the faceless : text-only appendices

This is how I imagine Izzy and Archibald

So following this drawing with Ludwig and Maria i wanted to add a couple of characters to join! (Gratia & Izzy)

Don’t worry Archibald, this is Izzy’s way to express affection! Oh lucky for you. And the other lad is a younger version of the bestial hunter that i headcanon to be Izzy’s brother (i named him Oto for now).

ARCHIBALD !!!!! PLS PlS PLS ID LOVE TO SEE HIM IN YOUR STYLE

Also please get well soon

Sorry this one took me so long! I had to do some digging for Archie. I like the idea of him constantly having staticky/floating hair because of how much they work with electricity! Also lightning Lichtenberg scars because yeah :)

Do people just start dressing up as themselves for trick-or-treating in the setting with nothing left to fear? 🤔

spot the difference

@salemsanguine

What are your thoughts on Archibald working for School of Mensis? This is implied quite strongly! Did Archibald have no choice, or School of Mensis simply offered more opportunities and freedom for his "weird" research, or he genuinely thought Micolash was better leader in general? Or was it Micolash himself that bribed Archibald to work with him instead, since his research provided weapons extremely effective against those blue Choir toddlers? Or maybe School of Mensis simply vulture'd his weapons and inventions for themselves after Archibald was gone?

I just think that he is the underrated Mensis Squad's fourth girl fsdfdds

These are more my thoughts and headcanons than serious theories:

1. My first thoughts were that Archie was imprisoned from start to finish, was there and had to create weapons against his will. He finally dug a tunnel to escape from prison. He encountered the closed gate of Old Yharnam, and there was no one to open it for it was already a dead city. Archie transformed into Dark Beast.

This theory also assumes that Archie and Paarl are the same person. But on the other hand, if Archie and Paarl are the same person, why are they two different names? Even if he didn't turn into this particular beast, it's still possible that he ended up as a beast, because that's what the cut dialogue suggests.

2. It is possible that he came to Yahar'gul because Mico encouraged him with his freedom of action. And everything was fine until some conflict occurred between them. That's why he was imprisoned.

3. I like to think that Archie is the evil version of Nikola Tesla :D After all, he is described as "infamous". Btw, Tonitrus is similar to a Tesla transformer! And fun fact, tonitrus means lightning in Latin. Archie was a foreigner (according to the cut dialogue) and of course a madman doing crazy and dangerous experiments with electricity. First he experimented on darkbeasts, then he learned to generate electricity himself. Both were extremely dangerous.

In this version of my theories, Archibald was never imprisoned, but Paarl, the escaped experiment subject, was imprisoned and eventually escaped.

The hunters were afraid of both electricity and Archie. He was madman and eccentric and they were never sure if he was going to do something dangerous around them. He even looked strange and suspicious. He looked as if he had just been electrocuted. All his hair was sticking out in a different direction and on top of that his strange, creepy smile made people around him (except Mico xD) feel uncomfortable.

Mico allowed him to work without restrictions in exchange for weapons. I like to think they worked very well together. They understood each other well as madmen :D Although they argued sometimes. Archie had some ideas that seemed useless to the School. He wanted to create certain inventions, such as an engine or a radio, but in such a rotten city as Yharnam, only blood and religious fanaticism mattered (and cosmic shit if we're talking about School of Mensis and Choir), not civilization progress (in the technical sense). Mico was only interested in weapons that could effectively harm the Choir. To be honest, Archibald didn't care about civilization progress either. He was simply very curious which of his ideas and inventions would work. That's why Mico had to remind him every now and then "hey, you were supposed to do something else!"

I like to think that Archie died in some pathetic way, e.g. he was eaten by some beast or electrocuted to death xD Or some experimental subject escaped and mortally wounded him as revenge. Anyway, I imagine how the scholars found Archie's corpse:

Micolash: Yeah, that's sad. Anyway...

Damian: Heaven gained another angel today 😭💔

Archibald in hell: WHERE'S LAURENCE

So yes, I can say he's Mensis Squad fourth girl xD

🤥 LYING, ☀️SUN, 🕷️SPIDER, 🙉 HEAR-NO-EVIL, 🎭 MASKS, ☁️ CLOUD for Izzy!

💢 ANGER, 😨 FEARFUL, 🙈 SEE-NO-EVIL, 🌱 SEEDLING, 👑CROWN, ☁️ CLOUD for Archibald!

(Asks from this ( x ) meme)

(Yeah, this ask meme is originally for OCs x) I just mentioned in the original reblog that sending asks for canon characters, especially very obscure ones was okay too!)

For Izzy:

🤥 LYING - are they good liars? do they have tells to show they're lying?

Izzy can lie, but doesn't want to! People mostly can't tell she's lying unless she lets them know, and she will snap and admit bullshit because of the pure discomfort. She just prefers to be direct! The one successful lie she committed to was pretending to join the League on their own terms, hiding that her true motivation was to study whatever weird "filth" Valtr was raving about and hopefully benefit from it!

☀️ SUN - are they a morning person? what is the first thing they do in the morning?

Izzy's mornings are normally long and idle, she takes her sweet time to "properly" wake up always chilling for some more time in bed, combing her hair, thinking about her dreams, then napping some more but in another spot.. After her waking up add 1-2 hours until she actually wake up for the day (unless there is emergency). When that happens, she washes her face with a cold water. She also stretches the same way cats do xD

🕷️ SPIDER - what is their biggest fear? do they have any irrational / mundane fears?

Izzy is, in fact, scared OF irrational people! Not something most people expect from someone so beasthood-affiliated, but Izzy has plenty of logic and reason. Dangerous people that can yet provide her a coherent idea of their reasoning and motivation like Laurence (or Micolash before his 'fanatic' era) don't bother her beyond being ideological enemies. People like Logarius, Ludwig or the Choirlings, on the other hand, put a pit in her stomach...

She conquered her fears to the point of being reasonably careful to not get herself harmed and killed and will turn tail if being shot at or threatened by a much stronger enemy without a damage for her pride. What counts as 'worst nightmare' is being bewitched by a Great One to the point of losing freedom and self, similarly to how Ludwig, Micolash and many Choirlings got charmed by their guy (well, girl). Thankfully, she is associated with Fauna the Great One beast that is more cooperative and on the contrary honours autonomy; even speaking or fighting in sync with him feels for her like it makes her more, not less.

�� HEAR-NO-EVIL - what is the worse thing your oc could hear from someone?

You should NEVER let her be aware that she is not as different from Laurence as she thinks she is. At some point Izzy does become aware and both him and Laurence are very far gone, but do NOT tell her this before she is 'ready' :')

🎭 MASKS - do they act differently around certain people? what's different between the way they act around friends, family, strangers, etc.?

Izzy is rather insolent around his 'ideological enemies' and likes to troll them for a good measure when he isn't busy trying to make them THINK, very on-edge and aggressive around 'fanatic' type of enemies that scare her, both friendly and pulling the over-familiar rudeness with strangers. With friends she is very caring and understanding, even if she might be rude or abrasive without meaning to hurt them (simply very open, honest and emotional). She could not bring herself to hurt a friend even if they ditch her or straight up betray her, the worst she will do is to have a kicked puppy attitude... But her friendship is hard to earn.

He tends to give a thought to societal rejects and straight up "bad" people, not in Djura's 'we all might end up like this tho :(' kind way but in 'I believe what we hate is natural for humans' way.. This trait of his strongly accelerated ever since Healing Church started propaganda and amount of declared "heretics" increased. When Izzy crushes on someone she doesn't know what to 'do' about it and simply shows more affection to this person... She doesn't even bother with confession, let alone understanding how relationship and dating works! But when someone attracts her sexually, she will be open with her.. uhhh, compliments, let's call it that. 98% of his family memories and interactions are his father and Izzy really resents him.

☁️ CLOUD - a soft headcanon

Izzy was the second person that accepted Garlan (Suspicious Beggar) for who he really is, a rare person with Loran descent that was born with beastly traits lurking. First was his father, lurking as kind of a Loran Cleric but electric-leaning rather than fire. Izzy and Garlan liked having friendly fights with scratching and biting, like kittens xD Also, when Garlan devolved into a beast form, Izzy enjoyed scratching his belly :3

For Archibald:

💢 ANGER - what are some habits they have that will take some getting used to?

He is a very pragmatic, often cynical man, taking calculated risks and only bothering investing emotions and time in "worthy" people. This can make people, even his friends, develop very negative impression of him and think he is an adaptable rat with no morals that just joins the winning side or the one useful for him. It would take time to internalise that he is more complex than this and does have a heart. People need quite a heart-to-heart, or to see him beat the shit out of someone that hurt his friend, to lessen the negative opinion unless they're basically mind-readers hahah. He also might be a bit snappy and rude when he is strongly focused on something, which is unbearable when you NEED to tell him something!

😨 FEARFUL - when scared, do they go into "flight" or "fight"?

He tends to retreat to calm down his senses and figure an efficient way to eliminate the threat. 'Fight or flight' refers to state of anxiety transcending rational thinking and it is extremely hard to get him be like this! But if it happens, he will rather flight.

🙈 SEE-NO-EVIL - whats a side of your oc that they don't want to show other people?

He doesn't like to show his emotional side, that he is not always so collected and pragmatic and still has weaknesses. It is one thing to need to communicate that he does have morals and heart despite using what opportunities he has, and will cheat his principles when someone genuinely needs to be punished. But it is another thing to admit that these seized, hidden emotions can be STRONG, and that he struggles all the time.

🌱 SEEDLING - what is their most vivid memory from childhood?

He witnessed a person getting struck by lightning. And not only he was fascinated, but also afterwards was a bit too eager to see the corpse with fascinating scars. He remembers both the event itself, and the reaction he received from others telling him what callous, cruel, crazy child he was. Plenty of children develop curiosity before they developed compassion and morals, and he was one of them. He still sometimes thinks back on how little he cared about that person dying before his eyes, especially since he knew him.. But at least, his interest in physics and specifically electricity got into him that day! He knew what he wanted to study since childhood, even if by such a "striking" event haha

👑 CROWN - what does your oc want to be remembered as? why?

He always wanted to be of help for humanity and simply be credited as progenitor of many follow-up inventions and inspiration for follow-up scientists! He knew his name would be in every book about physics... Well, due to circumstances, most of his inventions were weapons or otherwise helpful in military. He has some regrets, becoming the 'guy that invented more ways to kill' more than someone known for his inventions that would turn useful whenever Eldrich Nightmare ends. As a person, he wanted to be remembered as someone with the heart and morals despite how many deals with coincidence he HAD to make to proceed, and that can come true since he not only conducted research that was "heretical" amongst Healing Church hunters but died taking down a Vicar that was somehow even more evil than Laurence. Depends on what the descendants will think of the Healing Church!

☁️ CLOUD - a soft headcanon

Paarl didn't eat or otherwise kill the guy! Archibald gave Paarl his badge because he just gave it to all his friends, and even though he never knew Paarl before beasthood he counted him as a friend as well!

________________

Thank you for the asks! o: Sorry I don't have new doodles of these two, just old drawings. This ask meme is extremely handy to use though wtf

So hm you like Antal ?

Want to talk about him a bit ? I’m curious to see what you thoughts are on him.

Yeah! He is one of those weird little character that you randomly grow attachments to... there's just a lot of potential for the guy, and a lot of juicy poetic justice to be dished out to him, not to mention stories of regret and redemption. In general I think the concept of his character is very slept on in the fandom, which is a shame.

He is like, the only Yahar’gul Hunter that decided to defect which is already noteworthy, but he ALSO still hangs around the Hidden Village, since you can summon him for both the Paarl fight and the One Reborn fight. This is why I kinda imagine he escorts some of the prisoners that want his help or trust him. Adella did NOT trust him in the slightest, but he did try to help her out initially.

I also like to imagine he was friends with the Yahar’gul Hunter found inside the jail cell in the Hunter’s Nightmare, and that they were defecting together and seeking the secrets of Mensis and the Church. He had to leave his friend behind to save his life and he never forgave himself for this. It’s just one of the many regrets that tug at his concience, like all the kidnappings he helped with. With the years it’s become harder and harder to justify himself for the pain he enabled and caused.

He also had a sort of friendship with Archibald, as the eccentric found him to be one of the few Yahar’gul Hunters with whom he could have a more intellectual conversation. That said, Antal isn’t really the most cultured person in the world either, but he is very curious which is a quality Archibald respects above many others. Antal owns a Spark Badge himself, but he doesn’t wear it while out in the open.

He knew Damian personally too. They weren’t exactly friends, but they had a sort of boss&underling dynamic. Had Damian not known how to fight in a terrifyingly effective manner, he could have been considered a bodyguard of his.

His job when he is trying to make people escape from Yahar’gul is to keep Paarl occupied in case it awakens while they escape into Old Yharnam. Djura is aware of the strange influx of people and usually escorts them to the newer part of town. Antal had never killed Paarl off, maybe due to his knowledge that the beast used to mean a lot to Archibald. Usually he just escapes with his life once the people leave, but thanks to the Good Hunter’s effort he finally manages to destroy his old enemy too.

Thinking about a Leverage Regency AU and how easy it would be…

The place is London. The year is 18—

Rev. Nathaniel Ford: a disgraced Irish vicar. (Sorry Nate, I couldn’t make the Catholicism work; you’re a Protestant now 😔✊) Fell out with God after losing his son, Samuel. Then he subsequently fell out with his patron, an Earl, who would not fund an expensive surgeon for Sam’s care, and finally with his wife, Margaret. Displaced from his station, his credibility, and power as an agent to nobility, Nate moves quietly to London, hoping to realize his revenge or to drink himself to death - whichever comes first. His parish is now being preached to by a Rev. James Sterling.

Mrs. Sophie Devereaux: a spy through and through. She might actually be a duchess, but didn’t you see her in that terrible play on Drury Lane? No one’s really sure. In society, she’s viewed as an eccentric and slightly mysterious salon hostess, but that cover allowed her to play the British and the French governments throughout the end of the 18th century. A metropolitan girl at heart, she’ll never be found in the country unless planning to procure a particular pièce d’art from one of the gaudy estate manors there.

Mr. Elliot Spencer: began his career at 9, as a cabin boy for a naval vessel. He saw the world twice over, but also witnessed the cruel hierarchy between officers and sailors first hand. He roved through the navy and the army doing little more than grunt work, but studied the martial and combat techniques of every place he went. Now he’s just trying to live the quiet life in London as a bruiser for hire.

Mr. Alec Hardison: a man who has lived many lives —aided, of course, by his job as a private banker, moving around the wealth of London at his leisure. In his line of work, he has picked up the ins and outs of all the governing bodies and businesses in the empire. Add that to his virtuosic ability to pick up any form of study and Mr. Hardison could bleed London dry, given the right reasons. For now, he enjoys the high life thanks to the fortunes of his “betters”.

Parker: an urchin, a waif, the stickiest of fingers in the nicest of neighborhoods. Once the apprentice of the notorious criminal, Lord Archibald Leech, the Gentleman’s Thief, she’s since left his tutelage and is now operating unseen in the big houses of Grosvenor Square as a scullery maid, putting enough bits and bobs aside to graduate from service and to never look back again.

Eccentric billionaire archeologist Archibald Astor, and his four children, all fighting to get his fortune and inherit his manor and collection of artefacts.

The “old” Royal Navy

During the Napoleonic Wars, the navy had grown enormously and hundreds of men had reached the rank of captain. But after 1815 the navy shrank and these men could only find employment as deadwood at half pay, blocking all opportunities for promotion for able, younger men. By the time the navy was needed again against Russia in 1854, the most senior admirals had already been dismissed. The consequences were all too clear. Even the younger officers were old - one man had been a commander for 47 years, another a lieutenant for 60 years, still another a captain for 61 years and a poor man a purser for 64 years. So they had to fall back on the old ones and so one was over 90, 7 between 90-80, 25 between 80-70 still another 7 were between 70-65 and only 1 was under 65.

But this not only made for old views but also for some very strange peculiarities like this one.  

Rear Admiral Henry John Rous (1795-1877), the captain of the Harlequin had his boat crew turned out in harlequin suits, while the men of the Calcedonia were resplendent in tartan. Not to be outdone, the men of the Blazer set a fashion for striped blue and white jackets, and the crew of the Vernon turned out in red serge frock coats and red comforters. One captain - Nobby Ewart - seeing one of his boat crew with a black eye, ordered all the others to paint the same eye black.

The most famous of the eccentric admirals was Sir Algernon Charles Fiesché Heneage (1833-1915), better known as Pompo. Pompo was harmless enough though resistant to anything resembling progress; technology, enineering, science and so forth would have earned his most scathing criticism. For Pompo appearances were everything. His affection was such that he could not bear to think of a common sailor washing his clothes and so he took 20dozen shirts to sea and sent the dirty ones home on every available ship bound for England. Even while rounding Cape Horn, with seas raging and men's thoughts on the Almighty and His wondrous works, Heneage was thinking of his shirts, and how he could transfer them to a passing ship. On one occasion a ship's carpenter was arrested for entering the admiral's cabin without being announced by an appropriate officer, and on another the same man was clapped in irons for going to Pompo's cabin to shut his portholes when the sea was splashing in. In the event the cabin was flooded but no one lower than a petty officer was allowed to swab it out.

Admiral Sir Archibald Berkeley Milne (1855 – 1938) was as ridiculous as Pompo. On one occasion a common seaman brushed against his coat, whereupon he shuddered, took out a handkerchief to brush the point of contact and then threw the soiled linen overboard. Something that quickly became a habit for him. And for him, anyone below a petty officer was not worth talking about, and no common sailor had even been allowed to stand in his company.

Rear Admiral Charles Prothero (1849 – 1927) - known as the Bad to the men who served under him in the British navy in the mid- 19th century, was a man of bearlike size and strength, with a big black beard and hooked nose. He still believed he was serving under Nelson, the good old days. Commanding a ship were his predecessor had had a rich supply of the milk of human kindness, Prothero thought everyone had got soft. Bumping into a midshipman on the bridge, he lifted the offender by one huge hand on his collar and dropped him over the side of the bridge onto the deck. Inspecting the midshipmen's quarters he found that several of them had got chests of drawers alongside their hammocks. Inquiring what the articles were, Prothero was told that his predecessor had allowed extra furniture to make their lives more comfortable. Prothero exploded, "When i was a midshipman il ived in my chest and sometimes bathed in it too. Throw them over the side." He always mentioned himself in the old days, even if he had never experienced them himself.

CTJL SYDNEY, FINALE: PART 2

At a bar table for three by an extravagantly large window thirty-two floors above Sydney’s Darling Harbour, a pair of figures settle upon the seating, uncork a bottle of champagne, and pour it.

They immediately get to arguing.

The first voice is warm, masculine, as clipped as the greens at Lords in London. Low and slightly husky, it bears barely perceptible notes of mirth, as though the speaker feigns a sang-froid greater than he feels.

The second voice is abrupt, feminine, unyielding as a locked door.  Sharply American— east coast, but suggestions of time spent abroad— something about the timbre suggests, on a good day, it is as capable of sweetness as it is smoke. 

The present tone would suggest today is not one of those days.

The first figure lifts his glass from the table with easy grace and holds it aloft.

‘To you.’ ‘No.’ ‘To your victory.’ ‘Third place isn’t a victory.’ ‘You won your class.’ ‘So did you.’ ‘Top of the leaderboard in a global tour,’ continues the first voice. ‘Top of a leaderboard, not the leaderboard.’ ‘One could rightly celebrate—.’ ‘You placed higher than me.’

For a moment, the first voice is silent. The figure it belongs to remains motionless, long legs tucked beneath his chair, jacket sleeves rolled to the elbows, glass frozen in partial toast. The second is likewise still, but her glass remains on the table. Her posture is tall and proper. Her hands are folded neatly upon her lap. 

Eyes are held. The silence stretches. ‘Alright,’ concedes the first voice.  ‘We won’t toast to your accomplishments.’ A nod. ‘We’ll toast to what a hundred other riders didn’t achieve, which was top of their class and a podium finish overall.’ Unfazed by the humour twinkling in his voice and his eyes, the woman leans forward and picks up her glass. ‘Why don’t you just call it what it is?’ ‘And what is that?’ ‘Us being good, but not good enough.’ ‘Mm.’ The first figure inclines his glass toward his companion’s and says, in the gentle echo of glass meeting glass: ‘How unlike you to be dark.’

They take the first sip in companionable silence, the thin band of orange at the horizon fading faster, faster; early southern starlight beginning to prickle the lush black-blue of night above. *

When Dorothy Lawley arrives at their table, Archibald Rothersay-Vandover— champion show jumper, lifelong idol, object of her involuntary and wicked affections— is telling a story about the first time he came to Australia, and Agatha Foskett— generous employer, sort-of mentor, mistress of nightmares— is smiling. That is, smiling as much as can be considered smiling where Agatha is concerned, which is usually capped at a kink in the corner of her mouth and a certain lustre to her eyes. Archie pulls out her chair and Agatha offers her a glass of champagne, which Dot declines right as Archie picks up the bottle and begins pouring it. 

It sits, bubbling, golden, probably expensive, taunting her as Archie catches her up with his story.

The Mugler syndicate, in their infinite wisdom and eccentricity, had sent him Hong Kong for a competition. This, he reminds them, was before it was fashionable, profitable, and practical for riders based in Europe to compete in Asia. The latter is of particular importance to the story, he points out, though his explanation as to why is derailed after he begins detailing the highs and lows of modern Cantonese political history, and Agatha cuts him off partway through to tell him– bluntly– to get back to the point. As Dot listens, she finds herself becoming enthralled by a world vastly different to those she has previously seen and conjured. She imagines the heritage property he describes, three hours from Sydney. The old homestead, the stockyards, the corrugated iron sheds. Cattle drinking from old bathtubs; the steel groan of a weathered windmill; a stock saddle with a string girth thrown over a worn wooden fence. It smells of dry and horses and sweat; feels like dust and scorching December sun. Archie continues, and Dot’s mind follows, walking to a clearing on a mountain ridge. One of the farmhands— clad in paddock boots, bootcut jeans and an Akubra— turns chops and steaks on a rusted plough disc set over a campfire, a beer in his free hand. Another brushes ash and embers from the lid of a cast iron camp oven and peers within before replacing it and nodding, satisfied. The evening air is fresh and clear, scored with the smells of sizzling meat and baking damper, smoking wood and iron, and the dry, grey-green scent of gum trees enduring the summer heat. Can she see, there, the wraithy-white branches of the ghost gums? Yes, there, those ones, hauntingly beautiful with their thin limbs and smooth pallor. She listens to the relaxed, twanging chatter about her; the snap of the fire; the song of insects; the sudden and frantic screeching of unknown birds in the hot, still, otherwise peaceful dusk. A horse stamps its foot. A fly whizzes past her ear. The valley unfolds before her: sunburned grassland and bush-covered cliffs, vast unlike vast ever was before it; the sky burning lurid orange and apocalyptic red as the sun lowers itself to the horizon and beyond.

At a bar table for three in an air-conditioned lounge overlooking Sydney’s Darling Harbour, Archie Vandover continues telling a story. Dorothy Lawley hears him distantly, in his BBC radio voice, mentioning a string of things that don’t make sense. Polocrosse. The distance to Zurich. Something about wine; someone named Peter. He’s left the unfathomable beauty of the bush behind. But Dot hasn’t. She remains by the fire, staring at the view.

The dizzying, terrifying, entirely bewitching view. *

The darker the night grows, the more the harbour glitters. 

The lounge has somehow managed to ever increase in the number of people present, and, courtesy of the efforts of the person in charge of music, a high-spirited and convivial mood grips the room. Madonna pumps through the sound system at present: Beautiful Stranger. Dot quietly bobs her head side to side with the beat. She’s barely touched the champagne, but she has touched it. Timid sips, here and there, taken with all the poise of someone who has clearly never had a champagne flute in their hand before— it’s a wonder it hasn’t yet trembled all the way out of her hand and ended in a flood on their table. She seems brighter than usual— more confident than usual, more forthcoming with questions and wordier in her responses. Whether it is due to the victory, the vibe or the alcohol, Agatha cannot say, but she can’t imagine Dot has had much practise holding her liquor.  Archie is livelier than usual, too, indulging Dot’s questions and sharing stories of his own accord. It was always difficult to explain his particular balance of introversion and extroversion to people who did not know him. He is sociable, but he has his limits; reserved, but by no means dispassionate or uncommunicative; honest, but not necessarily open. His genuine interest in people coupled with a quick wit and miscellany of interests tended to make him a capable and popular conversationalist; what it did not make him was forthcoming with his own experiences. On the contrary, he seemed perfectly content to listen, ask questions, and otherwise take the conversational backseat unless invited (at times, coaxed) to do otherwise, often to the effect that new acquaintances walked away from conversation charmed by a man they had learned next to nothing about.

Him openly sitting at the table offering pieces of his life for their pleasure, therefore, is a rare– and honestly, rather interesting— occurrence.

He’s in midst of telling Dot another story about his time riding for the Mugler syndicate (a story Agatha has already heard) when they are approached by a smattering of excited young people. Their presence evokes visible surprise in all three of them, but only Dot bears traces of recognition.  They’re a collection of predominantly grooms, apparently, whom Dot has managed to charm sufficiently enough over the course of the year to earn herself an invitation to join them on the dance floor. Her face is, at separate points and sometimes simultaneously, a picture of surprise, confusion, doubt, elation and hesitation, but she ultimately allows herself to be spirited away.

Archie, very deliberately, turns to Agatha. 

‘Will you dance with me?’ ‘No.’ ‘Not even in celebration?’ ‘We’re celebrating right now.’ She lifts her near-empty glass. ‘The end of the season.’ ‘Special occasions call for special celebrations.’ ‘This is a special celebration.’ ‘Champagne? Hardly. You can drink it any time.’ ‘What, you classify dancing as “special celebration”?’ ‘With my team mate and third-place getter, yes. Quite. There’s something rather poetic about second and third place dancing together, don’t you think?’ A beat passes while Agatha appears to consider this, holding his eye all the while. Eventually, she leans closer. It is a calculated movement. Slow, serious. Decisive. To any observer it might seem she is about to reveal a thought of pivotal importance. This includes Archie, who, apparently surprised, leans slightly forward in anticipation. 

Her voice, when she speaks, is low and rich and velvet.

‘Third place doesn’t want to dance with you,’ she says. ‘I think you’re being a bit of a sore loser.’ ‘And I think you’re dangerously close to being an asshole winner.’ His mouth curls into a hearty smile, his eyes crinkling to match. Agatha leans back. Archie does the same. ‘We’ll bet on it next year,’ he says. ‘I’ll beat you next year.’ ‘Then you’ll have nothing to worry about, will you?’ He rests an arm down the back of his chair. ‘What do you intend to wager?’ ‘Your employment status.’ ‘If you want me to sign on another few years, Agatha, you need only ask.’ Her response is the unimpressed arch of a brow. ‘Was that not what you had in mind?’ 

Ignoring his feigned innocence, Agatha takes her glass in hand and turns to face the view. The waters of Darling Harbour shimmer in the midst of the dark: silvers, blues, greens, golds; rippled and restless in the wake of evening ferries and returning yachts.  They had not discussed what would happen when Archie’s contract ran out. Joked and jokingly made threats, respectively, but never spoke about it seriously. Hadn’t so much as indicated it existed. Not a word, not a breath. Was it even real, that contract? The day Archie had all but sank to his knees asking her to let him keep his job, if not on his merits, then for the sake of his little girl? It’s not just me, Agatha. I have a daughter to think about. She can still hear the words in his voice. She remembers almost everything about that day when she looks for it. Her shock; his manners; Eva’s awkward backtracking. Speaking in private. Not being able to look him in the eye. Listening to him petition her, earnest and unashamed; Eva waiting in the courtyard, watching surreptitiously through the window. Not wanting to cave in; the self-loathing when she did. His vow that she wouldn’t be disappointed. Her retort that it was too late for that.

It was strange to think of it, now. Hard to fathom.

‘I’ll find you someone to dance with.’ ‘Hmm?’ ‘She looks like she’d be up for it.’ She nods at a lithe-looking woman by the bar in turquoise gossamer skirts. Taller than average and Bondi blonde, her legs are tanned two shades beyond plausibly natural, but the athleticism they speak of is authentic. The fact she’s wedged between three men in their thirties and apparently lapping it up suggests she might be the kind of person who’d relish being the centre of attention, which equates to further points in her favour. Clearing the floor of a large party to dance with a six-thousand foot tall man who knew how to move around a dance floor was probably right up her street. ‘It’ll be better than dancing with me. You won’t have someone periodically crushing your toes and clawing your coat around.’ He rests his chin in his palm, a smile playing at his lips. ‘Crushed toes are a key part of the experience. If my dance partner isn’t going to crush my toes, what’s the point of it at all?’ She lifts a stilettoed foot. ‘Is a trip to the ER also part of the experience?’ ‘Not as a rule, but it does happen.’ He reaches again for his drink, peering a moment into the glass as if there is something foreign floating in it. Agatha resumes her survey of the room, thoughtful. ‘What about first place?’ She turns in place, scanning the room over her shoulder. ‘Little Elizabeth Howell. She’d dance with you.’ ‘You think so, do you?’ His tone is indulgent rather than interested. ‘Sure. You could put her on your toes and waltz around the room.’ ‘Mm.’ ‘You’d still have a solid foot clear to see where you were going, too.’ ‘Hotly desired in a dancing partner.’ She picks up her glass. ‘Didn’t you promise her a drink?’ ‘I did, yes, but I expect every man and his dog will have made a similar offer.’ ‘You think she fobbed you off?’ ‘I think she’s a lively young person who’d rather be celebrating with other lively young people, not the old fellow who’ll stop after drink number two so he can put himself to bed by eight.’ She smiles. ‘It’s after nine.’ ‘Then we’re alarmingly behind schedule.’ He tips back the last mouthful of his champagne, sets down the glass, and picks up the bottle. He does not need voice the question aloud: Agatha holds out her glass, and Archie begins filling it. ‘The deal was a drink,’ he continues as he pours. ‘She has to work harder for a dance.’ He lifts his gaze, his eyes bright with humour. ‘Aim for the illustrious third place next time.’ ‘A downgrade.’ ‘Not at all,’ he says, leaning back and filling his own glass. ‘Think about the effort it would take to consciously achieve a specific place in the middle. One knows what must be done to finish at the top or the bottom, but how can you account for the movements in the middle? The real talent, when you think about it, is intentionally achieving a specific place in the middle.’ ‘There was no talent involved in my third place, if that’s what you’re working toward.’ He sets the bottle down, smiling. 

‘We'll argue that point in a minute,’ he says. * The first thing Archie notices when their table re-enters his view is that Dot has returned from her adventures with the other grooms. It seems premature. He hopes they haven’t done her dirty.

As he makes his way back to the table, he gradually discerns that Dot is wearing a different dress. Not only that, but a different hair-do. And, it seems, a different face. In the simultaneous process of drawing closer and realisation, Agatha turns her face in his direction. She, at least, is the same as when he left her, albeit wearing a suspiciously amused expression. Aware that he is now too much in view to raise his brows in question, he smiles, takes his seat, and begins telling Elizabeth Howell, who is newly seated at their table, how delighted he is that she has managed to join them after all. * When the final glass is finished, the three of them stand. Presumably, Liz will head off to the next party; Archie will head to bed; Agatha's activities are anyone’s guess. He and Elizabeth exchange cheek kisses, an endeavour which requires stooping on his part and tiptoes on hers. Agatha offers a handshake which, judging by her expression, she has found fantastically uncomfortable. He tries his best not smile, but his best is not enough, and he has to look over his shoulder and compose himself. 

Goodbyes said and done, the celebrated Miss Howell slips off into the crowd. Agatha and Archie stand in front of the window together, observing the view in silence.

After a beat, he says:

‘She did not mention dancing.’ The ensuing pause is brief. ‘No.’ ‘Did you mention dancing?’ ‘No.’ She turns to look at him in profile. ‘She didn’t earn it.’ ‘Mm.’ He holds in a smile. ‘So how, exactly, did you lure her into joining us at the ‘not-good-enough’ table?’ Agatha turns back to the window as he turns to face her. There’s a dark sort of mischief in her eyes.

Concerning. ‘Agatha?’ Darker, deeper. Delighted. Archie opens his mouth, but there are no words at the ready. ‘You didn’t threaten her, did you?’ ‘Don’t be stupid.’ ‘Then why are you standing there looking like the cat who ate the cream?’ ‘Because I told her there was a tired old man who’d go to bed heartbroken if he didn’t get to have a drink with the exciting young talent of the tour.’ She turns. ‘And that you’d love an autograph. She signed a napkin for you. I think she may have drawn a heart on it, too.’ It is Archie's turn to pause. He holds his hands behind his back and watches the lights of a helicopter blink across the sky. ‘What a flattering portrait you painted.’ She lifts a shoulder in a languid shrug– and the corner of her mouth, in a languid smile. ‘She must have thought so.’

A young woman swishes by and clears their table. Agatha turns again, this time to face the exit. She seems about to leave when a sudden wash of hesitation fills her air. 

‘I didn’t actually congratulate you,’ she says. 'Oh— Well. Thank you. No need, really. But thank you.' 'You're shocked.' ‘No.' 'You are.' 'I suppose I wasn't expecting it.' 'Were you expecting me to be a bad sport about it?' 'No— No. Not at all.'

The moment feels like the first steps on untested ice: tentative, quiet; unnerving, ready to crack. Agatha's gaze is unhurried, dark and direct; her scrutiny obvious, her conclusions unreadable. Archie presses his palms together. Looks at the floor; bites his lip; looks at her again. Smiles, gentle.

'Goodnight,' he says.

She lingers a moment longer. Finally, Agatha nods, turns, and follows Elizabeth's lead, vanishing into the crowd. *

(Hastily writing the last few sentences at one AM; no way I'm going to regret this later!!!)

I did say of my CTJL Sydney collaboration with @calveroterranorasj that it was part one. You've probably forgotten about that post. If that's the case, (1) no judgement, and (2) lucky you! I almost never get to forget anything, and as such unfinished projects hang like swords over my head while I battle with the axis powers of an easily distracted nature, crippling perfectionism, and an ungodly amount of artistic self-loathing. Some applaud this as dedication or tenacity, but I don't think this is necessarily a good thing, because some things in life are better forgotten or abandoned. Otherwise you just keep them around like relics and end up sort of tethered to the past, and that's decidedly not a good thing. But that's enough late night philosophy; there's already too much nonsense on this blog.

5. Spark Hunter Badge

Badge crafted in secret by Archibald, the infamous eccentric of the Healing Church, for his friends.

Archibald was fascinated by the blue sparks that emanate from the hides of the darkbeasts, and dedicated his life to its artificial reproduction. in a style of inquiry that, incidentally, closely followed the methodology of Byrgenwerth.

Some more outfits then :D

Alpha Damon (this one I'm pretty sure about)

Archibald (it could maaaybe fit but mostly I just think it's funny)

Klaus Nava (just funny, don't think it fits at all :D)

Charok (maybe??)

wildcard (can't think of anybody but I need you to see it)

hell yea more dress-up games!! i saw that last night and bursted out laughing in my bed, those are such gooood choices lmao

Alpha Damon: i even gave him longer hair and a light grey streak hell yea!! honestly it matches his vibe but he wouldn't like it - not a fan of denim and it's not... "in your face" or metal enough. but he slays!

Archibald: WHAT THE HEKK IS THAT HAHAHA i lost it when i saw it <3 you got archibald's character right, he's a funny lad and he WOULD wear wacky shit like that but unfortunately he is not into warm colour palettes and i don't think they compliment him (moreso with his purple eyes, although they are hidden here). so it's a pass for him but in spirit and vibe, it's on point <3

Klaus: at first i was like "ehhhh not sure at all...." but it suits him so well!!! it's colour themed with his fur and eyes teehee <3 i don't think he would go out his way to buy the coat and pants but if they happened to be in his wardrobe he'd definetly wear it to chill (like running errands, case in point). very solid that's a yes!!

Charok: HELL YEA BROTHER SHE GOT CHOSEN!! for Perdu d'Avance en plus... funfact: back when i designed her, orelsan was her voiceclaim (thus i associate a lot of his old songs with her) and he inspired me a lot for her highschool characterisation. so it's a huge YES perfectly her vibe 10/10 nailed it

Wildcard HARLEY!!! bro is in funny shit like that too. he's always wearing black but he absolutely loves eccentric colourful funsies too. also big plus: shorts. bro can't wear pants so it's a slay too. the fit just lacks accessories (bracelets, earrings and necklaces) but it's really neat for him

Wait the Gothic Featheringtons and ABO? Please, tell me more.

P.S: There's no way in any ABO AU that Penelope was walking out of that carriage without Colin's bite on her neck.

The carriage? Honey, they might not make it out of the Featherington drawing room without Colin biting Penelope's neck with how into that kiss he was. Lmao. To be honest though they might have not made it back to the Featherington house in the ABO universe until much later. Alpha Colin bites her in the carriage possibly goes into a rut and then tells the driver to take them back to his home in Bloomsbury. He's going into a rut, his omega is going into a heat, and now he has to make sure she is in his bed and surrounded by him. I will accept an almost bite in the carriage in exchange for the bite mark to happend during the stay/mirror scene.

Anyway onto Gothic Featheringtons in an ABO universe.

Archibald, Prudence, and Philippa are betas while Portia, Penelope, and Felicity are omegas.

In that universe, omegas without an alpha family member to protect them are considered highly vulnerable. They are usually hidden as betas, sent away to a trusted alpha to protect them, or in rare cases, the trusted alpha is brought to the family home. The last one is rare because of the power struggle it could potentially cause between the pack leader and the alpha.

Of course, this tradition confuses Portia as her family back in Spain didn't have this problem. Unmated members were protected by every mated member in the Addams pack. Even if they didn't have the brute strength of the alphas, the betas and omegas had their tricks, too.

When Penelope started showing signs of being an omega, Lord Featherington mentioned possibly sending her to a cousin in the country, who was an alpha and also had an omega daughter. Portia told him that if he ever had that thought again, she would finally kill him.

"Our unmated daughter's protection is up to us. Not some random cousin I have never met before."

Portia did ask Penelope, though, if she wished to mask her scent for a few years. It is rather unfair that just because she presented a year early she has to debut a year early. Penelope said yes, much rather focus on her passions of writing than finding a mate.

So Penelope debuted wearing a perfume that masked her scent so she would be left alone. She didn't take suppressants, though, and she still wore the choker that all omegas wore to protect their mating gland. By all means, Penelope was still very much an omega living her life, but she just didn't advertise it.

Though without the scent, others assumed she was a beta, and the choker was just another weird fashion choice made by the creepy Featheringtons. That family is so weird. Why even bother asking?

Well, until one season, when Penelope was about 19. During a ball, a light rain had started coming down.

Portia stood by an open terrace watching the rain. Giddy as a child.

"Oh, if only we had more balls during the rain," Portia sighed. "It's such a romantic thing. Especially if you get to dance in it."

"Portia, then you would be all wet," Violet said, with Mary agreeing.

"Yes!" Portia nodded. "Your clothes sticking to you, but your passions igniting as you try harder to hold onto your partner."

Their discussion stopped with the arrival of Lady Cowper. Violet and Mary hid their frowns while Portia was too busy watching the rain.

"Lady Bridgerton, Lady Sharma . . . Lady Featherington," Lady Cowper greeted.

Violet and Mary said back their greetings. Portia just continued watching the rain.

Lady Cowper ignored Portia's eccentricities. "Such a lovely ball. I had seen Miss Eloise and Miss Edwina on the dancefloor. My Cressida has her dance card full of course. Though I don't think I've seen any of your daughters on the dance floor Lady Featherington."

Portia rolled her eyes, finally being forced to look away from the rain. "If any of my daughters had any sense, they be dancing in the rain rather than on a dance floor."

Before anymore could be said an omega scent of pomegranate and lotus drifted into the air.

"Mama, it is such a lovely night. You must join us!"

Penelope stood at the entrance to the terrace, her clothes soaked, and her hair dripping.

Portia laughed. "Oh Penelope, you look like you're having fun. We'll have to reapply your perfume later, though."

"Penelope is an omega?"

Mother and daughter wore marching confused expressions.

"Yes, my daughter is an omega? How did you not know?" Portia questioned. "It's not like I have her on suppressants, and she wears the choker your English alphas seem to obsess over."

Lady Cowper began to stutter and Portia found herself getting annoyed.

Portia turned to Penelope. "Darling, go find your sisters. I'm sure Felicity would like a dance partner at home, and this ball is getting as repetitive as the others."

Penelope nodded and ran back towards the rain.

Portia quickly said her goodbyes and then walked out into the rain herself.