression, and was dressed in a rich suit of perfectly tailored dark silk which devoured any light that dared touch it. When he spoke, there was nothing but a familiar, icy form of utter indifference - completely devoid of any emotion whatsoever, another trait she had inherited from him. “Hello, daughter.” //

#hp rp #harry potter roleplay #hp rpg #hp rp community #black and white #fantasy rp #original character #mature rp #arabella #hp rp blog #good luck #harry potter #hp roleplay

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marchdrill9 · 2 years

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The Method To Save On Catering For A Wedding?

As time is too short for a big meal, smaller groups of a few folks will go to a restaurant and order a quick meal to eat. These dishes tend not to be shared and are often single plate meals or a plate of rice with a spoon of meals from two or three giant pots of pre-prepared dishes. Developing that idea additional we now have regional cuisines in addition to cultural cuisines that kind a part of these. As an example, Phuket has a massive number of individuals who eat vegetarian or “Jae” food and have a pageant devoted to it as properly. Hence numerous localized and specialised vegetarian dishes most common on the island. Thai food encompasses a wide range of styles from bbq to stir fry, curries to spicy salads, soups to steamed dishes and porridge to crispy insects. Ganjang Gejang is recent uncooked crab marinated in soy sauce. Ganjang gejang is also called ‘bap-dodook’ (밥도둑), which means rice thief. You will understand why it’s known as rice thief when you end your first bowl of rice in the blink of a watch. Pancit Estacion and Pancit Estacion Negra within the province of Cavite is an instance for growing the elements using the obtainable resources within the area. Instead of using noodles, they used beans sprouts in its place. For a lot of the producers of pancit dishes, they're also recognized for producing their iconic elements such as their noodles and toppings (e.g., kikiam). This developed the culinary abilities of the neighborhood and sustains the identity of the Culinary Heritage. And from this context, it is already thought of as the area’s culinary heritage worth. Some examples are Pancit Batil Patong and Cabagan from Cagayan Valley Region; Pancit Habhab from Quezon Province and Pancit Bato from Bicol Region. Likewise, it is also noticed that a lot of the panciterias or a person who're offering pancit dishes are located in major public areas corresponding to public markets . It postulated that culinary identities of the neighborhood are principally developed by the group, which is mostly located in public areas like streets, main port areas, business centers, and the like. Creative Providers Catering Whether it's a BBQ, marriage ceremony, fundraiser, corporate occasion, we received you covered! The staff at All Occasions Catering strives to excellent each event which is why we're always attentive to your specific needs and wishes. If you wish to be part of a fantastic team, then you definitely've found the right place! We are accepting purposes to add to our ever-growing group. We provide versatile on-line scheduling and the flexibility to work around your calendar. Our in depth range of catering providers can provide the proper touch to any occasion or celebration. 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Regardless of what you resolve to serve, providing breakfast for large group occasions will be the key to success and value less than a fancy dinner or corportate occasion . Before renting a shuck truck, ensure that none of your guests are allergic. This may be accomplished via an RSVP or a kind you send out during the marriage ceremony planning. If making your reception a kids-free occasion just isn't feasible, look into catering providers that offer a children discount. Typically, caterers will give discounted charges to children below the age of 12, generally even sixteen. The cocktail hour is a method for guests to socialize and entertain themselves as photos of the marriage celebration are taken. By having these pictures taken before the marriage, the cocktail hour will not be necessary. If you choose to go “BIG” and hold your celebration right here, there are some ways to hold down costs. 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Sandwiches, while best for combining multiple body wants directly, pose a tough state of affairs if there isn't a choice for refrigeration. With lunch meat being able to spoil, the last thing you wish to serve up your athletes is meals poisoning. Make sure to take measures to make sure any meat is saved correctly. Even if your venue isn’t outdoors, popsicles or Freezies are an excellent treat.

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