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scotianostra · 4 months

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6th January 1540 saw the first performance of Sir David Lyndsay’s masterpiece, Ane Satyre o’ the Thrie Estaites at Linlithgow Palace.

David Lindsay’s play Ane Satyre of the Thrie Estaitis is a work of searing social satire, which is arguably the best example of a morality play of the era. It is also the only surviving dramatic text from pre-Reformation Scotland.

The play was written in Older Scots, the language spoken in lowland Scotland between the mid 15th and the end of the 17th centuries.

David Lyndsay is perhaps Scotland’s best, but least well known, poet and playwright. Yet his work both reflects the vibrant culture of early modern Scotland and the deeply political ramifications drama could have during this period. One could imagine that the performance of a play written by Lyndsay was an eagerly anticipated event. The Great Hall of Linlithgow Palace was in January 1540 packed with the lairds and ladies of the Scottish court. With a fire crackling, the sights and smells of the Christmas season all around, a hush would surely have descended on the hall for the centre piece entertainment by Lyndsay.

The final great celebration of the Christmas and New Year period in early modern Scotland was Epiphany on 6th January. The feast commemorates the visit of the Three Kings to the baby Jesus and in 1540 the Scottish court was filled with Christmas merriment and spectacles. The royal poet of the court Sir David Lyndsay wrote and set a play for the entertainment of King James V and his wife, the French noblewoman Marie de Guise. James V was at the peak of his power. Marie de Guise’s arrival in Scotland secured the continuance of the Franco-Scottish alliance, and by Epiphany 1540 Marie was pregnant. James V was a monarch secure in his kingdom and with an heir on its way.

The play that was performed to entertain the Scottish King and Queen was a comedy; known at the time as the Interlude, its later full surviving version is titled Ane Satyre of the Thrie Estatis. David Lindsay’s play is a compelling satire that addresses the corruption of both courtiers and the Church. The first half of the play focuses on King Humanitie, a young ruler who is seduced from the path of virtue by three courtiers: Wantoness, Placebo and Solace. The courtiers introduce the King to Dame Sensualitie, who distracts the monarch, as three more dangerous vices infiltrate the court: Flatterie (flattery), Falset (falsehoods) and Dissait (deceit). These vices now rule the government and prevent virtues from advising the King. Their spell is broken by Divine Correction who wakens the King and orders him to summon a parliament of the Three Estates: the nobility, the clergy and the burgesses. The second half of the play centres around this parliament. The Estates are challenged by John the Commonweal, the personification of the common and good people of the kingdom. John advocates for reform to reverse the oppression of the poor and he exposes the corruption of the Spiritual Estate of the clergy. The vices are hanged, parliament passes reforming laws and the play ends with a joyous sermon by Folly.

The only written evidence we have of this 1540 play is from a report by Thomas Benneden passed to the English commander of Berwick, Sir Thomas Eure.Benneden’s report of this play was at the time seen by the English court as evidence of the Scots’ King’s willingness to abandon the Catholic faith and Pope in Rome. However, Henry VIII was clutching at straws. Poking fun at the court and the Kirk, the Scots name for the Church, in the presence of said court, bishops, and archbishops, can hardly been seen as evidence of an imminent Reformation. The tradition of satire and mockery of the institutions of the court and the Kirk was in fact a much older medieval tradition, which acted as an amusing cathartic exercise.

The surviving text is of the play in its later form, revised and extended, in the 1550s. The play was performed again in 1552 in Cupar in Fife and 1554 in Edinburgh. The first printed version of the text appeared in 1602. However, the Treasurer’s Accounts for the Scottish court have evidence of payments for ‘playcoats’ specifically for Epiphany 1540.[8] The costumes, or ‘playcoats’, were multi-coloured matching taffeta and with a specially made ‘cape’. These 1540 accounts give us a sense of the multi-sensory aspects of the 1540 Interlude performance.

In 2013 these multi-sensory elements came to life with the first ever modern full-length production. The play was performed at Linlithgow Castle. The project was spearheaded by Professor Greg Walker and Dr Eleanor Rycroft of the University of Edinburgh, and Professor Thomas Betteridge of Brunel University with Historic Scotland and the Arts and Humanities Research Council.It aimed to both entertain and educate its viewers and celebrate the richness of Scottish cultural history. David Lyndsay’s Ane Satyre of the Thrie Estatis is a testament to this sophisticated Scottish culture and the implications of drama on political life in early modern Scotland.

#scotland #scottish #history #theatre #play #satire

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checkoutmybookshelf · 8 months

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Lady Whistledown Returns: Chapter 2

Penelope's secret project is revealed; how will Colin react? Colin and Penelope recieve an intriguing invitation.

Need to get caught up? Find previous chapters and works here.

This chapter does not come with any content warnings.

No sooner had the snap of the door closed out the voices from the main soiree than Colin sagged against a wall, face in both hands. Penelope stood in the center of the room, hugging her journal to her chest, trembling. They were both silent for long moments.

“Penelope Anne Bridgerton…” Colin did not sound angry. If anything, he sounded tired.

“Colin, I’m so sorry, I would never have embarrassed you in public like that—”

“Embarrassed?” He hadn’t moved from the wall. He hadn’t taken his hands from his face. “I am not now nor will I ever be embarrassed by you, Pen. What I am is trying to decide where exactly to start. Do I start with what I’m going to tell Anthony? Do I start with the fact that I have never not found out about anything to do with Whistledown before it was public and might, perhaps, like to for once? Do I start with the fact that the queen would see you dead given sufficient excuse and I suspect you just gave it to her?” Colin pushed himself off the wall and paced in the confined space, face pensive. He never looked more like Anthony than when he was thinking.

For her part, Penelope could not disagree with his assessment that the very public acknowledgement that she was still writing Whistledown—even if she had no imminent plans to publish—would provoke the queen. In her heart of hearts, however, Penelope was almost relived. She had spent too long trying not to provoke royal ire and failed by dint of her very existence. For this shoe to drop in such a final way relieved a feeling of anticipation Penelope had not quite fully put a name to.

“Is there any chance that this won’t get back to London?” asked Colin.

The door opened, and the nondescript agent slipped inside, closing the door behind him as he bowed politely to the Bridgertons.

“Sir,” said Penelope, politely. “I apologize, I did not get your name at the Old Bailey.”

“Good God,” muttered Colin, dropping his head into his hands again.

“Dame Penelope. My name is Worth, and I am—”

“An agent of Her Majesty, Queen Charlotte,” Penelope finished for him. “How may we help you, Mr. Worth?”

“Have you been following us since we departed England?” Colin’s question was so blunt as to be rude, but Mr. Worth seemed utterly unruffled and unoffended when he confirmed that he had, and that his mission was to watch Penelope and report back if she engaged in seditious or treasonous behavior abroad.

“You mean if she wrote Whistledown again,” growled Colin.

“I simply carry out my mandates, Mr. Bridgerton. I bear no ill will toward Dame Penelope personally, and in fact many of the gentlemen in my position found Whistledown both enjoyable and immensely useful.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Worth, but I do not believe ‘Dame Penelope’ is correct; I left Her Majesty’s private court. Mrs. Bridgerton is fine.” Penelope was not entirely comfortable with the idea of the queen’s agents finding her columns useful, but she less wanted to even seem to claim a title she had repudiated.

“Queen Charlotte did not revoke the title, ma’am. In private, it is most appropriate that I refer to you by that rank.” That started Penelope into silence. She had assumed she no longer held that rank, assumed that the Queen’s petty ire would have seen her stripped of it. Ignoring or missing Penelope’s surprise, Worth continued speaking.

“I am afraid I will have to report this; I should expect to be summoned back, if I were you. And if I may be so bold as to make a recommendation, I would burn that journal. Rumors will do you little good, Dame Penelope, but substantiated rumors will do you less good.”

“You will not threaten my wife in front of me, Worth,” snarled Colin.

“If he was threatening me, he would be sending the journal with his report.”

Worth bowed, turned, and made to leave the room. He paused with one hand on the doorknob, then turned back again. “Perhaps this need not be said, but forgive me for being thorough. Should you publish a book as Lady Whistledown, the queen will retaliate in excess of reason. I should strongly advise against doing so.”

“She would not dream of publishing as Whistledown.” Colin’s words were fast and confident, but Penelope did not meet Worth’s eyes as he opened the door.

Party sounds washed into the room, and both Colin and Penelope flinched. When Byron’s insistent “Lady Whistledown!” echoed through the room, Colin pulled Pen to him, shielding her from something neither could put a name on.

“We can go, if you wish,” he whispered.

Byron’s silhouette filled the doorway. “Lady Whistledown,” he boomed again. “I have a proposition for you and Lord Whistledown. Shelley and I have taken houses by Lake Geneva for the summer—You must join us. I have taken Villa Diodati, and there would be ample room for you both, even with Polidori along. What say you, glorious lady? Will you join us in our seclusion to bleed words of beauty and truth onto the page? Perhaps I can convince you to publish again, with my European publisher.”

“Your offer is very kind, Lord Byron,” Colin began, before being interrupted by Mary elbowing Byron aside and taking a step into the room.

“Oh, please do say you’ll come, Penelope,” she said. “I cannot overstate how lovely it would be to have another woman about.”

Penelope paused as Colin delicately replied that they were about to be recalled and, unfortunately, could not possibly accept the invitation. She didn’t doubt for a moment that he was correct, or that Worth’s advice to return home before being recalled was kindly meant and valuable. But for once, neither of those facts cooled the burn of anger in her chest. Impulsively, Penelope stepped between Colin and Byron, who were trading increasingly cool paper bullets over the invitation.

“We would be delighted to join you,” she said, firmly, ignoring the subtle color rising above Colin’s collar. “However, I have something of a headache, if you would excuse us, I shall leave you with our direction and we can sort out the details.” With a rapid round of polite farewells—and Lord Byron palming a card with his Rome publisher’s address into her hand—Penelope practically dragged Colin from the party.

Back at their rooms, there was an air of brewing storms and sharp edges that neither was used to. Each made attempts to engage the other in conversation, to sort out what they were going to do, how they would handle it if they were recalled, but like oil and water, they were unable to come together and communicate. After a particularly snappish exchange as they were preparing for bed, Penelope pulled a shawl over her shoulders and stormed out of the bedroom. Uncharacteristically, Colin made no attempt to follow her. After making herself a cup of tea, Penelope settled next to the fire with her travel writing desk in her lap. With unseeing eyes, she flipped through the full Whistledown journal she had been keeping since she and Colin left England.

The queen could no longer be allowed to dictate the minutiae of their lives. Penelope had had more than her fill of being dictated to as a child and young woman under the collective thumbs of her mother and sisters. She had also discovered in the year she did no writing that she was not herself if she had no writing outlet. Killing Lady Whistledown again was not an option; she would diminish into an unhappy shadow of herself if she did that. The rage and roiling thoughts did not allow Penelope’s hands to be idle. As she thought, her hands were occupied with familiar tasks.

They would very likely be recalled as soon as Worth returned to England. The man had taken no proof with him, had seemed nearly reluctant to report her. And yet, something was niggling at the back of Penelope’s mind as the sound of a sharp blade against a quill niggled in her ears. She had done nothing wrong. Had her journal not been invaded by Byron’s prying eyes, nobody would have ever seen it. She could have quietly written as Lady Whistledown as long as she wished with no one any the wiser. And yet now she was revealed. Again.

Penelope’s nose crinkled at the scent of ink—sharp and familiar. Clearly, she could no longer even dream of her writing remaining either a secret or within the bounds of what Her Majesty Queen Charlotte found acceptable. She could not stop. She could not retreat. So perhaps it was time to dig in and fight back.

The rhythmic scritch-scratch of quill on paper offered a rhythm for her thoughts, keeping them from racing in disarray. She would need to quietly write to Anthony, to warn him. He would likely want to send the children and extended family to Aubrey Hall. She would also ask him to see her mama off to either Prudence’s or Philippa’s. She had little goodwill upon which to ask, but Anthony Bridgerton understood protecting family, and she was trying to align with him as best she could where she could. The letters should reach Bridgerton House before the queen could mobilize her resources, particularly if Penelope acted fast.

She did not think of Colin, and what he might say if he knew of her plan.

The clock chimed four o’clock as Penelope closed her journal and set down her quill. Regarding the sheaf of closely written papers, she checked her nerve. If she was to do this, she had to move now. Pulling a cloak over her nightdress and shawl and dropping her letters on the salver for the post on her way out the door, Penelope turned to the front door to make for Lord Byron’s publisher’s print shop.

And nearly ran smack-dab into Colin, who was pulling on his coat over the rough shirt, waistcoat, and trousers of a laborer.

“I’m rather grateful you wrote to Anthony, I was not looking forward to penning that letter,” he said. “Will you be warm enough in that? We have a moment if you want to change.”

“What?”

“I should hate for you to catch cold out in the streets at all hours. Will you be warm enough?”

“I stormed out on you,” said Penelope, confused. “Are we not fighting?”

“Fighting or not, if you imagine I would let you traipse about at all hours without me, you are very much mistaken. Besides, this will be only the second time I’ve ever been privy to getting Lady Whistledown published, and it’s rather bracing, if in a ‘prepare for Anthony’s wrath’ sort of way.” Colin’s smile was slightly sardonic, but it could not be said to be insincere.

Penelope’s head was whirling. She must have missed Colin popping his head into the room and seeing what she was about—she had gotten entirely too comfortable with writing with him in the room. And yet he wasn’t about to stop her. That smile was absurdly distracting, too. “The second time?” she asked.

“Yes, you sent the last Whistledown to us to be printed,” he said.

“I sent that to Genevieve…” she trailed off. “You?”

“Me, Pen.” He shifted his shoulders and leaned against the doorframe. “Well, me and Benedict. Daph and Anthony insisted I not go unchaperoned. I was not terribly reasonable that night.”

“And I would be lying if I said I understood why you are so reasonable now, but we have not the time to tease that out. Shall we?”

Colin grinned tiredly at her, and gave Penelope a flourished bow as he gestured toward the door. “After you, Lady Whistledown.”

Traversing the dark streets as the sky threatened dawn, Penelope felt the thrill of the first time she had ever snuck out of her mother’s house to take the first issue of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers to print. She had scuttled guiltily through the streets that night, still wearing her party dress under her cloak, with terror and exhilaration battling in her chest to speed her heartbeat and cut off her breath. Now, she walked as tall and with as much intention as she could. This body language was not comfortable for her, but it had prevented altercations on more than one occasion, as shadowy figures had chosen not to confront her as she swept by them.

Notably, she was not alone tonight. Colin’s height and the confident set of his shoulders and posture made him eminently visible, but drew no conflict toward them. Penelope rather enjoyed having a partner with her, even if the reason he was with her in this of all activities was a mystery she required more time to unravel. Ordinarily she would be on Colin’s arm, but under the cover of the pre-dawn light and the lack of any outward signs of their status, Penelope had threaded her fingers through Colin’s. He had gently squeezed her hand when she had done so, and then held her firmly as she led the way. The warmth of his hand enveloping hers seemed to spread up her arm and into her chest.

“Do you know that you picked up the queen’s walk?” asked Colin.

“Colin Bridgerton!” snapped Penelope, stopping dead in her tracks and turning to face him. “What a thing to say.”

“Well you certainly don’t look like a maid—they scuttle and hope more than succeed in being invisible. And you have an air of self-possession that few women of any stripe possess. You don’t do this walk often, but every once in a while…” his voice faded away as his eyes darkened and his free hand slid around her waist, asking her to slide closer to him. She obliged, enjoying feeling utterly dwarfed by his height and safely enclosed in his arms.

Untwining his fingers from hers, Colin’s hand trailed slowly up Penelope’s arm and over her shoulder to cup her cheek as he leaned down to her, pressing a gentle kiss to the tip of her nose before meeting her lips. Without conscious thought, Penelope’s hands slid up Colin’s chest and fisted in his lapels, holding tight.

When they broke the kiss, both were breathing hard. Colin’s eyes never left Penelope’s as he leaned in again, but the weight of the sheaf of paper in her bag brought Penelope back to her task.

“We’re nearly there,” she half whispered. “And this conversation is somewhat distracting.” Colin dropped his forehead to the top of her head with a sound that was half chuckle and half sigh.

“You are quite right. We shall do this, and then we shall return home, and there, Mrs. Bridgerton, we shall resume this conversation.” The low rumble of his voice made Penelope blush from head to toe, and Colin’s grin when he saw the effect he had had on her was positively piratical. Penelope giggled, grabbed his hand, and started them walking again.

The final street they had to traverse to get to the print shop was narrow, twisty, and therefore longer than Penelope anticipated. Both to assuage her burning curiosity and distract herself from her increasingly tired feet, she asked the question that she ought to have asked before they left their rooms.

“Why are you helping me publish a new Whistledown? You seemed so opposed to the idea at the party, and you know as well as I do that this will anger the queen.” She didn’t meet his eyes as she asked the question. Penelope trusted Colin with her very life, and she did not expect him to toss a broom handle into the spokes of their carriage wheels at this point, but she could not puzzle out his motivation.

“You spent an entire year wilting, Pen.” Colin’s eyes were distant as he pulled her under his arm.

“I hardly think working with the queen and Lady Danbury can be described as wilting,” she protested.

“I don’t mean like a debutante pouting. I mean like a rose lacking sunlight. You didn’t have what you needed to be you, Pen. You were willing to die for Whistledown, and then you stopped writing and…” his arm tightened around her, and he looked down at her hesitantly. It reminded her of the hit his confidence had taken after Marina had lied to him. “Do not be angry at my next words, Pen.”

“I do believe that as long as you refrain from announcing to the world that you would never court me, then I am predisposed to take your words generously.” She smiled up at him, playful rather than reproachful.

“What a comfort. Do you know what most of the other gentlemen failed to see about you when you were a debutante? You were quiet, you stayed on the periphery, and that’s all they saw. What they missed was that you never carried yourself as though you truly believed you were less than the Cressida Cowpers or even the Edwina Sharmas. Your confidence was quieter, it was meant to be missed, but it was there, Pen. And I had the great privilege of you showing it to me when it was just us. The entire ton saw it the night that utter bastard—” his voice cut off suddenly, and he unconsciously held her even closer, clasping her to him with both arms as he walked and snaking one hand across her abdomen to cup the place where she still carried scar tissue.

“Colin, do you know you have literally swept me off my feet?”

He stopped walking and looked down—although not as far as he expected to—at Penelope. He had lifted her against his side, and she was smiling crookedly at him as her feet dangled a good six inches above the cobblestones. “Do you want me to put you down?”

“Not particularly, but I suspect it might be the practical thing in this situation.”

“I suspect, Mrs. Bridgerton, that you are quite correct.” But rather than immediately lower Penelope, Colin gently lifted her higher and kissed her thoroughly. Breaking the kiss, he caught and held her eyes. “There you are. You spent a year carrying yourself as though you believed you were less, Pen. If making sure you know your own value means standing with you when you are Lady Whistledown, then I will be there. I will always stand with you.”

Penelope’s heart expanded to fill her chest as tears slid from her eyes. She did not understand what she had done to earn the gift of unconditional love and support, but it was something she never stopped being grateful for. It just still struck her as overwhelming when Colin surprised her with it. The sudden consternation in Colin’s face as he gently thumbed away her tears elicited a rather incongruous giggle from her.

“Pen?”

“I love you, Colin.”

“And I you, Pen.” Seeming to decide that she wasn’t going to dissolve into an emotional puddle, Colin let her slide gently back to the ground. “Shall we?”

“Yes,” she said. “Let’s publish Lady Whistledown’s first book.” The sun was properly breaking over the horizon as Colin held open the publisher’s print shop door open for Penelope, and she—again walking like Queen Charlotte—swept inside.

#polin #polin fic #the polin fic #polin fanfiction #polin fanfic #bridgerton #colin bridgerton #penelope featherington #penelope bridgerton #colin bridgerton and penelope feathertington #colin x penelope

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veneritia · 2 months

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OC in 15 tag

Thanks @the-down-upside-finch for the tag!

Rules: Share 15 or fewer lines of dialogue from an OC, ideally lines that capture the character/personality/vibe of the OC. Bonus points for just using the dialogue without other details about the scene, but you're free to include those as well!

This was unexpectedly harder than I thought...I'm not that far into the plot yet (and Fenice doesn't have that many people to talk too lmao)

Fenice’s laugh tasted bitter. “I am no warrior.”

“Why this display, Dame Bryennia? You are free now, unchained by your vows to my mother, no longer obligated to watch over this husk she had the kindness to call a daughter. I half-expected to never see you again.”

“I am weak? Do you think I don’t know that?”

. “You need me, your Majesty; to play the fox, the ruse, to be the drums of war that drives your enemies against one another, that is my purpose. But this charade will not have legs to stand on if it is not sufficiently believable. I cannot be a threat if I have no fangs to bite.”

"This is my purpose, is not? This is why you conceived me. And I understand that I am nothing more than a failed investment, a blight, a stain, a curse, or any other manner of things you must have thought of me, but all I want is a chance, father. That is all that I am asking.”

"I’ll be frank: your conduct was poor, your attitude abysmal, and now you are a source of embarrassment that I must live with for the foreseeable future."

“Let them come if they dare,” Fenice said. “I do not fear them. Isandros himself could come knocking at the gates for all it matters, I will deal with them all the same.”

“Why did you make me this way?”

Fenice rolled her eyes. “I can hardly inconvenience our soon-to-be-host’s guest in that way. Keep your horse, sir, as you keep yours Talasmir.” She points to one of the other men. “You, sir, should ride ahead and inform your mistress of her impending guests.” And then to the man that called her a liar she said, “And you, sir, shall have the honor of letting my honored guard and I borrow your horse.”

“It is a pleasure to meet the vice governor,” she corrected. “I am sure you have done a commendable job as interim governor in absence of a proper one. Know that I am very appreciative of your efforts.”

“So be it!” She screams. “So be it, if that is what it’ll finally take for you to listen to me.”

“I expect nothing from you. It is your choice whether you trust me or not. Whether I abuse it or not, is something only the Fate Weaver can see.”

Tagging: @asablehart@elrallin@maddstermind@ulysses-blues@koala2all@thewritersplace@innocentlymacabre

#collection.tag games #collection.my projects #series.wctd #wctd.misc #wctd.excerpt

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ponds-of-ink · 1 year

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Notre Dame AU “Chapter” 1.5?: “The Knight and The Judge”

Yeah, so remember that scene I skipped last time? Well, now that I’ve made up my mind on who this knight could be, here’s the part of “Chapter 2” that I originally cut.

–

Judge Glitch now paced the floor of the castle’s lower hall. His mind danced between listening for Agonia and watching the golden candles flicker above him. By this point, he had spent fifteen minutes rehearsing questions and preparing his “welcome to the kingdom” speech. “Plenty of time for the new knight to prepare before bursting through the doors now,” he concluded as he glanced at the giant entrance.

Thankfully for him, his guess was correct. A tall woman shoved through the doors, already dressed in a strange mix of a security uniform and a medieval knight. “You wanted to see me, Your Honor?” she asked as she removed her helmet and placed it on her hip. “I was sent to you by the rest of the Kingdom staff.”

”Which means you’ve already followed orders by simply arriving at my door,” Glitch smiled proudly, taking a few steps towards her. “Good work, Vanessa. Not only will I need this kind of action today, but so will everyone else.”

Vanessa’s right hand involuntarily twitched. “Yes, sir, I am aware,” she responded in a more reserved yet stern tone. “This festival sounds like it could be a different type of chaos if I- or any of the other knights- step in.”

Glitch’s ear raised. “Have you ever been to a ‘Festival of Tomfoolery’ before?” he asked with a hint of genuine confusion. “Or is this your first one?”

“If we’re talking about me being a guard, then it is,” Vanessa clarified, nonchalantly thrusting back her trimmed ponytail with a flick of her head. “But if we’re talking about the Dancing Rabbit Lady, then no. Not in the slightest. And, because I know you’ll be wondering, sir: I used to just do my performance for the day, then left. I never stuck around for the other stuff.”

”Well, then consider this your first real Festival of Tomfoolery,” Glitch answered as he strolled to her side and placed his hand on her shoulder. “I would congratulate you, but that would be distasteful for the both of us.”

Vanessa simply removed his hand from her shoulder. “So, what exactly am I supposed to do as this ‘new knight’?” she inquired, her tone bouncing between reluctance and puzzlement. “Am I supposed to just do my job and not get into character or what?”

“You’ll learn the ropes as we walk,” Glitch explained, pushing open one of the doors. “Oh, and don’t worry about looking insane to those around you. Unlike before, I’m much more.. tangible this time— As tangible as something like me gets, at least.”

Vanessa ignored the last remark and entered out first. She surveyed the bustling courtyard in front of her, then turned around. “Is this part off-limits, or can I check out the bell at any time?” she questioned, pointing to the tower as Glitch caught up to her.

”You will need to go up there for attraction maintenance or some other odds and ends,” Glitch explained as his eyes fixed on the tower. “Other than that, I suggest you stay out of the bell-ringer’s way. Especially during a Sanctuary-level emergency.”

“What’s a ‘Sanctuary-level’ emergency?”

The rabbit sighed deeply, but continued on. “That is a special code for ‘the worst case scenario’ in terms of guest safety,” he relayed flatly, now focusing on his trainee. “If you see a fellow employee or random stranger rush into the castle screaming ‘Sanctuary!’ with absolute sincerity, then it is your job to ask the other knights about what prompted the cry. Once you get your information, you rush to the perpetrator–be it malfunction or madman– and snuff it out. There are exceptions to this rule, of course, but I’m sure you’re smart enough to figure them out as you go.”

“Thank you, sir,” Vanessa replied uneasily as they walked towards the cathedral. “But–hear me out– what if the bell-ringer claims sanctuary? He clocks out of the tower for the day, meets someone he thinks is trustworthy, then that somebody punches his lights out for no good reason or even gets beyond play school-level insults? Don’t you think he–?”

”Oh, he knows better than attempt any of that,” Glitch scoffed proudly as he marched ahead. “And, even if he does, you shouldn’t fret. He’ll learn his lesson just as you have done with yours.”

Vanessa scowled and bit her lower lip. Her face flared a raging rosy tint. Even as the cathedral’s stained glass windows shone in all their glory, her brows were dark as they stepped onto the astroturf lawn. “I guess I should ask if that ‘Sanctuary’ law counts here too,” she muttered after a slow exhale. “Since, you know, the old version was used at churches?��

”Of course it does,” Glitch smirked as he opened the more plain-looking front door of the building. “Why mess with tradition that can benefit a business?”

The knight just rolled her eyes as she stepped inside. Glitch followed behind, but looked back at the castle. His arrogant smile dropped into a frown. “He better not pull any calls for ‘sanctuary’ anytime soon,” he thought as he slowly shut the door. “Otherwise, the only thing he’ll be met with a hand to the mouth or a wire to the neck. Whichever comes first.”

#glitchtrap #vanessa fnaf #hunchback of notre dame #notre dame au #fnaf au #fnaf fanfic #exposition #short chapter #fnaf security breach #totally not foreshadowing/referencing the Burntrap ending with the last sentence #nope not me

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void-galaxy-shenanigans · 2 years

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Because I got misgendered a ton at work this week & I’m angry about it, have this rant about how ma’am isn’t a respectful term to us, even when aimed at a woman-identifying individual.

Ma’am comes from the word madam, which is an anglicized (English-ified) version of madame from French. (We learned intermediate French in school that analysed words like that. Not an expert, but we know enough to be annoyed.)

Madame comes from the phrase “ma dame”, which literally translates to “my lady” and essentially means ‘married woman who likely has children’. Unmarried women, & little girls, are referred to as “mademoiselle”, which essentially means ‘unmarried woman who likely does not have children’.

...¿Do you see the issue?

There are two categories for this term: married & unmarried.

You are defined by whether or not you’re married. You are, essentially, your husband’s property as a married person. Women are categorized by marriage.

For women, strangers make the assumption whether or not you’re married. And somehow them calling you a married woman denotes more respect, so it became common in English to call them madam(e) as well.

So if you’re not married you’re not as respectable of a woman & lumped into a category with little girls. You’re a ‘little miss’ instead of a lady. Marrying a man is the gateway to your femininity.

And guess what? That’s BS. It doesn’t feel respectful to call anyone ma’am knowing the translation & inherent meaning of the words.

And yea, I do understand those terms are both used to indicate general respect nowadays, somewhat detached from their actual meaning, but I can’t stand being called that or calling anyone else that when I know the meaning behind it.

Plus on top of that, ma’am and sir are inherently gendered terms. People are taught from a young age (& sometimes traumatized into being too afraid not to) to assume a binary gender of whomever they’re speaking to & apply a gendered term to indicate respect.

But ¿what if they’re wrong? There are cis men & cis women who get incorrectly gendered by strangers. Let alone the fact that trans people exist, & nonbinary people exist, & they might be closeted or present closely to their assigned gender at birth (because androgyny/conformity is not a requirement to be trans) or they may just appear more masculine or feminine than they are...especially to strangers. And misgendering trans people is especially painful & harmful. Yet people still keep assuming they know at a glance the gender of a stranger.

Yes this is in part the ramble of an angry transmasc person who wants to medically transition but can’t yet afford HRT, top surgery, etc. & gets misgendered all of the time (there are 3 coworkers left (others went to new jobs) who get it right, & now only one do we share any shifts with, so basically all (coworkers + customers) but one coworker misgender us). & the one time someone did call us sir, they corrected themselves in the wrong direction (“sorry ma’am”) the moment we spoke, & misgendered us even after we said “no you were right, I just have a high pitch voice”.

This is in part the biased rant of a trans person, & of a nonbinary person, & of a he/they person. I get that. But gods fucking damn it, I want real respect that isn’t gendered.

I know we’re “just” a fast food worker, a minimum wage employee. Whatever. But that doesn’t mean we deserve to be misgendered all hours of the fucking day. 🙄✌

It doesn’t cost that fucking much to be a decent person. Ask & use the pronouns they tell you to, or just avoid gendered terms (including ma’am/sir) altogether. It costs you a moment’s thought & effort, but it can cost us so much worse (pain, spiraling, mental illness, even death).

~Nico

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saidelia-draconis · 2 years

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☤ - a memory of death/loss

The dim light of torches flanked Saidelia's slow shuffle through the grand hallway. Her footfalls echoed with each clank of her steel boots on the stone floor. Every so often she'd shiver as a hollow suit of armor glowered down at her through the slats in its visor. Her progress was slow and full of dread. She had been called into the office of a field commander for reasons unknown to her and the worst immediately sprung to mind. What had she done wrong? What was she to be chided for this time?

She approached the door. Dark, and foreboding. The door seemed to stretch out before her, towering to the edge of her vision. The handle seemed almost out of reach when she reached out for it. She drew her shaky, seemingly infinitesimally small hand into a clenched fist, knocking on the door without rhythm. Panic surged through her as the knob of the door slowly turned, a stern-looking older woman glowering down at her. Her gaze softened as she peered down at Saidelia. She slowly stepped back, widening the crack in the door and beckoning gently.

"Oh, Saidelia... right? It's nice to meet you. Field commander Halveth. Please, call me Catherine. Come in."

Saidelia stood nervously in the doorframe for a few moments before Catherine's hand firmly guided her across the threshold and into a chair. She sat motionless yet poised, like a bristling cat waiting for an aggressor to move. Her wide, fearful eyes. She didn't dare speak. The woman spoke assertively but tried to keep her demeanor as gentle as possible.

"It's nice to meet you, Saidelia. You seem a little apprehensive, is there anything I can perhaps get you? I'm afraid I don't entertain squires - or really anyone your age - often. I have tea... or do you drink coffee? I'd like you to know you're not here for discipline."

The young paladin continued to gawp at the older woman, only just starting to let her guard down at the woman's assurance. She slouched slightly, trying to look unimposing; it certainly worked. She nervously traced the stitching of her doublet, the girl trying to muster up the words to address the knight so superior to her.

"No ma'am-- uh, sir. Nothing, thanks."

"Catherine is fine, Saidelia. I'll put on a pot just in case. If you want some, you're more than welcome. I've been following your progress. Sir Dominicus' squire. I've always thought him to be quite capable. I see he taught you well."

"Yes Catherine, sir."

The woman pinched the bridge of her nose, refraining from correcting the girl. She busied herself with tea. When the pot was finally ready, she poured Saidelia a cup, setting it out on her desk in front of the girl. She prepared none for herself.

"It's my understanding that you were supposed to be with him during the attack on the Wrathgate until you fell ill. I hope you're feeling alright today."

"Yes Sir Catherine. Dame Catherine, sorry."

Catherine clasped her hands together, leaning forward with an uncomfortable smile, maintaining her stiff, friendly facade.

"Nothing to be sorry for, Saidelia. I was in your position many, many years ago. I'd like you to know that I'm a friend. Someone you can trust. That's why it pains me to be the one to tell you."

The commander cleared her throat, stealing some of the tea she had poured for the young paladin, quaffing it as though it were some kind of alcohol. It did little to steel her nerves.

"Saidelia, I'm sorry to tell you this. We suffered losses in the battle. Heavy losses. To the point where we're scaling back our operation in the Dragonblight region. There will be an official report to come tomorrow. Given your... unique situation, I wanted to sit down with you personally and offer my support. For what it's worth. I'm... sorry."

Saidelia stared in stunned silence, The girl felt the floor shift and fall out from under her. She felt gutted; as if everything but her emotions were suddenly spilling out in front of her. She instinctively reached toward her belly, trying to reconnect with her corporeal self. It felt like someone else's hand. Someone else's tunic. She stared past Catherine and out the window. The sunlight made her feel dizzy.

She couldn't tell how long she had been dazedly ignoring the reality in front of her. When she managed to focus on the present once again, she was met with Commander Halveth's sad, concerned, smile. She awkwardly reached out towards Saidelia's hand left on the desk. The touch felt foreign.

"I'm truly sorry, Saidelia. For what it's worth, I wish I was more comfort. What can I do to help?"

"I don't know." Her voice seemed not her own. A puppet's trying to take her place, urging her forward. "And sir Dominicus?"

"Missing. Presumed deceased. I wish I could tell you otherwise." The woman sounded somber, almost as pained as the young squire was. "I'm afraid there are some affairs to tend to. It's certainly not tradition - but these are far from ideal times. And in times like these, we take our circumstances into consideration. The war we thought would end today is far from over. We're in a bit of a bind, given how few knights we have left. Sir Dominicus seemed to think you weren't going to be ready for another few years, defer to his leadership. As of today, that is me."

Catherine's discomfort was evident, given her roundabout way of speaking. She uttered a deep, nasal sigh, rubbing her palms together as she regarded Saidelia. The girl stared back uncertainly, breaking eye contact every so often as her eyes darted suspiciously around the room.

"What I'm trying to say, Saidelia is that given everything that has happened, you and a few other squires are receiving your titles early. We're holding small ceremonies over the next few days before we give you your next assignment. I would say congratulations are in order, though I somehow doubt you feel much like celebrating."

Catherine stood up from her desk, crossing the divide between the two and placing a hand on Saidelia's shoulder. Her movements were awkward and stilted. Saidelia paid no mind to her, staring at the panes of the window behind the commander's now empty chair. The frost-rimed glass glittered in the dying afternoon light. Everything seemed more muted. The anxiety that had filled the girl twisted into an all-encompassing despair, a numbness that seemed to expand with each passing second. The woman spoke, attempting her best to soothe the young paladin.

"I know this is the first time you've lost someone you've served with. I wish I could tell you things were alright. All I can say is I know how it feels. Especially when they're close to you. You never really get over it, but I promise in time you'll learn how to keep the grief at bay."

Catherine resumed her seat, staring piteously at the silent girl. Saidelia could hardly meet the woman's gaze now, looking forward without seeing. Her thoughts were beyond the room that the two shared. The commander seemed to understand, half speaking to herself.

"I'm sorry you have to hear this from me. I wish I was more comforting. I know it isn't much, but given your situation, I've arranged the team you'll be working with. My cousin Daniel will be under your command. I've advised him of your situation. He's an ass, but I've confidence he'll help you develop as a knight. Long as you don't let him push you around. If there's anything I can do for you in the next few days, please don't hesitate. My door is always open."

(Thanks for the ask, @wandering-mesa! Sorry it took me 670 days to finish; not that anyone's counting. Wherever you are, I hope things are going well.)

#Asks #Backstory #Prompts #Writing

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marieadeledracherambles · 8 months

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Jacryn of Vergrim: our favorite escort knight

One of the secondary characters in my webnovel From Lion's Den To Dragon's Nest is the knight Sir Jacryn.

We meet him first in Chapter 5, where he strikes up a conversation with Irenis so she doesn't have to listen to Sir Gurstel, a baron's son, the leader of their troupe, and an annoying and crude man. Jacryn teaches Irenis how to camp, drops some worldbuilding lore, and follows her around to make sure she remains safe on the way to the Veriths. Irenis does trip over him once in the middle of the night as she emerges to visit the latrine, and he's noted as looking extremely tired, but Irenis doesn't know why.

Once they reach the Verith castle, Jacryn continues to follow Irenis around. He also attempts to stand guard outside the baths and her rooms at night. (I say "attempts" because the butler offers to provide a reinforcement so he can bathe and Jacryn immediately accepts.) He also helps her train on the sparring grounds and distracts Gurstel when the other knight is being too unbearable or harassing dame knights.

It's eventually revealed, in a wham line that ends Chapter 13, why Jacryn is so solicitous of Irenis's safety. He thinks that she's in danger. Chapter 14 expands on his worries: Gurstel has proven himself to be a potential danger to Irenis, a lone and unprotected girl. Jacryn has been standing guard to make sure Gurstel doesn't get to Irenis and snatching sleep only when he's certain Gurstel is asleep. In addition, Jacryn has stepped up to fill the gap that Calon of Druig did, that being "the only decent Syfh-damned adult in sight."

Once the margravine is roused to deal with the problem, she talks to Jacryn a little more to get more information, and information she gets. Jacryn grew up in the city that Gurstel's family manages. And, as Bealuen figures out, he's "a woman disguised as a man for her own safety."

After Gurstel is taken care of, it's revealed that this is technically correct! Jacryn is a trans woman who knows very well the dangers of people knowing that she wasn't born a woman. (The webnovel is set in a country that has the aesthetics of Victorian England, so some outdated language may appear.) So yes, she was hiding as a man for her own safety, and now that it's safe to be a woman knight she will do that gladly!

The narrative refers to her as a woman from then on, and Irenis doesn't know what a trans person is. She assumes that Jacryn was taking a potion that made her have to shave and doesn't think more on it. Everyone assumes that Jacryn is cis and doesn't hassle her, and that's exactly how Jacryn likes it.

Since she's done the job so excellently, Jacryn is soon assigned to be Irenis's escort knight, a bodyguard and confidant. (I don't know if this was a thing historically, but I do like the idea of it.)

Eventually (Season 4 eventually) the "gender-affirming divine intervention" picture happens to Jacryn. Webtoons have a trope wherein a female character will be anointed a "saintess," and she can use divine power in whatever way moves the plot forward. ("Lady Chef Royale" has a saintess who can open portals, for instance, despite that not being a very holy power.) Jacryn becomes a saintess and turns the tide of a pitched battle, earning herself the name "Siegebreaker Saintess." Yes she is very giddy about this, why do you ask? (It's the gender euphoria of "saintess")

#my writing #from lion's den to dragon's nest #the webnovel #jacryn fldtdn

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arjaandsimoni · 1 year

Text

Kidnapped... or not?

A hidden forest in the Irish Countryside

Deep in a forest in Ireland, hidden for centuries, stood Castle Fullmoon. It was no tall fairytale castle with glittering white walls and spires with pennants, nor was it a magical castle with talking portraits and shifting staircases. This was the headquarters of the hunter family, Clan Fullmoon, and it looked it. Thick stone walls, cold iron bars over the windows and cold iron gates at the front.

It was a large castle, but it had to be to support the entire clan. It had a wing for living quarters, beds and medical areas available for those who needed them with a well-stocked kitchen and larder.

Another wing served as an armory and where hammers and anvils rang all day as they wrought the weapons of their craft. Cold, that is to say hand-crafted, iron blades to cut back the Fair Folk of Arcadia, silver edged steel to slice away a werewolf’s hide or a vampire’s fangs, and more.

A library wing held the accumulated knowledge of centuries, though most books on how to actually use magic were locked away by the patriarch’s orders and it was only by the cunning of the librarians that they were not burned outright.

The castle was in a deep forest, but it was not unknown to the local mundane population… though no two people would agree on what exactly they DID know about it. Some thought it was a secret military base, others thought it was the home for some old family that had been Irish nobility since time immemorable, another theory said it was secretly a hideout for the Irish Revolutionary Army, and some just thought it was haunted.

Surprisingly enough, one of these is correct.

Franklin Fullmoon, first Patriarch of Clan Fullmoon by rite of combat, stood at his window overlooking the Lough, frowning. “She’s still calling?” he grumbled.

“Yes Patriarch, your daughter is very insistent. She says that the naga that appeared on the outskirts of Cincinnati kidnapped your granddaughter and possibly fled back to India.” replied one of his aides.

Franklin nodded, “She’s been calling for a damn week now. As long as that girl is obeying the magic moratorium I don’t give a shit.” he growled.

“Yes Sir… but perhaps we could send someone…” suggested the aide. Does he not care about his own grandchild? he thought, but because he liked his head where it was he only thought it. There had been several assassinations attempted on Franklin over the years, none of which had been even remotely successful.

“Hmph…” he grunted, then smirked, “What is Terrance doing?” he asked.

The aide gave Franklin a look as if he hadn't understood him correctly, “Terrance… Sir you don’t honestly mean to send him do you? He’s our worst agent! When we got that report of something nesting inside Notre Dame he wound up in Paris Idaho and it took him a week to realize he’d gotten the wrong country!” he protested.

Franklin nodded, “Send SOMEone so that annoying girl will shut up. With any luck the naga ATE her if it even took her at all.” he replied.

When the man left he walked to a display case and opened it up, taking out a claymore and sliding it out of the sheath. To mundane eyes it looked like a very VERY ugly length of sharpened iron… to anyone with magic however it looked like a black hole in the air, that seemed to suck light in around it. “Clean up the whole damn world… take all these inhuman freaks and wipe them out…” he snarled, sheathing it again. “Even if it takes the rest of my damned life…”

Jaipur India, two days later

Stephanie walked along through the market next to Arja, the girl’s head turning this way and that as they went, her eyes taking in the sights.

Arja smirked at her, “Sheesh, you’ve been here almost two weeks now and its still blowing your mind?” she asked with a grin.

Stephanie blushed, snapping out of it, “OH! S-sorry, its just… I’m so used to American buildings and they’re normally these big grey blocky things, but everything here is so bright and colorful! Its… yeah…” she giggled sheepishly.

Arja laughed at that, “Yeah, guess you did grow up there huh. Cincinnati had a few neat places, but mostly just big grey towers.” she grinned. “Color is super important to my people. Like take me, red means strength!” she flexed her arm, then smirked, “… also fertility.”

Stephanie blushed at that, “Sheesh… what about green?” she asked, curious about her own favorite. Sure it was a little stereotypical for a girl with Irish ancestry, but she liked it!

“Beginnings and happiness, we use it during the Holi festival to symbolize a happy new year.” she nodded.

Stephanie blushed, “W-well, I’m happy here, and I’d like to think something is beginning…” she mumbled shyly.

Arja grinned, “Could be…” she teased.

While Arja’s father, Rajesh, had been hesitant to take her in out of concern that it could cause problems given she wasn’t his child or even from this country and almost certainly was NOT here with her parent’s consent, her mother Iravati was more than happy to have another girl around the house. She really did look just like Arja, only older and a bit more ladylike compared to the tomboyish monkey girl.

She was a bit surprised that the rest of India was so… well… she didn’t know what she’d expected. She did find out that while some women and girls did wear sarees that it wasn’t anywhere near mandatory. Sometimes they did if they felt like dressing up or if they were going to a major occasion like a wedding or some other celebration, but by and large it actually wasn’t that different from America… other than the fact that the words on the clothes were all in Hindi and thus totally illegible to her.

She also found out she was really bad at languages. She’d tried to pick up some Hindi from Arja but after a rather embarrassing moment at a market where she’d accidentally asked the vendor to give her a pound of her own left foot she left the talking to Arja and played the role of the wide-eyed western tourist girl.

As they walked along today however, Arja whispered to her, “So… you did see him right?” she asked.

Stephanie nodded back, “Yeah, he’s been following us for, what, three blocks?” she asked.

Arja raised an eyebrow, “… yeah, not bad.” she grinned.

Stephanie giggled, “Well I am part of a hunter clan, even if my mad grandpa wants to kick me out. I can tell when something is following me.” she replied.

Arja nodded, “He’s human though…” she replied, “Even in human form my sense of smell is stronger than most. He smells…” she sniffed the air, “… some sort of foresty scent, and alcohol… I can smell oiled metal too, he’s armed.” she nodded.

Stephanie nodded back, “So how do you wanna handle this?” she asked, “Lure him off into a side street and take him out?”

Arja nodded, “Yeah, trick is finding one that isn’t full of people.” she muttered back.

Stephanie frowned, “No kidding… I heard how huge India’s population is but… sheesh…” she mumbled.

Arja smirked, “Yeaaaaaah, can make finding somewhere to take out a monster a bit of an issue…” she nodded, then glanced around, “This way, I got an idea…”

She led her down a very narrow alleyway, so narrow that they had to walk single file. “Remember that thing you did to that naga? Where you bounced it all around like a pinball machine?” she asked.

Stephanie blinked, looking at the alleyway, then grinned. “Yeeeeeup…” she smirked, then started whistling. Barely visible swirls of air began to form along the alleyway...

Their pursuer came to the alley and cursed, then tried to start squeezing through, but he was large, and it was a hard fit, then he reached the first wind trap Stephanie had set…

There were several loud crashes, a lot of louder cursing in English, and someone was shot back and forth through the alley at just enough of an angle to force them through it, smashing them out the alley with the last one as Stephanie let out a sharp whistle and a blast of air slammed down on them from above, knocking them to the ground!

Arja scowled. The man was big yes, hidden under a large cloak-like wrap. Hot and heavy in this weather, and something that would stand out in a city like Jaipur. Whoever this moron was he seemed to think he was an extra in an Indiana Jones movie.

She reached down and yanked the hood back, “WHO ARE YOU AND WHY ARE YOU… following us…” she paused, frowning.

The man wasn’t Indian! His skin was white and freckled and he had a head of deep red hair!

“Oh shit… he’s from Clan Fullmoon…” whispered Stephanie, taking a step back. She didn’t know the whole clan, they were huge, but he was clearly Irish and the odds of some random Irishman tailing them was stupidly low.

“Oh? Did he send you here to kill her?” she snarled, Arja’s skin erupting in golden fur as her tail grew, her teeth becoming flames, “ANSWER ME OR I’LL SEND YOU BACK TO YOUR PATRIARCH IN A BOX!”

The man swore and scooted back, going for his sword, then catching it on his cloak and pulling the whole thing over him, becoming tangled. He struggled and tried to pull free, standing up, only to stumble backwards and crash into a pillar.

“… wait…” said Stephanie. “That’s… even a bad agent would at least know how to fight properly…” she muttered.

The Fullmoon man tugged harder, and finally managed to tear the cloak free, ripping it off and pulling his sword, only for Arja to throw a fireball at his hands. He yelped and dropped the blade, shaking his fingers.

Arja cocked her head at the sight, “This is the Clan you were afraid of?” she asked.

Stephanie shook her head, “Nooooo… they can fight a lot better than this… most of them…” she replied, then a thought struck her, “Hey, your name isn’t Terrance, is it?” she asked.

The man paused, then scowled, “Aye! What of it?” he spat.

Stephanie sagged with relief, “Oh thank GODS, its only you…” she sighed, shaking her head.

Arja turned to her with a confused expression, cocking her head at Stephanie. "Uh... so, this is a good thing? I mean, its entertaining but..."

“He’s the black sheep of the Clan, totally worthless in a fight and an absolute moron. They send him along with competent fighters normally so he can soak up bullets or let a monster chew on him while they do the important bits.” she giggled.

“OH FUCK OFF!” he snapped, “The Patriarch sent me ‘cause yer mum said a Naga’d kidnapped ya ta India!”

Stephanie looked at him, then huffed, “Wait, that naga?! We burned it to bits! Its probably dead at the bottom of the Ohio River by now!” she retorted. “I didn’t get kidnapped! I ran away from home! I’m here because I want to be!”

The man frowned, “Too bad lass, yer comin’ back with me ta Kentucky right now…” he replied, stepping forward… Arja raised her claws but Stephanie put a hand on her shoulder, then let out another sharp cry and smashed a burst of wind into his middle, blowing him into a wall, then again as a fist-sized burst smacked him in the chin, then twice on each side of his head, then again on the top of his skull, then once in his throat, then again in his gut, then once more to knock him on the side and send his inner ear spinning. He tried to stand, fell over, stood up, fell again, struggled back up, landed on his back, and decided three tries was good enough before falling unconscious.

Arja blinked, “… why were you afraid of these guys again?” she asked.

Stephanie shook her head, “Terrance wouldn’t be here if grandpa was serious about getting me back. He’s probably only here to confirm if I’m here, that or granddad just sent him to get him out of Castle Fullmoon for a bit. I hear they actually start a betting pool when he goes out and place bets on how he’ll screw up a mission.” she replied.

Arja nodded, “So he’s just the first… others will come for you?” she looked back.

Stephanie nodded, “Well, it may not be that bad. He may genuinely think I need to be rescued.” she replied, the girl whistling up a small wind and using it to smack Terrance awake. “HEY, wake up.” she said loudly.

Terrance’s eyes opened, and he looked at her bleary eyed, his pupils seemed a bit too large... “Shoot, I may have given him a concussion… Listen to me, can you hear me?” she snapped her fingers.

Terrance nodded and mumbled out something that sounded like a 'yes.'

“Alright! I’m. FINE. Tell granddad that I don’t NEED to be rescued and that I’ll go home on my own in a little while when I’m sure its safe to do so.” she nodded.

Terrance grunted, “Sure sure fine…” he replied, then flopped back onto the pavement.

Arja frowned, “We didn’t get him killed did we?” she asked.

“Fullmoon men are built like elephants normally. They’re REALLY hard to kill.” she replied, “With any luck this’ll get the message across.”

Arja shrugged, returning to her human form, “We can hope, so… just leave him?” she asked.

“Yeah, eventually he’ll have to report in or give up.” she nodded, “And he doesn’t know where you live so, yeah, he’ll just wander around lost for a few days and go home most likely if what I’ve heard is true.” she replied.

“Eh, whatever. Wanna go get a kebab?” she asked.

Stephanie grinned and nodded, “Oooo yeah!” she replied, following the girl back through the alleyway.

Some hours later…

Franklin Fullmoon glared at the phone as Terrance gave his report from India. “So she didn’t get kidnapped but somehow ran away to a completely different continent?” he snarled.

“Aye Sir! She said she’d come back when she was good and ready…” he said.

Franklin frowned at the device on his desk, “She couldn’t have gotten there on her own without using some form of magic… I may have to revisit my decision on whether or not to banish her.”

“Er… there’s more Sir. She wasn’t alone, she was stayin’ with some local girl. Some sorta shapeshifter. Human to monkey, and they could conjure fire too. May have other abilities, those were the only two I saw.

Frankin went silent, staring at the far wall… “… fire, you say?” he replied.

“Aye Sir… fire. She seemed rather keen on staying with th’ monkey lass too.” replied Terrance.

Franklin felt a chill run up his spine. Not fear, he did not feel fear, but something else.

… the legacy of Franklin Fullmoon will be no more, burnt to ash and scattered on the wind… came a whisper in his ear, as soft as a moth’s wing.

He gritted his teeth, no… this would not do at all. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention Terrance. Abort mission and return to Castle Fullmoon.” he replied, hanging up, then dialed another number, “Captain. Tell Jacob to assemble a squad of four, including himself, and travel to Jaipur India immediately. Target is Stephanie Fullmoon, orders are kill on sight. I repeat, KILL on sight. There may be an Indian girl with her; shapeshifter, primate type, pyromancer. If she resists, they both die.” he nodded.

“Right away Patriarch.” came the reply from the phone.

Franklin hung up, then glared at the wall. “No… I refuse to let that old bat’s vision come to pass. I should not have shown leniency after the incident in Covington. Any witch of Clan Fullmoon who uses their magic will DIE.” he snarled.

#supernatural adventures #modern fantasy #fiction #lgbtq

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intyalote · 2 years

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watched フィギペディア羽生結弦 - I hadn’t seen it before (actually before this I hadn’t seen any of his documentaries oops) and it’s really fun seeing all the old programs again with commentary! making me very nostalgic. ended up having a bunch of incoherent thoughts about his entire career, don’t open the read more unless you want my unfiltered live reactions vaguely sorted by program.

mission impossible

- realizing yuzuru’s JGPF 2009 SP (the first win of his super slam) and sui/han’s Beijing 2022 SP (the last win of their super slam) were both to mission impossible soundtrack… there’s something meaningful there.

- lol the straight line stsq requirement I forgot that used to be a thing. can we bring it back please.

romeo and juliet 1.0

- ロミオでもあって羽生結弦でもあって 😭

- they’re showing GPF version hm. I prefer the worlds version, stsq fall and all, but this one is nice for being so sharp if not as personal and passionate.

- commentator calling the chsq カッコいい is absolutely correct. so good.

parisienne walkways

- “[parisienne walkways] is a very adult song with a strong character that I can’t put my own interpretation into yet” I want this 17yo yuzu to see his skcan19 gala performance of the same program… so commanding. and then that recording of the german commentator going “yes sir” to the 4S in LMEY lmao.

- “ここからのトリプルアクセル!” commentator is rightfully amazed. PW 3a is always so good because of how the beats line up exactly with the entering steps right down to the GOAT back counter itself.

- ok this PW commentary is just too much “完璧ですよ… なにそれっていう感��でね”

romeo and juliet 2.0

- ahhh R&J 2.0. never my favorite but that back counter 3a2t in the second half is still insane, and the layback ina bauer… momentous.

- random thought but I’ve missed seeing him do sit twizzles… he did them in beijing gala practice for white legend but I don’t think he’s put them in a program since 2014 rip.

- oh I forgot how absolutely deranged the GPF 2013 podium was with yuzu hardly believing that he won/still くやしい about the sal while chiddy looked about to crack. 13-14 chiddy really went through it huh, I don’t blame him one bit for going a little off the rails when yuzu scored over 100 and beat him again at the olympics.

phantom of the opera

- awww he’s singing along to the “softly, deftly” part he must have been so happy TCC finally let him do phantom. when you see yuzu’s dramatic teenager side come out it’s no longer at all surprising that mark is such a diehard fanyu they’re exactly the same.

- “not just the ordinary phantom, but the phantom as me… I want to make POTO mine” and he did! the only POTO program as far as I’m concerned davis/white whomst?

- that rocker-counter-loop right in front of the judges is one of my favorite one foot clusters ever.

- another random thought but the zagitova rule is really one of the worst things the ISU has come up with. now everyone does basically the same free layout and it’s Boring. plus it’s yet another advantage for high BV jumpers only since there are fewer ways to catch up now.

somebody to love

- oh my god why are they showing the bieber ex… yuzu’s dark past.

- plushenko’s face keeps showing up on posters in the bg making me wonder if yuzu ever tried to copy the sex bomb ex in practice.

- 3a-3a sequence... you little showoff.

hello, I love you

- he doesn’t know what he’s doing but it’s kind of endearing how bad it is.

- oh this is the origin of those blinding lights hip thrusts... yeah he’s definitely copied sex bomb in practice why did I ever doubt that. also who thought it was a good idea to let a 17yo do this program but I kind of want to see the current yuzu who actually has some upper body muscle do it.

- “a brief intermission before yuzuru hanyu loses all of his clothing” skam 2012 announcer you will always be famous.

notre dame de paris

- TEB gala might be the best he’s ever skated it... what an effortless and huge 4t that was.

- god the interpretation in these spins is something else, so much improvement in just a year.

- 4t-3a-3a... showing off again I see

PW again (2015 gala version)

- can hear the stars in the commentators’ eyes oh my god he’s really a legend by this point.

- 4LO+3A+SEQ??? HOLY SHIT I didn’t know he did that! why hasn’t he ever done a 4lo combo/seq in competition... he’s literally the best in the world at both 4lo and 3a it’s glorious I’m screaming

#figure skating #yuzuru hanyu #posting this for myself bc i just re-experienced the entire 2010-2014 quad and it was. something.#romeo and juliet 1.0 #phantom of the opera #parisienne walkways #notre dame de paris #hello i love you #mission impossible

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iam93percentstardust · 3 years

Note

Hey, I hope you're had a very pleasant birthday and birthday month! If the prompte are still open: Can you do Stony with Tony finally and sorta randomly confessing his love to Steve and Steve only then realizing that what he feels for Tony is romantic love as well?

Hello! Sure thing! Quick note: there’s a change between present and past tense for a flashback, for anyone who doesn’t like that kind of thing

As always, everything I write is also on ao3

“I love you,” Tony says, and Steve doesn’t quite know what to do about that.

He won’t say that he’s thought about it before because he hasn’t. But he won’t say that he’s never thought about it either—because he has, occasionally, glanced at Tony’s ass outlined by his perfectly tailored pants and appreciated the sight, and he has, once or twice, wondered what Tony’s warm, sparkling eyes would look like when hazy with pleasure. But a quick, glancing thought that he immediately moves on from is not the same as being attracted enough to Tony to think about asking him out or anything past that.

And now that he’s faced with that question, he doesn’t know what to say. Is he supposed to thank Tony? Is he supposed to acknowledge his feelings and say that he doesn’t feel the same way? Is he just supposed to ignore what Tony said? This is why he has so much trouble with his dates—he never knows how to act in a way that isn’t awkward. No wonder Natasha recently declared him hopeless after he came back from his last date covered in her sticky drink because he accidentally called her a dame.

“I love you,” Tony says and Steve doesn’t know what to do about that, but as it turns out, he doesn’t have to do anything, because Tony nods immediately afterward, says, “Good talk,” and turns and walks away like he wasn’t expecting an answer—or at least, not one that he would like.

Steve doesn’t know what to do about that either.

“Do you think I’m in love with Tony?” he asks Natasha later that day when they’re relaxing on the couch while some mindless sitcom plays in the background.

Natasha blinks at him and then caps the nail polish she was using and puts it on the coffee table. “Do you think you’re in love with Tony?” she asks carefully.

He frowns at her. “That’s not what I asked.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure I should just tell you what to think.”

He sighs and takes another sip from his Coke, only to realize that it’s empty. Yeah, that describes his life pretty well. “I’m gonna get another one,” he says, standing up. “Do you want something?”

She shakes her head. It’s not until he’s in the kitchen, grabbing another Coke from the fridge, before she asks, “What brought this on?”

Steve thinks about the vulnerable look on Tony’s face as he said those three words. He probably wouldn’t like it if Steve told Natasha what they’d discussed. Or, well, he’d probably act like it was fine but he’d secretly feel hurt and might put the workshop into blackout mode again. Steve hates it when the workshop is in blackout mode. He doesn’t like that he can’t get to Tony when he’s feeling so terrible that he has to shut himself away. He wants to be there to support him, and he hates it when he’s the one who makes Tony feel like he has to close off the workshop.

“Nothing,” he tells Natasha.

She gets up to come into the kitchen, where she eyes him for a moment and then declares, “Tony finally told you, didn’t he?”

How does she always know?

“How do you always know?”

She smiles enigmatically. “I always know,” she says in that mysterious tone.

Steve glares at her. “Tony told you, didn’t he?”

“Maybe he did and maybe he didn’t.”

“One of these days, you’re going to have to admit that you two are friends.”

“Hmm,” she agrees. “But not today.” She hesitates, watching as Steve starts preparing a ham sandwich. “So Tony told you he loves you and you said?”

“Nothing,” Steve says with a shrug. “JARVIS, do you think it would be a good idea if I took this to Tony?”

“Sir has not expressed an explicit desire to keep you out of the workshop but I believe he would not appreciate you down there at the moment.”

Steve sighs. “Great. Could you send U up here to bring this sandwich down?”

“Of course, Captain Rogers.”

With that taken care of, Steve turns back to Natasha, following her back out to the living room. “I didn’t say anything because Tony didn’t give me the chance. He just took off.”

Natasha is quiet, studying him for a long moment. He knows what she’s thinking, since it’s probably the same thing he thought: that Tony was too afraid to hear the answer to give Steve the chance to respond. Eventually, she asks, “So how do you feel about it?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says honestly. “I can’t say I’ve ever thought about Tony like that before but—we act kinda coupley, don’t we?”

Before Natasha can respond, the previously bright sky outside goes dark. There’s a bright lightning bolt right outside the window, followed by the crash of thunder and then a loud rushing sound. It dissipates after a moment, the sky lightening again.

“Captain Rogers, Agent Romanoff,” JARVIS says, “Thor has returned to the tower.”

The Steve and Tony story goes something like this: instead of going on his planned road trip, Steve returned to the tower the day after the Chitauri invasion to offer his apologies to Tony about what he said on the helicarrier. Somehow—and he’s not sure how, even to this day—he found himself getting wrapped up in the tower repairs with a room of his own on one of the lower floors. And by the time those were done, Tony had apparently also redone some of the apartments near the penthouse as a headquarters for the Avengers. Steve hadn’t been lacking for options after the battle (the Army, in particular, wanted him back) but he’d moved into the tower permanently instead.

He and Tony had clashed a few times in those early days but once Bruce came back from wrapping up his affairs in India and Natasha and Clint left SHIELD to join them, they settled into a bit of a truce.

And over the semi-regular movie nights and the training spars and the late-night conversations after they both couldn’t sleep, that truce became a friendship and before Steve quite realized it, Tony had become one of his best friends. Slowly, Steve found himself being pulled out of the shell he’d withdrawn into after waking in this new century. Tony dragged him to lunch at new and exciting places, places that Steve could never have even dreamed of when he was growing up. They planned missions and training days together. Steve had even gotten adept enough at handling the press with Tony to feel confident accepting interview requests with him.

He hadn’t realized though that Tony had taken it as something more serious though. And now that he does know, he’s not sure what to do about it.

He eventually goes to Bruce, since Pepper is busy dealing with a business merger and Colonel Rhodes is out of town in some undisclosed location (though Steve is certain that Tony knows where). Bruce’s lab isn’t quite the wonderland of light and holograms that Tony’s is, but it’s still impressive to someone who grew up with nothing. Tony makes sure that Bruce has all the latest equipment so the lab is a gleaming marvel of sleek instruments with silver and white colors everywhere. It doesn’t look like the most soothing environment but the speakers pipe out some sort of piano music that Steve vaguely recognizes and there’s a teapot on one counter, keeping whatever Bruce is drinking warm.

Bruce is currently examining something under a microscope. Steve can make out what looks like a purple smear on the slide from where he’s standing in the doorway, but that’s it. Bruce doesn’t seem to have noticed him yet, even though JARVIS announced him, so he waits patiently until Bruce has rolled away from the microscope.

“Bruce, you got a second?” he asks quietly.

“Hey, when did you get here?” Bruce asks, offering him a tired smile. He waves Steve over to the teapot and offers him a cup.

“Just a couple minutes ago. I didn’t mind waiting,” Steve assures him. “What’s the blend?”

“Lavender and chocolate.”

“Sure, I wouldn’t mind a cup.” Bruce hands him the steaming mug. Steve has to add the sugar himself (only Tony knows how he prefers his tea).

“What brings you to my lab? Tony’s downstairs today,” Bruce says, fixing a cup of his own.

“I’m not looking for Tony. Not yet anyway,” Steve corrects. “I did want to talk about him though.” He hesitates and then decides to take the plunge. “Has Tony ever said anything to you about—ah—”

“About his feelings?” Bruce asks knowledgeably. “It’s come up a few times.”

Steve takes that to mean that it’s come up fairly frequently. Tony does like to overshare sometimes and trying to figure out what he’ll overshare about and what he’ll clam up about is about as accurate as trying to make one of Clint’s trick shots. “He told me today,” he begins carefully. “But he didn’t let me say anything.”

“Well, he wouldn’t,” Bruce says, like that’s perfectly reasonable and not absolutely surprising to Steve. He must see the confusion in Steve’s face because he adds, “He only just figured it out a few days ago himself, even though he’s been talking about you for months. I don’t think he was expecting you to feel the same way as him right after he realized it.”

“But why would he say it then?”

Bruce takes off his glasses, holding them in front of him as he thinks. “Tony—he’s got a weird relationship with love. He told me once that he thought he’d lost the chance to tell Pepper he loved her, first in Afghanistan and then with the palladium poisoning.”

“His parents,” Steve realizes. “He didn’t get to tell them either.”

“Exactly,” Bruce says, pointing at him with the glasses. “He doesn’t like to wait. So even though he knows you don’t feel the same way, he felt it was important to tell you.”

“What, in case I die tomorrow?”

“Or if he does.” Bruce must catch the stricken expression on Steve’s face as he smiles gently. “It’s not just about getting the feeling off his chest for Tony. It’s about making sure that you know you’re loved too.”

“Oh,” Steve says softly.

Normally, he would go down to the workshop to think about something that’s puzzling him but he doesn’t want to bother Tony right now. Instead, he goes to his second-favorite room in the entire tower: the library. The library was designed specifically by Tony for Steve after he mentioned how much he liked the tablet Tony had given him but how he missed paper books too. He hadn’t been angling for a library out of the conversation but Tony, generous to a fault, had immediately gotten to work on one.

It’s a beautiful room, completely incongruous with the sleek modern style of the rest of the tower, but perfect despite that. It takes up an entire two floors of the tower with balconies, a spiral staircase, and several sliding ladders for Clint to reenact a scene from some movie that Steve hasn’t gotten around to watching yet. Tony had done the room in dark wood with enough windows to make it feel light and airy instead of cramped. There are little nooks hidden among the shelves and a few window seats for anyone who wants to gaze out over the New York skyline while they read.

It’s perfect, made all the more so because Tony designed it for him.

“Steve, you should have realized how Tony felt sooner,” he mutters to himself as he settles on one of the cushy armchairs with his sketchbook. But how could he have? According to Bruce, Tony hadn’t even known how he felt until a few days ago.

He sketches as he thinks, no subject in mind until he looks down to find that he’s roughly sketched out Tony at his workbench, arguing with DUM-E over something silly. Steve smiles fondly down at the drawing, rubbing his thumb over the curve of Tony’s cheek. He remembers this argument. It had been a couple weeks ago. Tony had asked DUM-E to bring him a wrench and instead, DUM-E had brought him two screwdrivers, three hammers, and a level before finally bringing the wrench. It had made Steve laugh, which had just encouraged DUM-E. Tony had acted frustrated but he knows Tony well enough to know that Tony had been secretly proud about DUM-E’s personality, both for DUM-E and for himself. After all, as Tony said, any monkey could design an AI. It took skill to design one with character.

In his sketch, he’s drawn something of that conflict in Tony’s face—the frustration in the downward turn of his mouth but the pride in the twinkle in his eyes—and it only makes him more beautiful.

“Beautiful,” Steve repeats, awed at the thought. Tony is beautiful, when he’s tinkering, when he’s flying, even when he’s going toe-to-toe with Steve over something stupid (usually Tony’s self-sacrificial tendencies).

He flips through the book, taking in each drawing: Natasha, Tony, Clint, Thor, Tony, Bruce, Tony, Tony, Tony. “Yeah,” he murmurs, looking back down at the drawing he just finished again. He thinks he’s got it figured out.

He stands, tucking his sketchbook under his arm. “JARVIS, do you think Tony would mind talking to me now? I’ve got something important to tell him.”

JARVIS is quiet for a moment, then says, “Sir would be happy to see you.”

He makes his way downstairs, thinking about what he’s going to say, but as soon as he sees Tony—wonderful, beautiful, perfect Tony—playing with one of those incredible holograms he designed, the words fly from his mind and he blurts out, “I’m not in love with you.”

And then he winces. Yeah, okay, so he’s a bit of a disaster.

Tony looks hurt for a moment, but it’s quickly covered up with dramatic offense. Before Tony can make one of his infamous quips that’ll just make light of the situation, Steve crosses the workshop and pulls Tony’s hands into his, rubbing them gently with his thumbs.

“I’m not in love with you,” he repeats. “But I think I could be soon. I’m not where you’re at yet—my brain isn’t nearly as quick as yours, Tony, of course you’re a step ahead of me here too. But Tony, you’re on almost every single page of my sketchbook. We go on what we might as well call dates together. We talk for hours. I know you almost as well as I know myself. I’m not in love with you yet but I think I’m only a couple dates away from it, so you should take me out, and we’ll see how fast I can catch up.”

Tony is smiling by the end of his little speech. “How are you always so good at that?” he asks.

“I was born like this,” Steve says seriously, only to crack a grin when Tony laughs.

“No you weren’t,” Tony argues. “You were born small and spiteful.”

“And full of good speeches. But no one wanted to listen to a little guy like me so I had to bottle them up to use on you.” He pauses and looks down at Tony. “Um, not to pressure you, but does a date sound good?”

Tony thinks about it for a moment. “Depends. Where are you going to take me?”

“Oh, am I taking you? You’re the billionaire, shouldn’t you be treating me?”

Tony’s eyes darken as he purrs, “Only if you’re very nice.”

Steve shivers. He hadn’t really thought about how it would feel to have the full Tony Stark Seduction TechniqueTM turned on him, but he’s thinking about it now and it is absolutely delightful. “What if I’m not nice at all?” he whispers, hands tightening on Tony’s.

Tony’s smile turns downright filthy and he leans up to brush a kiss over Steve’s cheek. “Hmm, I’ll think of something,” he murmurs into Steve’s ear.

He’s not going to act like a caveman and take Tony to bed. He’s not. He’s going to—“Sal’s!” he blurts out, immediately regretting it when Tony takes a step away, brow wrinkling confusedly. It’s really cute. Steve wants to kiss it away.

“What?”

“Sal’s,” Steve says again. “Best burgers in Brooklyn. I want to take you there.”

Tony smiles again. “Sounds like a date.”

#alle writes #stevetony #alle answers #if you like please consider reblogging #Anonymous

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preciousthingsareprecious · 3 years

Text

Out of Sight

Guys! Here it is is!! Dick and Damian week! I am obviously super excited. I’m loving all the content you all are posting, and I’m here to share a fic of my own.

Day 2: Dami’s First Birthday with Dick / Comfort / “He’s my son!”

Summary:

��I’m looking for my little brother, he’s ten, this high with black hair and has a green bowtie.” Dick held his hand out to Damian’s approximate height.

“If I see him I’ll send him your way, now please.” the man waved Dick towards the rest of the crowd.

He shook his head, “You don’t understand, I think he’s still inside. He was supposed to meet me if we got separated and he hasn’t yet I need--”

The man’s face fell, and with it Dick’s heart.

“What?” he almost growled, “What’s going on?”

Ao3 Link

“So there Bruce is, standing in front of the most gorgeous lady I’d ever seen laughing like she’s not just stunning and--”

There was a tug at his elbow. Dick ignored it and continued with his story.

“And I’m 16, slack jawed, and carrying a blue raspberry slurpee. So of course I’m going to trip over my own two feet.”

This time it was an elbow in his side. Dick shifted a bit. The two women he was talking to didn’t seem to notice.

“One foot catches another and down I go. I thought for sure I was going to faceplant, but someone caught me. When I looked up, I saw Bruce, absolutely coated in my drink! He was-- Damian please .”

His little brother had closed the distance between them and dug his heel into Dick’s foot. When Dick looked down at him, the boy was all innocence, foot already snapping into place beside the other. A trick he was regretting teaching Damian right now.

“I do not mean to interrupt, but our tickets to The Pirates of Penzance say we are to arrive ten minutes early and if we do not leave soon we will be late.”

Damian was laying on the innocent act really well. They had no plans to see the musical. In fact, Damian had vehemently rejected Dick when he’d asked him a few weeks ago if he’d wanted to attend. So this act, for that’s what it had to be, must have been a ploy to go home early. Most days, Dick wouldn’t mind the kid giving him an out from social affairs, but this wasn’t something he wanted to miss. Lucius had specifically asked him to come.

They were in the middle of a special party thrown for Wayne Enterprise’s new hires. Everyone, from full time staff to interns, who’d been added to the staff in the last six months had flooded into the building’s first floor ballroom, they’d brought family along with them and friends. Dick was pretty sure there were people here who had nothing to do with the staff, but had shown up for the open bar alone. Lucius had stressed how important it was for them to meet at least one of the Waynes, and of how inspiring it’d be for Dick to give a stirring speech.

Dick made a show of checking his watch and beamed down at his brother, “We’ve still got some time, I promise I won’t let us be late, alright?”

His brother puffed out his cheeks and pressed his lips together, obviously trying to decide if it was worth it to keep the eager child routine up. At last he nodded, a single sharp nod.

“Fine. Then I will amuse myself elsewhere.”

With that, the kid spun on his heel and stomped away.

Dick shot the ladies an apologetic smile, “One second, I want to make sure he’s not upset. Then I’ll be back to regale you with the story’s thrilling conclusion.”

“Of course.” one of the women smiled.

He darted after Damian, and ahead of the boy to walk backwards until Damian stopped with a huff. They were in a crowded room, but somehow Damian had already made his way to one of the few quiet bubbles.

“Want to tell me what that was all about?” Dick asked.

Damian crossed his arms, “I simply do not wish to waste any more time with these plebeians.”

“Aaand?” Dick pressed.

The boy glared at him, “And it should be obvious.”

Okay, he was not expecting that. Dick wracked his brain for what he could have missed. Any signs Damian was upset? Any people who’d bothered him? Had he forgotten an important date or something?

“Remember what we talked about with using our words. Misunderstandings are made and broken by stating clear intentions.” Dick said.

“Tt. If you cannot remember, then apparently I am the one who misunderstood.” Damian snapped, and pushed past him.

By the time Dick turned around, his brother had melted into the crowd of unfamiliar faces. He swore. He wished he could remember what it was that had Damian in such a grumpy mood.

He thought back on the immediate. On Damian’s mood and actions over the course of the day. The kid had been happy enough when Dick had suggested they go to the meet and greet together. He hadn’t wanted to go alone, and he figured after they could do something after like go to the arcade or-- Oh .

“Crap.” Dick muttered.

They really were supposed to see that musical tonight. Days after Damian had told Dick in no uncertain terms what he thought of people who watched musical’s he’d barged into the Penthouse with three tickets to a showing of it at Gotham’s Summer Musicals in the Park event.

“It is something you enjoy doing, correct?” Damian had asked, “You and Pennyworth used to go?”

How Damian had figured that out Dick would never know. He didn’t think Alfred would have told him, not outright. It had been their thing, and Dick was hoping to advance the tradition.

And, well, lately Dick wanted to share everything with Damian. The kid had wiggled his way into Dick’s heart in a way that made him feel warm to think about.

“Damian!” he called, not too loud as to make a scene, but loud enough he hoped his brother heard him.

He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten. Well, he could. He hadn’t known about this event until yesterday, and in the flurry of scheduling it and figuring out patrol in case it went really late all thoughts of fun had gone out of Dick’s head.

A short tuft of dark hair made for one of the hallways and Dick moved towards it. The next moment, someone was shouting.

“He’s got a gun!”

The words were followed seconds later by two unmistakable gunshots.

The crowd around him swarmed. Like a pack of terrified gazelle being chased by a lion, the room exploded into movement as the people all around him began running, pushing, and shoving in an attempt to get out of the building.

Dick was caught in the swell of people, his body being pushed towards the door before he could stop and find his brother.

“Damian!” he yelled this time, “Dames!”

He stopped, doing his best to plant his feet as a stone against the tide. His gaze ripped across the flood of people. Dick only had a moment before someone shoved him from behind and he was moving again, stumbling along with the crowd, jostled from position to position until he burst through the doors and the remaining rays of sunlight hit his face.

Dick tumbled out of the crowd as soon as he could, and went back to his search. He moved along the edges, knowing Damian would do the same. They’d drilled this time and again. Damian knew the rules, if they got separated in a crowd, get out and find the other along the edge.

His heart was racing. He could hear sirens coming closer. The police detail for the party must have already called for backup. Dick could hear them now too, corralling the crowd, moving everyone to a designated safe zone, but doing their best not to let them disperse.

Dick was still moving, prowling in his search for his little brother.

He took a few seconds to pause and shoot off a quick text to Damian, asking where he was, and telling him to follow procedure, and that he was looking for him.

“Damian!” he called again, hoping his voice could be heard above the din.

Where was he? They should have met up by now. Dick should be dragging his kid into his side and holding him close, apologizing for forgetting, and the fact that they were sure to miss the play. His heart should be slowing down.

But he couldn’t find Damian. What if? What if he was still inside?

Dick rushed back towards the door only to be stopped by one of the officers moving to stand in front of him.

“Sir, please, I need you to move over there.”

“I’m looking for my little brother, he’s ten, this high with black hair and has a green bowtie.” Dick held his hand out to Damian’s approximate height.

“If I see him I’ll send him your way, now please.” the man waved Dick towards the rest of the crowd.

He shook his head, “You don’t understand, I think he’s still inside. He was supposed to meet me if we got separated and he hasn’t yet I need--”

The man’s face fell, and with it Dick’s heart.

“What?” he almost growled, “What’s going on?”

“There’s still some people inside, but--” the officer trailed off.

“Tell me.” Dick did growl now.

The officer straightened against Dick’s anger, but his face was pitying, “The gunman’s locked himself up in the ballroom with hostages. We don’t have much information right now, but when we do we will let you know.”

The phone in Dick’s palm buzzed two short quick bursts that were Damian’s signature. He checked it, and saw one word: inside.

Dick’s head flooded with white static. His thumb hovered above the phone, wanting to send a message, to beg for more information. He couldn’t, couldn’t risk alerting anyone to Damian’s presence or the presence of a phone. If Damian was safe enough to text, Dick wasn’t going to put him in danger by messaging again.

The officer turned his head and seemed to catch someone else’s attention, waving them over while Dick stood frozen, “Jerry! This guy’s kid is inside, talk to him for me?”

Dick didn’t bother correcting the man, his mouth had gone dry. His heart once racing, now felt like it had all but disappeared.

Jerry, took Dick by the shoulders and moved him away from the other officer. They didn’t head towards the main crowd, but to the police cars that had rolled up to the scene. Vaguely Dick noted that police tape had been drawn up, pulled across barriers, and officers were working to soothe worried nerves.

As they moved to a group of officers, a familiar tan coat stood out from the crowd. Salt and pepper hair that was more salt than pepper at this point shifted around uniformed officers until Jim Gordon stepped towards Dick, his face a look of relief.

“Dick, I heard you were inside, thank goodness you’re alright.” he said, before glancing at Jerry, “I’ve got him.”

The officer nodded, and moved away, the absence of his hand leaving Dick’s shoulder cold.

“Dick?” the Commissioner asked.

“Damian’s inside.” Dick said, still not quite believing it.

Jim swore.

“I brought him with me because I thought it’d be a nice night. He always wants to see more of his dad’s company.” Dick rambled, head still lost.

Lost. He’d lost his kid. He’d let Damian slip away and now he was stuck inside with someone who’d brought a gun to a party. With a kidnapper . All of a sudden the shock that had been freezing him cracked, and he came back to himself. He was Batman, he could deal with this. He had to, for Damian.

“What do we know?” he asked, “How can I help?”

Jim looked him over for a moment, as if considering the possible consequences to telling Dick to let them handle things. Dick squared his shoulders and set his jaw.

“He’s got them in the ballroom. From our officer inside it’s just the one guy, but he’s claimed to have planted a bomb inside. We have no real way of knowing if that’s true or not, so we’re treating the whole thing as if he’s telling the truth.”

Dick nodded, it was a safe play to make, “Any demands?”

“Money.” Jim crossed his arms, eyeing Dick, “I get the feeling he came in looking to grab one person, not a whole room full.”

Dick swallowed. Lucius had said he’d sent out an email letting everyone know Dick would be there and be giving a speech, as a way to get them excited and convince more people to come. The lure of snatching a Wayne at a busy party was obvious.

“I’ll pay. How much does he want?” Dick said It was the safest way to get Damian out of there.

Jim shook his head, “I can’t let you do that. We’ll find a way to neutralize him.”

Heat flared up in Dick’s head, his hands tightened to fists at his side, “This is the best way to get him to let everyone go.” he argued, “And if need be, you can lure him out so you guys can grab him.”

“You know Wayne Enterprises doesn’t give into ransom demands.” Jim countered, “They won’t authorize the payout.”

“Then I’ll pay.” Dick said, “Tell me how much, I promise I can get it.”

He was frantic now. His earlier worry doubled into panic and fueled by frustration. If only he wasn’t outside. If only he weren’t in this crowd. He could take care of things in the building as Dick Grayson, or even as Batman. But no. He was stuck arguing with the one man who should understand his predicament.

“Dick--”

“He’s got Damian,” Dick snapped, “He’s my son! I won’t let him die because you won’t let me pave the way to get this guy!”

Jim’s eyes widened, then his face softened, “Alright. We’ll try it. It’s going to take some time though. He wants cash, not a wire transfer.”

“I can do that.” Dick nodded.

Moving released some of the tension built up within Dick. Not all of it. His chest felt tight, like a vice had been wrapped around it and was squeezing. He knew it wouldn’t let go until Damian was in his arms again.

He checked his phone frequently for texts. Hoping that Damian would update him, and praying he didn’t risk it.

At some point Alfred arrived to help. Together they put in phone calls to banks, tallied up how much cash was hanging around the manor for just such an occasion --Bruce really had been prepared for everything-- and worked to collect the rest of the cash as quickly as possible.

Dick kept one eye on the building, and the police. Hours passed as they waited on money to transfer and banks to make this one time exception. Pizza was sent into the building, the scent making Dick’s stomach twist. The sight, like something out of a tv show.

His only comfort was that the kidnapper was keeping in contact with the police and promised no one had been hurt yet. He seemed mollified that his requests was being taken seriously.

At least, he had been at first.

In order to collect everything, Dick had needed to leave the scene and get the final part of the cash from a bank personally. When he returned from his last stop it was to a Jim Gordon wearing a very concerned face.

“What happened?” Dick asked, the vice across his chest tightening further.

Jim shook his head, “He’s afraid it’s all a trap. Thinks we won’t let him leave. He stopped responding right after you left.”

He wasn’t wrong. The last thing the police really wanted to do was let the kidnapper walk free. But they shouldn’t have let onto that. Dick didn’t think they would have.

“Good thing I’ve got the money together then.” Dick said, hefting the briefcase, “Let’s see if he answers to that.”

Dick insisted on being there for the call, and was rejected.

“I can’t let you do that. It’d be a new voice when we’ve established communication already.” Jim told him, “Besides, Dick, you’re too invested. You yell at him like you yelled at me and things get a whole lot more complicated.”

He didn’t have a good argument against that. So, Dick moved back, not into the crowd still piled up at police barriers, but to stand along with some other officers. They were watching him closely, probably warned by Jim already to keep him from doing anything stupid. For all the perks of personally knowing the police commissioner, this was not one of them.

Tension shifted in the group as Dick watched Jim on the phone. The call went on too long. Dick knew these kinds of calls, it should have been faster. And the way the Commissioner's jaw tensed wasn’t a good sign.

He wanted to push out of the crowd and snatch the phone. Demand Damian be given back to him.

All Dick could do was worry. Worry and wonder how his brother was doing. Worry that he was safe. He’d been drilled in this too. They’d spent hours going over the procedure for what to do if one of them was ever stuck in a multiple hostage situation. It was, unfortunately, a common enough occurrence in Gotham and Dick had wanted Damian prepared for anything.

He hated that it was coming in handy.

If only he’d just kept Damian close. If he’d remembered their plans, then his brother wouldn’t have felt rejected and walked away from him.

Jim was moving. Handing Dick’s briefcase over to a plainclothes officer they’d picked just for this. Just in case the guy demanded a civilian do the hand off. How Dick wished he could be that guy.

He shifted so he could keep an eye on the front doors of the building. The men and women around him shifted to match his stance. Dick didn’t care, his eyes were locked onto the scene in front of him.

It took forever, but at last the doors creaked open and out came two figures. A man in a long trench coat with dark messy hair and a wild look on his face Dick could read from back where he was. And Damian.

Dick was afraid his chest might crack open.

His brother was pressed close to the man’s chest, the barrel of the gun flush against his skull. Before Dick could get a good look at his expression or see if he was hurt at all, people closed in around him. Towards the front, the officers beside him, everywhere police were preparing for the worst.

When Dick went to step forward a hand shot out. He looked over and found Jerry. The man shook his head. He knew it was better if he stayed still and let things play out, but all Dick wanted to do was shove through the crowd and slam his fist into the kidnapper’s face.

All he could do now was listen.

There was a low murmuring across the crowd. Then the kidnapper’s voice, high and panicked.

“Slide the briefcase over!”

A quieter response Dick couldn’t make out.

“I said do it! Want me to blow the kid’s brains out?!”

Dick stepped forward, heart in his throat. He was stopped by Jerry, his hand now holding him by the arm.

A beat of silence. Another. Dick felt like a speedster, ready to vibrate out of Jerry’s grip he was so tense.

“I told you to stand back! I’m warning you! I--”

Two shots rang out.

Dick bolted. Ripping free from Jerry’s hand he shoved his way through the crowd. They were buzzing with activity, but not the absolute flood he’d fought earlier. Dick cut through them like a warm knife in butter.

He burst forward to see three of the bomb squad officers swarming to the front doors. They were already entering moving in to start clearing the place. But that’s not what had Dick’s attention. No, his eyes were glued on the prone forms a few feet in front of the doors.

A pool of blood was already spreading on the ground, stark and red against the grey concrete. There was an officer hunched over them. Dick couldn’t even see Damian, just the kidnapper and that trenchcoat, flared out as he’d fallen.

“Damian!” Dick yelled, sprinting now that no one was in his way.

He slid to a stop, dropping to his knees so fast and hard they cracked against the ground painfully. He ignored it, and the admonition from the officer beside him, as he shoved the other man up, and off his brother, ignoring the man’s grunt as he did so. Nothing but Damian mattered.

Curled tightly on the ground lay Damian. Blood soaked a shoulder and some of his hair, but even in his frenzied state, Dick could see it wasn’t Damian’s.

“Dames.” Dick breathed, and reached out for his brother.

Slowly he put a hand on Damian’s shoulder, away from the blood, and squeezed, “Hey there, Kiddo, it’s me, it’s Dick.”

It took a moment, but Damian uncoiled, head lifting from where he’d buried it in his arms, body ever so gradually loosening from how he’d wrapped in on himself as they’d fallen.

“Richard?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m here. You’re safe.”

At those words Damian launched himself, up from the ground and into Dick’s arms. Heedless of the people around them or the buzz of the crowd. Dick wrapped his arms tightly around his brother, breathing freely at last as he felt Damian’s warmth in his arms, weight against his chest, breath on his neck.

“I’m sorry.” Damian murmured.

“Me too.” Dick said, pressing a kiss against the crown of Damian’s head, “I’m so glad you’re safe.”

He wanted to apologize for forgetting. For letting Damian out of his sight. For not being there every moment his kid was in danger. But there would be time for that. For now, he relished in the fact that Damian was back, he was here. He was clutching Dick like a lifeline and hadn't let go yet.

Beside them, someone else had moved forward. Jerry knelt down and looked them over, a small smile slipping across his face.

“I’m glad you found your son.” he said.

Damian made to wiggle out of Dick’s arms, but Dick just tugged him a bit closer, “Me too.” he said, “Me too.”

#dickanddamiweek2021 #Dick Grayson #Damian Wayne #hostage situations #guns #gunshots #gun #gunshot #canon typical violence #panicked crowds #hurt/comfort #angst with a happy ending #precious posts

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manesalex · 3 years

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@roswellnewmexicocreate

in love with how you’re soul’s a mix of chaos and art by caitlesshea

Michael communicates telepathically until he meets his soulmate Alex and hears his voice.

I love the idea behind this fic, the way this soulmate bond works. @caitlesshea does a wonderful job showing how new and exciting it is for Michael to be able to hear Alex and to speak to him. And I really like the way they're able to share memories, likes, and dislikes.

This Isn’t Pretty Woman by djchika

Alex never wanted to be a ‘Manes Man’, but when his father dies and accidentally leaves his entire company to his estranged son, Alex has no choice but to turn the family legacy into something he could call his own. If only it was that easy.

Michael had left Roswell, left everything and decided that life on the open road was what he needed. He doesn’t mean to pick up an old friend, but one thing leads to another and he finds himself in a situation that’s straight out of a romcom. Only thing is his life has never resembled a movie and he’s absolutely positive that this? This isn’t Pretty Woman.

[or: originally a fic inspired by Pretty Woman that turned into a Christmas romcom]

@djchika does a great job working through Michael and Alex's insecurities and issues in this universe. I love all the steamy scenes and all the feels. And I really enjoyed the appearances from so many other characters from the show.

no regrets if we walk this new road by andrealyn

When Max can’t bring Rosa back on that fateful night, he, Michael, and Isobel embark on a new path that leads to UNM and completely different destinies.

What they can't escape is that the more things change, the more they stay the same.

I really enjoy how this feels like a more adult version of s1, with no love triangle drama. @andrea-lyn does a wonderful job reimagining s1, including, but altering, all the important bits. And I love seeing Micael and Alex happy and together.

Loathly by aewriting

When King Manes and his sons are caught illegally hunting on Antarian lands, King Noah gives King Manes a choice - correctly answer a riddle or accept death. A year-long search for the correct answer ensues, leading the youngest son of the king, Alex, to strike a bargain with a mysterious woman who claims to know the answer.

This is an AU of the Arthurian legend "Sir Gawain and the Dame Ragnell."

I love the way we see Alex’s kindness toward and respect for Guerin in this fic. The author does a wonderful job building the world of this AU. And I really enjoy this idea, of Alex agreeing to marry Lady Guerin, first out of duty and then out of platonic love, only to learn he’s married Michael.

#rnmcreate21 #fic recs #fandom love #roswell new mexico

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amuhseen2003 · 3 years

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SANDERS SIDES KARAOKE: GOTHIC LITERATURE MUSICALS EDITION

Okay, so after four years of being in the Sanders Sides fandom, I’m going to attempt to write some headcanons. Here we go.

Since it’s well-known in fanon that the sides do have karaoke sessions, imagine what would happen if they sang musicals based on gothic literature.

Roman’s happy because broadway, duh, Logan is happy because it’s canon that he enjoys gothic literature since he dressed up as Frankenstein’s monster for Halloween, same reason for Virgil and Patton’s happy that his family is bonding. He made extra cookies for the occasion. He’s dangerous like that.

(I headcanon that when Thomas had to write analyses of gothic literature novels for school, Virgil, Roman and Logan would work together to come up with stuff and write the best essays in class and Patton would be so proud of them)

I’m not going to count Les Mis because I’m not too sure if that counts as gothic literature and whilst the Hunchback of Notre Dame is indeed gothic (trust me I read that in a plane once. An entire, like, ten pages is dedicated to describing the scenery) I don’t think it became a broadway show.

Now this isn’t like their usual karaoke nights, no sir. Just idly remaining in the living room won’t do. Where is the gusto? The pizazz? The accolade winning extravaganza? The-

“We get it Princey, can you just get on with it?” - Virgil

No, this type of singing can only be accompanied with an atmosphere that will do it justice. To the imagination they go and with Logan’s (who has practically memorised every single one of these books and is not geeking out at all) input on how the novels describe each setting, Roman creates very intricate landscapes for each song.

When they sing ‘Alive’ from ‘Jekyll and Hyde’ Roman thought that it would be really cool for Patton to play Mr Edward Hyde since Hyde is literally the human id and Patton, being the embodiment of morality, is literally the superego (although to be fair, Patton is also shown to be quite childish and impulsive since he’s also the base of Thomas’ emotions and Hyde is impulsive because he’s a way for Jekyll to act on his own emotions - especially since the only crime that Hyde does in the book are him over-reacting with his anger by beating a man to death. And in the novella, Jekyll writes that he and Hyde are like father and son and that Hyde is actually younger than Jekyll is, he does have that sense of childishness that Patton has only instead of that childishness being good and helpful, it’s bad and hurtful. Plus in the soundtrack of Alive, whilst Anthony Warlow does sing about how good being evil feels like, he also sounds like he is crying tears of joy of being able to be himself, the first words post-transformation being freedom and anyways these are supposed to be fun headcanons not analytical headcanons so I digress…)

Anyways Patton is happy to play the villain because “look kiddos, Roman conjured up this really swell cape” “the correct term is cloak” “and check out this top hat and cane!” and he’s just belting out the words and froliking around Victorian London without a care in the world, making his cape swoosh in the wind.

“Patton I would advise you not to take your shoes off. This is nineteenth-century London with people dying of cholera by the dozens, your feet could catch a myriad of infections.”

“Worry not, specs, the scenery is merely an illusion. I would never allow for our dear padre to succumb to the villain of illness”

“Aww, thanks kiddo (cue Patton’s sunshine smile) now where was I? IT’S THE FEELING OF BEING ALIVE! FILLED WITH EVIL AND TRULY ALIVE!”

They have Logan sing ‘I Need To Know’ because a doctor of science singing about wanting to expand his knowledge and having that thirst to do whatever it takes to get said knowledge. That is a Logan Sanders song right there. At first he’s like “why do I have to sing. I was happy enough giving directions and helping you with the scenery” but Roman creates this big scientific library that could rival the one from Beauty and the Beast/ laboratory from that’s practically the identical to Jekyll’s lab in the book and he’s like “Fine” like he isn’t enjoying himself. He is. They all know it. He’s not fooling anyone

Patton and Roman sing ‘Bring on the men’ together (yes, whilst wearing dresses) whilst Virgil and Logan drink apple juice from those big british beer glasses in the mind-scape created Red Rat (which Logan is quick to point out doesn’t exist and is vocally upset at how the musical adaptation added unnecessary romantic subplots with Lisa and Lucy when the book itself only had three background female characters who were only there for like one paragraph. He’s even more upset at the other inaccuracies with the book like how in the play Jekyll creates his formula as a cure for mental illness and Hyde was accidental whilst in the book he did it because he wanted to indulge in sin without fearing the consequences and Hyde, whilst not being exactly what he wanted, was actually created on purpose or how in the book Hyde only kills one man and in the musical he kills practically everyone except for the one person he did kill. Virgil pats him on the back with sympathy). Roman and Virgil are sniggering at the sexual euphemisms at the end of the song whilst Patton’s confused. She just seems really enthusiastic about food.

Roman sings both parts of ‘Confrontation’ by himself. He gets a standing ovation.

He also does ‘Transformation’. The problem is that he was so good at sounding like he was in complete agony and near death that they had to stop the song prematurely because Patton was getting upset. Don’t worry, Pat gets lots of cuddles by Roman afterwords.

(You know what I might do some sides reacting to The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde later because 1. It’s my favourite book and 2. All four of them would have very interesting takes on it)

From the Frankenstein musical Virgil plays the criminal from ‘Say Amen’ because he wants to (seriously, the guy’s first words in the song are ‘I curse the day that I was born into a world so black with hate’) and Logan plays Victor Frankenstein but Patton refuses for his son to even pretend to be executed by the noose so they have Roman play a man wearing a british executioner outfit with a foam sword and the creative side just bonks the anxious side on the neck with it. Logan despairs about the historical inaccuracy from his place in the stands whilst Patton is cheering next to him. Patton also hands him an extra jumper to keep him warm in the Switzerland cold.

“Patton, I am grateful that you are thinking of my health but no one in eighteenth century Switzerland wore bright blue jumpers with cartoon kittens on them”

“Really, Logan, are you paw-sitive?”

“I would like to change places with Virgil. Immediately”

Roman and Logan turn ‘Birth to my creation’ into a duet because Logan enjoys the scientific aspect of it and Roman can’t resist the drama (of course). He goes all out. He makes Victor’s lab perfect to the smallest detail (and cheers when Logan’s eyes start lighting up and he does that cute clappy thing when he’s excited), he conjures a storm and makes lightning strike at the best moments of the song. He even creates a ‘wretch’ (what Victor calls the monster in the book. I’ve heard that it’s name is Adam but all I remember from the novel is Victor calling himself god and the creature his Adam) to lie on the table.

“And we didn’t even have to go grave-robbing for it. Or drop out of University.” - Roman

“No matter how many times I wanted to.” - Virgil

Roman and Virgil do most of the songs from Dracula. The creative side creates this huge, expensive-looking window-balcony thing with glass double doors and billowing silk curtains so that he could dramatically sing ‘the longer I live’ whilst the wind blows through his hair and he dramatically drapes himself on the balustrade so that the light from the full moon hits his figure just right. Patton’s close to crying.

Logan is very eager to give as many facts as he can about nineteenth-century mental institutions for ‘The Master’s Song’. He gets really into the history behind certain treatments and different cases. Roman plays Renfield and the others play doctors.

Virgil is super into Dracula’s castle during ‘Life after life’. He and Roman duet that song wearing all-black. Logan tries to help Patton’s slight fear by telling him the history behind different pieces of architecture.

Patton plays Christine during Phantom of the Opera

Roman, Virgil and Logan sing ‘A story told’ from The Count of Monte Cristo around a circular table in a dimly lit tavern. Patton takes pictures and drinks hot chocolate in the sidelines.

#sanders sides #sanders sides headcanon #logan sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #roman sanders #lamp #calm #lamp/calm

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asunshinepuff · 3 years

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Secrets of the Darkened Seas

🧜🏻‍♀️ Hello! Welcome to chapter one! This has been a long time coming and I apologize for the wait. Please give a follow to my co-author and best friend Luna ( @ladynightmare913 ) because this story would not be where it’s at without her help!

This chapter features one of my own ocs, and I really hope you like him! As always, a reminder that there is some lore included within this, however it will be explained over time so no worries. There’s no mention of lore for right now.

The Included lore on different types of merfolk will be taken from the book “The Secret World of Mermaids” by Francine Rose. I will not take credit for it’s writing. It’s a childhood book of mine that I adore dearly and sincerely think you should all check out!

Anyways, that’s about it. I hope you enjoy! 🧜🏻‍♀️

Chapter 1: The Tail of Fates

The gulls glided across the scorching sky, the sun beating down on the portmen docking the ships that traveled across the sea. The merry drunken men who stumbled their way out of the taverns filled with jolly music made their way to the docks. Wincing at the harsh rays of sunlight, the sweltering heat and humidity offers no reprieve for the men who indulged in the advantages of liquid courage to disregard their tasks. Merchants bring in goods from the islands that seemed worlds away to a mere boy at the age of fourteen.

The boy had medium-length tawny brown hair, tanned skin from days working out in the sun, and very bright amber-colored eyes which seemed to capture the same essence of the crystalized equivalents of the color. Dressed in a rather modest attire appropriate for his status - consisting of a white long-sleeved shirt, the sleeves were rolled up due to the heat, light brown slacks, and dark brown boots. Around his waist was a light blue scarf, supposedly what he had been found swaddled in when he was just a babe. He could never find the strength to part with it. The guilt overpowered him.

“The beauties of the islands lads, best three days of me life mate.”

“Three days of only looking at the dames.” The sailor snorts a retort as he leans against a pillar on the dock. “They probably ran off in the other direction just at the mere sight of your pathetic self.”

The group of three jolly sailors laughed in merriment as the sailor who was sharing his tale shoved the other two in embarrassment.

The boy had been sweeping the dock nearby the sailors, rolling his eyes at the stories. It was always the same. Seamen making port and bedding the beauties from the mysterious island that he himself has never traversed. Internally, he began counting the seconds till one of the sailors again made mentions of the maidens of the sea, and as always- it took only a count of ten.

“I wager the beauties on that port can’t hold a candle to their maidens of the sea.” A sailor with three scars slashed across his face grinned.

“Oh not this, again,” The first sailor, with a fancy for the beauties, with tattered clothes and blonde hair groaned. “Bloody hell mate, you say that cursed tale every time. The women of the sea, with a fishes tail.”

“Aye, and you’d best heed it.” The sailor with three scars eyes his mates in suspicion. “Lest you never return to land, drowned like a dog and fed to the fishes.”

“No one has seen those monsters for centuries mate. Let it go. It’s nothing but stories to scare sailors, nothing more.”

“No!” The sailor yells. “I’ve seen them! The war didn’t wipe them out. They were the ones who scarred me face! There ain’t anything like it, to hear the songs of those maidens. You try to pull away, to drown it out with your thoughts, but ya can’t. There is no escape, it invades your minds, pulling you to the sea and into their webbed claws!” He grumbles out as he touches his scarred face tenderly. As if the scars were fresh, open with fresh blood spilling.

“You lads wouldn’t stand a chance, I should be at the bottom of the sea, but these maidens be fickle things, they are.” He looks out to the sea, calm waves kissing the shore. “To see one, changes your fate. To hear one’s song, is your doom.”

The boy paused momentarily as he heard the scarred sailor's warning. His thoughts race across his mind before he returns to the present when he’s called.

“Oi boy!” A man from upon the ship called down, leaning overboard. “Come up here lad! There’s a job I need ye to take care of!”

The boy looked up to the adult man, he couldn’t discern fully from this far away the man’s appearance. The high rays of the sun give the wooden docks a shadow of coverage. He was rather reluctant to leave the cool reprieve, however, it would be worse if he neglected his duties of the port, “Be right there.”

Walking upon the loading dock to the deck of the rather large ship, it was difficult to fight the urge to look around in a strange awe, even though it’s appearance is rather haggard and beaten. Although he has spent many a day upon ships for moments at a time since beginning his work a few years back, there was a certain mystery behind each ship that entered the ports of this bustling town. Each ship held a story behind its experiences. Each cannon battle, the waters of the seven seas it has traversed, the storms it has survived possible destruction, treasures it has held and lead its captain’s to discover.

“Yes sir?” The boy looks up to the bulk of an angry looking man whose face always seemed to have a sneer. Even in his sleep. The bulk of a man was dressed in a shirt that looked two sizes too small, and a tattered grey coat that squeezed the man, fitting his frame with strain as his arms were always pulled back. His pants were faded from black to grey, his boots were old and worn. Smelling like a dead rat. His teeth were ghastly to gaze upon, yellow with brown stains, his breath could probably kill a man. His eyes were a beady black like the sharks that swam in the shallow waters, a bald head with black spots. A pity, he must’ve looked worse as a child. As most children do. He glowers at the scrawny boy before he looks away.

“Go search the taverns for this ships’ Captain. We leave at dusk. Blokes probably drunk beyond hell, feeling up the women.” He shakes his head as he waves the boy off with a mere wave of his hand.

With a nod in confirmation, the boy exited the deck and headed off in search of the tavern so that he may find the Captain of the ship, rather grateful to being away from the rather disgusting first mate. If that bulk of a man looked that haggard, he could only imagine the Captain with a shudder at the thought. In the distance, he could see another ship that seemed to be a practical stark contrast. The masts that were open, were as white as the very clouds that floated in the sky, the wooden haul was a rich brown mahogany, the railings were painted gold like the sun. The sailors looked well-groomed, their clothes neat and fitted to their frames.

The boy searched from tavern to tavern, until finally, he came across the Buccaneers' Oyster. With a sigh of exasperation, he opens the doors and enters the busy tavern hoping that this time he had finally found the correct one. The tavern was dark with dim lighting from the candles that were scattered about the establishment. The windows were the only source of natural sunlight that seeped into the tavern that reeked of alcohol and vomit. The sounds of clinking glassware and cheers from sailors echo all around, the soft giggling of women sitting on the laps of the drunkest of seamen. Ignoring the commotion, and his disgust at the reeking smells, he makes his way to the main counter where a man was the barkeep. The wall behind was lined with large kegs and the shelves were lined with clean pints.

“Excuse me. Do you happen to know if Captain Barclay is here?” The boy says, raising his voice over the loud cheering of the sailors in their merriment. The barkeeper doesn’t even spare the boy a glance as he simply points to the back of the tavern where a man was sitting, well more falling off his chair than anything, as he smiled stupidly at a lady.

The captain in question was a tall lanky man with a hooked nose, horrible teeth, a large mole on the side of his neck, tanned skin, and green eyes. His clothes were an absolute mess which could possibly be vomit, or mashed potatoes. The boy was very much hoping for the latter. A white shirt with a red stain, rum possibly, short brown pants, and his shoes seemed to have vanished. Hopefully, the shoes walked away themselves, saving what little dignity they had, and drowned themselves in the sea. The stench dying with them. Or the captain had lost his shoes in a gamble. That seemed more likely.

Taking a deep breath in preparation, he makes his way over to the back of the tavern so that he could finally fetch the man and get out of this place. The man seemed practically worse close up, if that was even possible. “Excuse me? Captain Barclay?” He asks, hoping to gain the drunken Captain’s attention and draw it away from the woman. “I was asked to fetch you by your first mate. And bring you back to your ship.”

The man makes a small noise of acknowledgment as he turns to look at the deck boy. His alcohol glazed eyes look over the small boy before he shrugs him off and turns the lady he had in his lanky finger. “Bugger off boy, the adults are talkin.’” His hand waves him off with the pint of rum that sloshed to the ground in his sluggish gestures. “Now where we?”

“Please sir, let me go. I do not work here. I am merely looking for my fiancé.” A pale soft face young lady pulls her hand to try to free herself from the seaman. Her soft brown curls bouncing as she turns her head to the boy. Her hazel eyes lock eyes with his, her skin pale from her bold green dress. Help me she mouths.

The boy’s eyes widen a small fraction, trying to figure out a way to help the woman out of her predicament. “Captain. I insist.” He repeats, his tone much more firm and without argument.

With a sneer, the lanky captain looked to the boy before he points at the boy with his pint. Standing up, he was two heads taller than the boy. “Listen boy,” he stumbles closer, the pint in his hands dropping what little rum it had to the floor. “I spent six months at sea, I ain’t about to let a lass like this slip past me, now runoff. Before I beat you.”

“You chose quite a profession that allows you to be at sea for months at a time, Captain.” He says, looking up at the man, “Guess there’s sacrifices to make now isn’t there? And if you actually listened with your ears rather than another part of your body, then you would understand that this lady has no interest in you. And is taken.”

“Why you little rat!” The man grips the boy's collar, forgetting the pint, dropping it to the floor, letting the lady go as he raises his fist. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

“You’re really going to punch a child mate? How low can you get?” A voice interjects as a rather handsome young man walks over. The tall young man, around the age of twenty-one, had short tousled red-brown hair, fetching blue eyes, and light tanned skin. Dressed in a black long-sleeved shirt with a light brown vest on top, a burgundy red long buckled coat with bright red accents, dark brown slacks, and black boots. On his left hip, a wide looking sword was sheathed in solid black and red with gold accents.

“Who the bloody hell are you? Bugger off!”

“No one of consequence. Just let him go.”

“Why the hell would I do that, a good beaten ought to teach about being respectful to his elders!” He looks away and aims for a punch.

The man scoffs, “As if you’re worth giving respect. The boy was just doing his job.” He steps forward and grabs the man’s fist in a hard grip as it nears the boy. “If you want respect, then earn it.”

“Why you!” The man drops the boy and turns to punch the man who stopped him from giving the boy a lesson.

The man can’t help but roll his eyes with a sigh, “Oh for Heaven’s sake.” The drunk captain isn’t even able to reach him before he retaliates with a punch of his own, knocking the captain out cold. A satisfied grin falls upon his lips. The lady gasps before she quickly runs off after giving the man a quick thank you. The man turns to the boy.

“Are you alright there boy?”

The boy nods, looking up to the taller man who intervened. Why did he? He cannot help but wonder. Most people would've just ignored the ruckus and not bat an eye. “I’m alright. Thank you, Mr…”

“Sandoval, Quinn Sandoval. But please just call me Quinn.” He smiles down at the boy. “What’s your name? I can’t keep calling you boy now can I?”

“No, I suppose not.” He replies with a light chuckle, “My name’s Remus. Remus Lupin. It’s nice to meet you, Quinn.”

“Well, Remus, it’s nice to meet you as well.” He looks down to the unconscious captain with an exasperated sigh, lightly kicking his leg. “Best take him back to his ship eh?” He looks at Remus with mirth in his eyes before he walks over to the captain’s head, grabbing ahold one of his arms before pulling him up. “Grab his other arm will you? Let’s take him back to his ship. Although I doubt he will be useful.”

Remus nods quickly before he walks over to the other side, grabbing ahold of the other arm to help hold him up. “Doubt he will as well, to be frank.”

The pair carry the dunkard back to the docks without much strain. Aside from the occasional bump to the head. They walk up to the ship where the first mate sees them approaching, walking down the loading dock.

“What the bloody hell happened to him? I have been waitin’ here for hours boy!” The bulky man marches to Remus. His face red in anger.

“Well rather difficult to track down a man with this many taverns in this town isn’t it?” Quinn says in defense, looking down to the unconscious man before continuing an explanation, “Your Captain got himself plastered and in a tavern fight. I had to help the boy carry him back.” He glances at Remus and gives him a conspiratorial wink.

The first mate begrudgingly orders two men from the crew to take the captain onboard. He looks to the boy with a scowl. “What are ye waitin’ for, get back to work!”

Quinn frowns lightly as he looks to Remus. “You work the docks?”

Remus fights the urge to flinch at the hard scowl under the first mate’s gaze. He looks to Quinn at his question before nodding. “I do.”

Quinn can only nod once slowly in understanding. He looks to the first mate, then to the docks, then to Remus before he smiles. “Well not anymore.”

Remus’ eyes widen as he looks quizzically at the man he had just met. “What?”

“What the bloody hell are you talkin’ about.” The first mate growls out.

Quinn ignores the man as he looks over the young boy. “Tell me honestly Remus, would you rather work the docks for men like him, or come with me to my captain’s ship and actually live your life without regrets.” He looks back to the docks and the wrecked ship the bulky man sent the drunk captain to dock. “I know what I’d chose. And it wouldn’t be a life with little to no rewards.”

Remus looks out to the sea beyond the docked ships, watching the sun’s rays reflect upon the blue waking waters as he contemplates. This man hardly knows him, practically just met him about half an hour ago, and yet he’s offering him a chance to sail? A chance to leave this place? How can someone be this trusting?

He looks back to Quinn with a skeptical look, “Why are you offering me this? You hardly know me. I could be a thief for all you know.”

Quinn smiles. “Because I like you, you have wit and you clearly are a hard worker. I have a good feeling about you.” He looks to the sea. “So, what will it be, Remus? A life of servitude, or a life of freedom?” He looks back to Remus.

Remus cannot help but smile in return, “Freedom.”

#wolstar #remus lupin #sirius black #remus x sirius #quinn sandoval #asunshinepuff oc #pirate captian #mermaid #pirate and mermaid au #alcohol cw #cw drinking #cw drunken #secrets of the darkened seas

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clocks-are-round · 3 years

Text

hahaha totally didn’t forget to post this hahaha nope ^^;

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y’all really so gosh darned creative and awesome that I am also making a self-indulgent fantasy au.

Inspiration taken from posts by @starstrike, @creatrixanimi, and discussions with @sharkface-daydreams. Z and I have agreed we’re fine with sharing ideas we both like so there will be some overlap of character traits and potential plot points in our universes.

What I have so far (may be subject to change)

Donut and the Kalirama construct are my favorite ideas so far

main crew

Caboose: Physically the strongest of the reds and blues though not very proficient in battle. Still, he has managed to knock Church out of bodies multiple times. The fragment Omega helps him to unlock his inner rage, allowing him to let loose in a way one might call barbaric (where my d&d nerds at). He later finds an old colossal construct he names Freckles.

“Church” (Alpha): A clone of Archmage Church’s soul, thoroughly traumatized, missing pieces, and placed within a glamoured construct Jimmy. He believes himself to be a ghost after “dying”, and he’s right. He is unable to move on to the next life due to a spell keeping him tethered even without a body. He is finally able to move on when the protection spell is broken, sacrificing himself to free the fragments and Maine from the Meta.

“Church” (Epsilon): A fragment from Alpha’s soul. Stored in a large crystal after trying to unalive self in Washington’s brain. Later placed into a construct and becomes part of the team, going by “Church”.

Doc: An elven mage with an iffy relationship with his magic. Sure he could blast wind at someone— enough to knock the average person off their feet— but even that was more violent than he was comfortable with. After failing to learn healing spells because they always became life-drain spells by accident, Doc turned to alchemy. Though he has yet to make a successful healing potion, he keeps trying! When Omega takes the reins, he uses Doc’s magic offensively though Doc continues swearing by pacifism. Though the wind jokes at his expense definitely make him consider lashing out.

Donut: A werewolf with pyromancy. Known for throwing fireballs at enemies. Will shout “eat my balls!” and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop him from also dealing psychic damage to everyone around him. Later he temporarily becomes a warlock of the time god Chrovos.

Lopez: A construct built by Sarge. Though he didn’t initially have a fancy glamour like Tex and Church— and was stuck as just a head for a while— he is now able to pass as human. From a distance. Until he moves. Or speaks. Not because of a glamour but because more humanoid features were crafted onto his body. Donut got very detailed. Lopez had no need for sculpted buttcheeks and yet-

Sarge: A fighter with skill as an artificer.

Tex: Sir Tex, the strongest freelancer. Though officially her title is Dame Tex, she’s fine with either title and doesn’t correct people. Especially since she typically disguised her voice to sound male in public. Not a difficult feat as even her “regular” voice is magically projected. She is also in a glamoured construct as she is a fragment herself. She is a strong fighter with a distaste for using magic unless necessary. To her, magic is too often destructive and controlling.

Tucker: A human who joined the army expecting it would make him more appealing to woman. Over time he became the most proficient fighter of the team— excluding the freelancers. He wields a magical artifact as a sword.

Carolina: A monk who later multiclasses into bard and the way her enemies crumple in agony when she sings is her new favorite thing.

others

Cronut: A werefox with ecomancy (may change to just flashy parlor tricks, undecided)

York: A rogue skilled at picking locks and removing enchantments— supposedly.

——

some things that happen:

-Archmage Church, an esteemed wizard, has been trying to find a way to bring back his wife who has passed and moved on to the afterlife. His orders to bolster the kingdom’s army as the long war continues have not put his personal task on hold. He requested a personal squadron to give magical enhancements to— as well as magical beings he calls “fragments”. The origin of these fragments is a well-guarded secret. The kingdom reluctantly also allowed him the buffoons of the army for his personal use in his experiments, placing them in canyons in the outskirts of the kingdom, far from the real war.

-Loco, a warlock-artificer with an unknown patron (it’s Chrovos), designs a massive construct and summons goddess of death Kalirama to inhabit it, fulfilling his task to create a destructive weapon, but also helping his new friend Caboose. With the goddess away from her domain, Caboose has an opportunity to see Church one last time.

#red vs blue #my fantasy au

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