After the battle

Inspired by this fanart by @cirrdan

Pairing : Melkor x Mairon 

Themes : Soft / Fluff

Word count: 800 words

Summary : After his run in with Thorondor, Melkor finds himself stuck in bed, wounded in more ways than one.

Warnings: Mentions of injuries 

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That evenfall Melkor lay in his bed, unable to move.    

Pain of the acutest kind ripped through him whenever he tried. His muscles and sinews refused to heed him. His very flesh burned where he had been cut and torn. And his body, oh, how it ached and throbbed all over. The bed gave no comfort despite the soft sheets and softer pillows. Melkor ground his teeth and tried to keep still, hoping no one would just barge into his chambers and see him like this, all weak and pale and bound up in dressing of some kind.

But someone was already here, someone he didn't even register before. He smelled them before even seeing them, sighing and taking in the subtle scent of smoke and leather that carried in the air. Melkor swallowed and said, "Why do you hide in the shadows, precious?"   

Mairon slowly stepped into the light. Well, what passed for light here, at any rate. Melkor allowed a taper or two in their shared chambers and nothing beyond that. Mairon fought valiantly to hide his horror but failed miserably. Melkor looked ashen, and not due to his steely gray complexion. No, Melkor looked like his life's very essence had almost seeped out of him.   

"Do I look that comely?" Melkor found the strength to jest, his eyes lighting up in humour instead of anger.   

Mairon swallowed, unsure of what to say. Thuringwethil said it was bad, but she did not say how bad it truly was. Perhaps, he reasoned, she was trying to spare him.   

Finally, he settled on, "After a fashion, my lord," before forcing a bright smile, his gaze drifting over his lord's form. And his eyes stung. Oh, how they stung. Melkor had been covered in slashes and bruises. The great eagle Thorondor spared no inch in his effort to save Fingolfin's fana from defilement, and now Melkor was here, drowning in agony.   

Melkor, seeing gold eyes glistening with unshed tears, managed a weak smile for his soul's other half before closing his own and whimpering. Pain swirled through him in wave after wave, as if unceasing. When it finally passed, he breathed easier and opened his eyes. The smell of smoke and leather still hung in the air, and he found it soothing. "Please, precious," he whispered hoarsely. "Come sit by me."   

Thick carpets muffled the sound of heavy boots as Mairon came over and made himself comfortable by Melkor's side. He slipped his hands into a pair bigger and colder than his own and dipped his head, running his lips over each finger. Melkor closed his eyes and sighed contentedly, the first time since he opened his eyes.

"I should have listened to you," he huffed with ragged breaths. "You told me to let Fingolfin be and not accept his challenge, but I let my own misplaced pride override all else." Melkor grimaced. The others saw him get struck, saw him reel and fall. "And now all have borne witness to my weaknesses."   

"None of them will speak a word of it."  If they know what is good for them, that is, Mairon thought fiercely.   

Melkor closed his eyes as another jolt of pain washed over him. "And what of you, precious? Do you think less of me for my failure?"   

Mairon would never do it; he could never do it. Melkor meant too much for him to even entertain such a notion. "No my lord, I do not." He reached over to the bedside counter and picked up a goblet of water when Melkor asked for something to drink. "I never could. Besides," he said, carefully lifting Melkor's head so he could drink. "Thorondor is a most formidable foe."   

"And you left your mark on the great eagle," Mairon continued. "Thorondor will carry the mark of Grond for the rest of his days. And Fingolfin is dead. He will plague us no more."   

A foe that came in out of nowhere. Hid himself craftily under the cover of shadows and darkeness, Mairon was told upon his return from other battles. No one knew until the great eagle's talons were digging into Melkor's armour and tearing it apart.  

As he sipped, Melkor did not know what hurt more- his wounds or being brought low due to his own foolishness and pride. In the end, he conceded that his wounded pride would take longer to heal.   

"Small consolation indeed," Melkor grumbled. "But I will accept them all the same." 

Mairon shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. Melkor will be pouting and grumbling about this for many moons. "And what do you desire now, my lord?"

Melkor swallowed and reached up, ignoring the pain as his fingers curled around Mairon's hair. He had let it down today, a rare thing with him. "Lay with me precious," he breathed in relief when the pain ebbed to a bearable throb. "Just lay down next to me."   

Mairon put the goblet away and lay down next to him, making himself comfortable without jostling Melkor too much. "Are you comfortable, my lord?"   

 "I am, now that you are near." Melkor somehow moved his arm so Mairon could nestle in closer. When Mairon turned to his side and carefully laid an arm over his chest, Melkor sighed contentedly. "Much more comfortable."

Tags: @fictionfordays | @asianbutnotjapanese​ | @edensrose​

Trinkets, 34: Interesting baubles, semi magical objects and items touched by mystery.

An eccentric plum coloured hat decorated with a silver buckle and a long egret feather that droops over the bearer's eyes.

An unremarkable gray stone covered in myriad tiny pink growths, ranging in shape from rough textured flowers to near-perfect spheres. Knowledgeable PC's can identify the mineral as rhodochrosite.

A blank envelope containing a single jigsaw puzzle piece and a  note that reads “You have two months to find the rest of this puzzle. If you do not, the entire population in this forsaken area will die.”

A centaur hair pictorial prayer rug.

A small harp with little vines for strings and a oaken body with stray leaves. It appears to be alive, requiring water and light to sustain itself. Its leaves change with the seasons and it blooms in the spring. If broken or damaged, it will slowly but surely repair itself.

An accordion made brown suede of with bronze keys.

A tiny hourglass no larger than a man's pinkie finger filled with phosphorescent sand that emits a faint Random Coloured glow in the dark. It takes one hour for the sand to pass from the top end to the bottom.

A shiny leather doublets trimmed with seal fur and belted with checkered woollen sashes.

A single stick of chalk carved with swirls and twists across the powdery stone.

A finely crafted leather backpack that seems to have been handmade from excellent materials by a master’s needle and knife. The style is simple, but durable and effective.

—Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

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

An eccentric plum coloured hat decorated with a silver buckle and a long egret feather that droops over the bearer's eyes.

An unremarkable gray stone covered in myriad tiny pink growths, ranging in shape from rough textured flowers to near-perfect spheres. Knowledgeable PC's can identify the mineral as rhodochrosite.

A blank envelope containing a single jigsaw puzzle piece and a  note that reads “You have two months to find the rest of this puzzle. If you do not, the entire population in this forsaken area will die.”

A centaur hair pictorial prayer rug.

A small harp with little vines for strings and a oaken body with stray leaves. It appears to be alive, requiring water and light to sustain itself. Its leaves change with the seasons and it blooms in the spring. If broken or damaged, it will slowly but surely repair itself.

An accordion made brown suede of with bronze keys.

A tiny hourglass no larger than a man's pinkie finger filled with phosphorescent sand that emits a faint Random Coloured glow in the dark. It takes one hour for the sand to pass from the top end to the bottom.

A shiny leather doublets trimmed with seal fur and belted with checkered woollen sashes.

A single stick of chalk carved with swirls and twists across the powdery stone.

A finely crafted leather backpack that seems to have been handmade from excellent materials by a master’s needle and knife. The style is simple, but durable and effective.

A small, flat slab of dark stone that, nondescript though it is, gives off an unmistakable eeriness.

A torc fashioned from a coiled length of interlocking chains, constructed of two unknown metals. Black and white, they swirl around each other like yin and yang, darkness and light.

An armoured gorget consisting of a metal throat-shield and a series of overlapping metal plates that encircle the neck. The entire device is connected to a belt made of leather. When worn, the battle gorget protects the wearer from physical strangulation and bites to the neck such as the case if they were hung by a noose or attacked by a vampire.

A clear crystal the size of a child’s fist, covered in eldritch runes. The gem flickers with a weak glow in various coloured hues depending on who its being held by.

A heavy iron bell inscribed with distorted musical symbols that releases an incredibly cacophonous noise when rung.

A magnificent goblet formed from a basalt-like stone permeated with veins of violet crystal.

A hauntingly terrifying mask that appears to have be fashioned from leather, metal and nightmares.

A druid’s staff fashioned by woodland spirits. The shaft is carved from sturdy oak and bound in vines. The head piece of the staff is a slightly oversized rose bud which blooms whenever its wielder casts a spell whose power stems from natural magic.

A peacock-feather quill that always writes smoothly and never needs to be filled with ink.

A large oil painting of some otherworldly sea, where creatures who are octopoid from the neck down but with human heads float in bliss.

A piece of torn red cloth bearing a royal insignia.

A leather bandolier that can be worn over one shoulder and runs diagonally across the chest and back. It has small loops or pouches for holding eight objects the size of a flask or small dagger. The bearer can easily retrieve any of the items stored in it during combat without having to dig through their pack.

An obsidian icon of a forgotten deity.

A recorder carved from brilliant white ash.

A short necked, round bottom flask that could hold about a half-gallon of liquid. Clearly visible through the glass sides, though, is a city. When viewed extremely closely, such as under a magnifying glass, what appears to be tiny people walk through the streets, conducting their daily lives. No matter how the bottle is moved or tilted, those within don’t seem disturbed.

A leather military horse saddle, engraved with battle scenes of human knights slaying kobolds.

A damp beaver skin bagpipe.

A marble sculpture of an elven woman being swallowed by a large wave.

A twisted warhorn blasted into a dark ebony hue and wrapped in bands of bronze with draconic runes that glow with purple eldritch fire. The low moaning drone of the horn discomforts all who hear it.

A wooden armband, intricately carved with interweaving vines and snaking dragons’ heads,

A silver horseshoe with foreign writing etched on to the side of the shoe. Roughly translates to "Trailfire".

A high, conical mask, intricately decorated with dried corn kernels of different colours.

A war banner depicting a bone-white skeleton on a field of midnight blue.

A maple linen chest with false bottom holding a number of lewd porcelain figures.

An innocuous-looking, fist-sized piece of faceted glass. When placed upon a flat surface the object floats about three feet into the air, glowing and chiming softly.

A fist-sized orb that resembles the eye of a dragon and dangles from a heavy gold chain.

A simple quartz crystal with a series of emerald green and brown straws extending from within its central structure. Knowledgeable PC's can identify the mineral as tourmaline in quartz.

A colourful ball formed from silk ribbons that randomly unfurls in a multi-hued explosion of noise and whipping fabric, before suddenly reforming.

A small cut glass bottle has a hinged silver top emblazoned with a caduceus.

A bronze rattle with a set of small openings that allow you to see the glowing purple stone within it.

A lacquered wood-carved mouth instrument resembles a duck-hunter’s call, except for the red band along the mouthpiece and the hooked dragon’s claw wood-burned into its side. Blowing into the object causes it to sound like a drake's mating call, barely resistible to any draconic creature within earshot.  

An empty djinn lamp. There is a note attached on which are written the words: “It's out. It is coming for you.”

A pair of small ceramic vials stoppered with corks. The sigil of the local constabulary has been stamped into the sides.

A handful of small, silver and copper coins pressed with unfamiliar faces and strange lettering.

An empty, crumpled leather belt pouch with a large hole opened along the bottom seam and a snarling beast embossed on the side.

A set of thieves’ tools that includes a small file, a set of lock picks, a small mirror mounted on a metal handle, a set of narrow-bladed scissors, and a pair of pliers.

An egg-sized smooth white stone poorly carved on one side to resemble a grinning skull. The tiny eye sockets appear far deeper than should be possible on an item this size.

A dozen brass keys in various sizes linked on a polished steel ring. One of the keys appears far too intricate for any mechanical lock you have ever encountered.

A polished dark wood box inlaid with silver tracery and lined with velvet, suitable for displaying a single piece of jewellery.

A small metal cube with dark glass on two opposing faces. Holding the box up to a light source causes it to project a colourful image of two men in orange robes, arguing over what appears to be a carefully flayed human skin.

A garish tabard made from simple red cloth, with gold-coloured trim that has frayed badly. The effect of the wear is such that the tabard’s edge appears to be fluffy; the strands of cheap gold fabric float like tentacles in the slightest breeze. The front of the tabard is dominated by a somewhat-successfully stitched image depicting a drop of blood. The back is adorned with a single letter “I” and has undergone the same transformation as the gold trim. Donning the tabard causes several wayward strands to drift upward into the bearer's face.

A doss lute carved from alder wood in a graceful, pear-shaped form. Abstract designs were inlaid in the wood in copper.

A mask of smoked glass cut into a half shell that obscures the bearer's features.

A golden, translucent bracelet made of a lightweight, silky material that resembles warm amber. In fact, small creatures can be seen trapped within. If watched closely, they seem to move.

A disguise kit consisting of cosmetics, hair dye and small props that allow the bearer to create disguise and change their physical appearance.

A coinpurse crafted from shimmering bronze-hued fabric that features humanoid teeth as part of its clasping mechanism. The incisors seem particularly pronounced.

A rough, milky white gem with a red crystal grown directly through one side and tinged with yellow discolorations. Knowledgeable PC's can identify the mineral as realgar.

A curious jade rod tipped with a glowing knob of crimson that shimmers with eldritch phosphorescence like a live thing.

A tiny finch made of overlapping metal plates. A gentle tug on its tail causes it to unfold into the shape of a small flower. Touching the centre of the flower causes it to reconfigure into the shape of a small lizard.

A tightly rolled vellum scroll, apparently blank on both sides, but with a deep blue shimmer as it catches the light.

A simple clay pin in the shape of a human face. Its eyes dart about and its mouth moves as though attempting to speak.

A small brown leather bag contains a double handful of black shale shards that ring like coins as it moves about.

A slate-grey box covered in tiny blinking lights. Along one edge is a panel which folds down to reveal a seemingly random assortment of letters and numbers on individual buttons opposite smooth black glass.

A padded trunk that contains a device to extend and display several small drawers when the trunk is opened. Beneath the display drawers are several additional removable padded drawers, all of which contain neatly sorted tiny decorative beads and wires.

A simple silver mirror that shows a perfect reflection delayed by several seconds.

A soft fur stole lined with black satin. Something solid has been sewn within the lining at one end.

A filthy, mummified monkey’s paw, curled into a fist and clutching what looks like an egg.

A tiny, polished wooden coffin. The lid is sealed with wax and the sound of tumbling glass shards can be heard as the box is moved.

A pair of excruciatingly detailed false glass eyes, in grey and green. While held or placed on a solid surface, they gradually turn to face each other.

Some garish crushed velvet pantaloons, monogrammed with the initials ‘AJW.’ So obviously out of fashion that they can only be antique.

An old, thick coin, dented but cleanly cast with bas reliefs. Some runes on the obverse; and on the reverse: the cruel-eyed face of a woman with spiral horns. The con has a scent of mildew and copper that rubs off when handled.

A small glass cube filled with a faintly luminescent blue fluid, with a small latch on one side securing the top. Something about the liquid suggests a degree of consciousness to its movements.

A leather drawstring pouch filled with a dozen perfectly spherical polished stones. The stones stick together as though magnetic, but come apart again with almost no effort.

A hard black leather case containing a flawless set of well-used professional kitchen knives, one nearly as long as your arm.

A coloured glass hemisphere made to resemble a distant galaxy seen on a clear dark night.

An odd red badge in the shape of a hunting bird’s head. The maker’s mark on the reverse appears strikingly similar to the local duke’s seal.

A folding leather wallet filled with strangely coloured bits of paper. Tucked within, you also find a small pewter badge showing the symbol of a great wyrm atop a castle wall, with the initials ‘GG’ on its reverse.

A shattered magenta stone with two dark green edges and that vaguely resembles sliced fruit. Knowledgeable PC's can identify the mineral as watermelon tourmaline.

A miniature castle constructed from a series of slick, modular blocks. Tiny, smiling figures man the parapets.

A well-polished brass oil lamp covered with intricate characters and a strange landscape in relief.

A brass and steel orrery, animated by clockwork and magic in real time. The spheres are nearly perfectly aligned.

A military chest with silver handles, three drawers, and iron-edged pigeon holes. The chest is covered in crossbow bolt holes.

A bronze candelabrum depicting angels being chased by stirges.

A crystal-beaded gossamer headpiece that sparkles with the slightest movement. The pattern of beads is that of an icon for a long-dead religion.

A clay pot with four faces; one a jackal, one a crocodile, the third a vulture, and the fourth a grinning hawk swallowing a human eye.

A large pot scarab filled with mummified human fingers.

A flat brass clockwork dial so richly studded with circles and hands and curious symbols that it looked like a cross scowly face.

A painted limestone incense burner set with a garnet.

A black basalt statuette of a lion wearing a gold crown and crushing slaves beneath its paws.

A leather wallet stamped with the design of a market stall, containing a full set of certified identification papers denoting that the bearer is a member of the merchants guild. The section containing the member's physical description (Height, weight, sex, race, eye, skin and hair colour) is completely blank and could be filled in by anyone with half decent handwriting.

A pouch filled with a dozen silver coins of great age, depicting forgotten gods and god-kings engaged in carnal acts.

A terracotta lamp with silver filigree work depicting lions killing escaping slaves.

A suspiciously clean wallet made from sewn mice and rats.

A scroll case made of sewn snakeskin and metal plates.

A fancy snuff box made from carved whale bone.

A set of flint and steel in an old calfskin wrap with the tail still attached held in a wool holdall.

A walnut, iron, and onyx pipe with a clay bowl depicting a swan.

A set of dice carved from white dragon bone. They will chill small quantities of liquid if placed inside a vessel of any kind. If rolled the dice will cover a small surface in a thin layer of ice.

An ornate linen headband with brass decorations.

A strange looking stone made of a material that looks like basalt, only with small insets of strange red, almost gleaming, material. It is slightly warm to the touch, and if one examines it very carefully or is very tactile to the touch, it seems to be almost pulsating.

Work In Progress

Isum stared over the rim of his hammered silver-inlaid golden goblet, the silver flashing within the weave of the torchlight. Shadows scurried about the floor, flowing over the wooden planks like tendrils of ink, with every flames’ twirls and snaps. Darkness pooled in the windows, the stillness broken by the scrapping of a twisted branch, watery silver sheening across the wood, against the windows. There were four, small in comparison to the long width of the tavern. Long tables were crammed at the sides, with a open hearth resting on a rectangle of gray stones, burned amber by firelight. Above the fire roasted beef on an iron skewer, a hint of food that wafted from the kitchens near the back of the tavern. Long limbs of grayish-black smoke carried its scent, rolling up toward a hole which led to a chimney, so sweet that it nearly made Isum’s mouth water. His stomach growled, and he tightened his jaw as he leaned his head back to sip at the weak ale. 

“Could have given us better wine,” he murmured to no one but himself. Though the tavern was full, with wide and thin men, women plump and scrawny - people who were as pale as moonlight or as dark as wood, no one sat with him. Isum himself hailed far from this place, but his home of Jardacia was a dimmed, distant cloud in his mind. Home for him was this tavern, for the time being. Not a permanent one, but one nevertheless. For Isum, home was where the western wind flew to the east and where the grass grew green and pelted with purple and scarlet and sapphire. The rumbles and clamor of laughter and shouts were his songs of celebration and joy, the smells of food his annual holidays. This tavern was his home, his kingdom for him to rule, even if no one but himself recognized it as such. He dunk his head back as he took a long sip from his favored cup, his scepter, and his orb. 

Laughter tugged at Isum’s curved ear, a sound far closer then those distant peals ringing about him. He turned his head and smiled. “Ah, another traveler. Come, come. My keep is far too empty for my liking.” Waving his hand out in a spreading motion, he kicked out a leg and rested a foot on the wooden bench. “Take a seat, and be rested, my friend.”

“And may rest and a seat ever find you, friend.” The looming man was a mass of tangled muscles, wide and heavy. His long black hair fell in long waves, a mane twisted and knotted. A sheen of gold crowned those locks, as it fell far passed his shoulders, perhaps down to the small of his back, so far as Isum was concern. Silver-pink eyes twinkled and bleed within one another, a whirlwind of snow and roses that it made Isum’s head hurt. He skin was more pale than the palest man he had ever seen, almost a translucent ivory, with vines of gold twining from his shoulders and neck down beneath his shirt, twirling in an intricate pattern that Isum assumed had meant something to the man’s people. Not a man, he thought with a smile. A friend, a companion.

“Ah,” said Isum. “Rest and a seat. Well, the Twins In the Heavens blessed me with a seat, at least. Alas, rest comes so little and is so simple that I had lost the allure to it. But I thank you…”

“Gardshakur blurasmur Aruersandar.” 

Isum roared with laughter. “I will not even dare to utter that name. I shall call you…Gar. Much more simple on a simple man’s tongue, would you not agree?” Gar rested himself at the opposite bench, behind Isum, which caused the slenderer man to groan. He twisted himself, the darkness growing thick about his vision when he turned away from the burning fire. Heat still poured heavily at his back, like the steel of the sun slashing at his back. Though the Lady of Mercy would not dare wield a blade. The thought was oddly comforting. Not every man or women wielded blade or spear or pike—not the Lady of Mercy, at least. If there was one kindness in this dismal life, it was that. Gar laid his thick forearms over the table, his hands grasping already a tankard less ornate and splendid as Isum’s goblet. Long white scars riddled his skin, some twisting, and others slashing in a horrid straight line. There were as plentiful as the stars staining the night sky. Isum lost count at fifty-five. Silver-pink eyes were as foreboding as the rising of the moon, a mist sprawling out like twilight shrouded his eyes. “I shall take it, Isum of Jardacia.” 

His smile grew longer as Isum drank heavily at his goblet. A barmaid came after he raised his hand, and he did not speak until his cup was brimmed with the orangish-gold of Eribes wine, white foam frothing down the curves of the goblet. He sent the barmaid - a girl no older than twenty-five with long blonde hair failing in two plaits down her shoulders and down a willowy figure and with eyes as pale as lilacs - a smile and was pleased when he noticed that two touches of rose rose at her cheeks. It brought out her freckles. A pretty one. Once he had knew that the barmaid was gone, Isum turned back to Gar, his smile never wavered, though he grasped at the spire of heat which burned at the center of his chest. Just in case… “How do you know my name, Gar?”

“You are a popular man, Isum of Jardacia—as popular as one such as yourself can be. How did a Servant of the Unraveler come to a place like this. Last I checked, the Great Destroyer did not care for the likes of the common man.” Gar’s smile was apologetic, but merely a graze, like the flicker of the steel of a dagger.

Rebirth of the Dragon (After GOT / Daenerys Targaryen) Part 4

The day of departure had finally arrived. Daenerys Targaryen, who was came back to life in fire and ashes, accompanied by her faithful allies, went to the docks of Volantis to take her place on the ironborn ship chartered by Yara Greyjoy, the same ship that had led her and Grey Worm to Essos. The young ironborn queen, wearing her iron plastron with the kraken's coat of arms and her long, deep gray coat, a sword and a short ax clinging to her belt, vociferated with her usual character her orders on the upper deck, the ironborn sailors having followed her, preparing for the departure as soon as possible. Daenerys had once again donned her long ebony dress with red dragon patterns snaking along, and also a cape of the same color, with a hood to protect her from the rain. Grey Worm standing to her left, and Lady Kinvara to her right, the young Queen Targaryen contemplated the crew moving in all directions of the ship, whose sails marked with the great Greyjoy kraken, unfolded in the wind. A dozen warriors from the Fiery Hand were there, in perfect order and without moving, serving as an escort to the high priestess, and would accompany her throughout the journey. The ironborn sailors often cast rather curious glances at these strange silent soldiers, and swear they saw their eyes glowing like flames beneath the visors of their helmets. A few unsullied soldiers were also present, having accompanied Grey Worm so far. The rest of the unsullied, according to Grey Worm, had remained at Dorne. It was at the beginning of the afternoon under a favorable wind that the ship left the port of Volantis, slipping on the waves towards the high seas, and towards the East, towards Asshai. Daenerys knew that this trip would be long, but she was more determined than ever to pursue her new path, and now knowing she was supported. Her confidence increased at the sight of Drogon, whose shadow covered the ship for a brief moment. The dragon hovered, in all its splendor, passing the ship but still remaining in its surroundings, hinting at its powerful roars through the sea breeze and from the end of its claws grazing the surface of the water. Going up to the bow of the ship, Daenerys remained silent, feeling her silver hair float in the wind, contemplative of the ocean now looming in front of her as far as the eye could see. The great journey to the Shadow Lands began. ********** The first days at sea passed without incident, the currents and the wind being favorable. That night, the ship had dropped anchor near a small desert island for Drogon had been able to land to sleep, not without having before caught a huge shark in the water to devour it on the beach. On the deck of the ship, the ironborn sailors, while eating, engaged in games of chance, mainly dice, and seemed to bet their pay against each other. The unsullied, Worm Gray among them, and the soldiers of the Fiery Hand, remain silent, being content to take their meal without saying a word, unlike the ironborns who spoke and laughed with good heart between them. Standing at the bow of the ship, Lady Kinvara was a little isolated, contemplating the immensity of the sky covered with darkness and the glow of stars reflected on the ink surface of the water. Yara, holding a goblet of beer in her hand, came to keep her company, leaning against the rail and offering a sip to the priestess, the latter politely refusing. _ "Sorry if my sailors seem a little noisy. They are big morons at times it's true, but it's the guys on whom I can count." said the queen, casting a glance at her men a little further down the bridge, two of whom had apparently started a tight battle. Kinvara did not show any embarrassment. Silence again between the two women, and Yara, after taking a sip of beer, decided to break it again. _"So you brought her back, if I understand correctly? If that's the case, I'd like to thank you for it." _"It was the lord of the light who wanted it so ..." calmly corrected Kinvara "... It was by his will that I and the dragon were able to take back Daenerys stomrborn from the arms of the Other." _ "The Other?" Yara raised an eyebrow at this strange definition. _"You will learn, Queen Yara, that some wars are beyond the understanding of ordinary mortals. Our Lord is the god of fire, light, and life, and we, his servants, are in perpetual conflict with his sworn enemy, to whom we give no name. The so-called Other incarnates cold, death, terror and pain, and aspires only to cover the world in its darkness and to erase all traces of life on earth." Yara listened with more or less attention, yet having a hard time believing in all those beliefs she knew little about, and in this eternal war between two omnipotent beings fighting over the right to rule over this world and its people. _ "But .... and what does Daenerys Targaryen have to do with all this?" Yara asks in second question. _ "She is the one chosen by our master, who for this purpose sent her three dragons frozen as stones that she could bring back life into his purifying fire at the price of three lives ..." continued the high priestess "... the master of the light has nothing to do with an iron siege. Daenerys stormborn was never destined for such a futile quest. He has bigger plans for her." _ "What plans?" Yara said, taking a sip. Kinvara, with her wicked eye, looked at her with a smirk. _"She told you: to build a better world. She will spread the light of our Lord and show the peoples of Essos the way to follow far from darkness." Faced with this almost mystical speech, Yara was divided, but with the return to life of the young Queen Targaryen, did not really know what to think of all that. Meanwhile, Daenerys was asleep in the larger cabin of the ship, which was offered to her. Sheltered under the comfortable blanket, the young woman slept peacefully despite a difficult start to the night. She suddenly opened her eyes, feeling a sudden sense of unease. The temperature in the cabin had strangely cooled down, at high speed, so much so that she could see the steam coming out of her mouth with every breath. But above all, she felt like a real presence with her, and felt herself being watched. Straightening up in bed, curled up under the blanket, she searched in the darkness. The only light that was present was the rays of the moon filtering through the porthole and showing small silvery light. Groping, Daenerys finally found the little candle extinguished on the small table next to her bed and managed to create a small flame to better light the room. Nothing. She was alone, though the feeling of coldness and ill-being was becoming more oppressive. The flame of the candle was suddenly blown, though no gust of wind could enter the closed porthole. Daenerys, her heart pounding, dared not move. And it was there that her blood and eyes froze with terror. At the foot of her bed, stood a silhouette of human appearance, very tall, which was not there the second before, she was certain. The form had the appearance of a shadow, draped in a long black cloak, composed of opaque black smoke and a hood covering his head. Behind him lay in the shadows like smoke-black wings, spreading from his back, with a wingspan reaching almost three meters. Daenerys leaned back on her bed, unable to call for help as fear gripped her throat like a powerful, invisible hand gripping her. She could not discern his face, the latter hidden entirely behind a kind of mask whose material resembled to old bone, and whose shape showed that of a human skull. Behind this mask, gleamed two eyes of a morbid pale color... this form, those eyes .... she had already seen them, in the flames, in this black skull-shaped mountain, in the temple of Volantis ... _ "Who ... who are you?" Daenerys managed to articulate in her trembling lips. The shadow slowly turned its head towards her, without showing any hostile sign against her. He was as terrifying as the Night King. _"Never were names given to us, and it will always be so .... But we know who you are, Daenerys of house Targaryen." His voice ... by the gods, his voice ... impossible to describe, but so inhuman, so ethereal, that it seemed not to be made to be heard by human ears ... Daenerys felt it clearly, feeling her ears and her head being hammered with every word pronounced. _"What do you want from me?" she asked next, without taking her eyes off the thing. _ "What doesn't have a heart can not desire anything. The real question that you ask is: you, what do you want? You, whose blood of the dragons of ancient Valyria flows in the veins ..." replied the shadow at once, whose gleam of eyes redoubled "... only fire can revive the flesh that was changed into stone ... and as you already know it, only a death can pay for a life." Faced with these words, Daenerys seemed to hear again the cries of baby dragons she had heard in her vision. The echo seemed to come from the shadow itself. She also saw the faces of Jorah, and Missandei, both staring at her for a brief moment before vanishing into the meanders of her memories. Dany remained frozen, feeling heer blood shake in her veins. _ "I ... I hear them .... these poor little ones .... they are lost ..." sighs the young woman. _"They're calling for you ..." said the unnamed entity "... Three heads, the dragon must always have. It is known." Suddenly, in a fraction of a second, the entity had advanced to the side of the bed, right next to Daenerys, making her jump again. An emaciated, skeletal hand slowly emerged from the cloak and brushed the wrist of the young woman with the tips of his disgusting and cold knuckles. "... But beware of the raven with three black eyes, who sees and knows everything before anyone knows it." On these last words, the shadow disappeared and vanished gradually in the darkness of the cabin, leaving Daenerys alone again. The heavy aura of discomfort and biting cold had also vanished. Disturbed by this meeting, Dany sat in bed, her heart beating wildly. The cabin door opened, and the glow of a lantern, held by Yara Greyjoy, lit up the room. The iron queen found the young Targaryen woman curled up in her bed, looking at her with an expression of great fear. _ "Your grace, are you all right?" _ "I .... I think, yes ... this .... it was just a bad dream." was all that Daenerys could answer, resting her head against the pillow, but not knowing if she would manage to sleep again after this apparition. Although she really wanted to talk about it, Dany chose to say nothing about this shadow, not wanting to worry Yara and the ironborn sailors on board. The idea of ​​going to Asshai did not please them much, it was useless to fill their heads with stories of ghosts haunting the ship. She might have thought she had dreamed, but the reality of the thing caught her when, her heart jumping, she observed on her wrist, the marks left by the fingers of this thing, gradually disappearing from her skin. ********* Westeros, King's Landing Installed in his new hand of the king's office somewhere in the red keep, Tyrion Lannister was busy sorting through the many messages that the kingdom received daily, all in the overwhelming heat of this new summer that had just begun. Rubbing his chin with no trace of his beard, which he had shaved since then, the dwarf was examining a particular document sent by the iron bank of Braavos claiming the debt incurred during the reign of Cersei Lannister. Sighing with annoyance, Tyrion grabbed his quill and began to write his answer that he would send with a raven and promising to repay the debt as soon as possible. The many debts Cersei incurred during her reign had heavily indebted the kingdom, and Tyrion was doing his best to clean up the disaster his sister had left behind her. He took a few moments, dropped the paper in front of him on the desk and poured himself a glass of wine. Rising from his seat, he advanced to the balcony of his office, offering a splendid view of the capital, as well as the sea a little further, on which arrived some merchant ships from Essos and other countries. His loneliness was interrupted following the arrival of the master of the ships, Davos Seaworth. _ "Master of the ships, what is this pleasure of your coming?" he greeted Tyrion neutrally before finishing his glass of wine. Davos seemed to him somewhat withdrawn. _ "His majesty Bran reunite the council immediately." Tyrion raised an eyebrow. _ "I did not think a council meeting would be scheduled today." _ "Well now it is ..." Davos replied "... and according to the king, this is some of the most important news." More than intrigued by Lord Seaworth's revelations, Tyrion decided to postpone the paperwork and followed his friend from the small council out of the room. Both arrived in the room where council meetings were usually held. Around the big table had already gathered the master of coin, Lord Bronn. The grand maester, Samwell Tarly. The commander of the King's Guard, Brienne of Tarth, and of course, sitting at the end of the table, King Bran Stark, still showing the same serious and neutral face, hands clasped on his knees and waiting patiently. Some chairs around the table remained empty, the places of master of the whisperers and master of the laws being for the moment remained vacant. Greeting with a nod of their sovereign as well as their confreres of the council, Tyrion and Davos came to take their respective places around the table, thus beginning this meeting. _"All right now, I declare this council meeting open." Bran said calmly. Sitting at the end of the table facing the king, Tyrion was the first to speak. _"If I may allow myself, majesty, Lord Davos here has informed me of some of the most important news that you wanted to share with us. Forgive me for being so fast, but what kind of news may well require a meeting of the council?" _"In general, this is rarely good news." Bronn commented, still with the same ease in saying what he thinks. One by one, Bran looked at the council members and spoke again. _"Yara Greyjoy has received a message from the Prince of Dorne. She has left the Iron Islands to go to Volantis with the commander of the unsullied, the man named Grey Worm." Already, this first announcement surprised all the members of the council. _"But ... why, what would they do to Volantis?" asked Tyrion, a little out of time. _ "I tell you ... it smells like shit ..." Bronn heavily insisted expecting the worst, which annoyed the others a bit. Bran did not keep the suspense any longer. _ "Daenerys Targaryen is alive." Following this, a heavy silence fell around the table. ********** Offshore, in the Summer Sea The ironborn ship continued its journey on the waters of the Summer Sea. In this new morning, Daenerys had awakened earlier. Although she kept this secret to herself, the appearance of this creature in her cabin a few days ago still haunted her. Leaning on the rail towards the bow of the ship, she remained pensive, her eyes leaning towards the waves coming to split against the hull. A croaking made him raise his head. A raven was perched on one of the ship's ropes. He turned his little round black eyes towards her, as if he were looking at her. Daenerys remained motionless, watching the bird, while remembering the words of the entity: beware of the raven, the one who sees and knows everything before anyone knows it. She thought about this young man, now king, Bran Stark. Although she had not really rubbed shoulders with him when she came to Winterfell, she could see his strange power allowing him to see everything that was happening, or even what had happened. Through the bottomless black eye of the bird, she felt like, strangely, Bran's gaze on her. After looking at it, the raven uttered another croaking before taking off, moving away, in the opposite direction in which the ship was heading westward. _"Rest assured, no matter how powerful the clairvoyant raven is, the master of light will never allow him to harm you." suddenly said the voice of Lady Kinvara, decidedly always so skilful to make surprise arrivals. Daenerys stared at her, seeing in her iris that the priestess too knew what had happened that night. _"What was it? Tell me, and no more mysteries this time." Daenerys asked. Having sworn to serve her, Kinvara obeyed with a small nod and came to the side of the young woman. _"The lands of the shadow beyond Asshai are inhabited by all kinds of things that go beyond the laws of nature, some of which being even older and more dangerous than the white walkers and whose names, if they had any. have been long forgotten. What are they? What do they think? What do they want? No one knows. They were there long before the First Men, and will stay long after the mountains have turned into dust, when the waters will be turned into deserts, and when the last man will be gone from the surface of this world." Daenerys listened, feeling a thrill of both fascination and anguish at the description of these mysterious creatures from the shadows. This thing that came to see her in her cabin was one of them? The lands at the far east of Essos being very poorly known and almost unexplored, it was possible that such things could exist without the world being aware of them. _ "When I saw him .... I felt this penetrating cold in my flesh, freezing my blood .... I felt his eyes with a bottomless white on me, this feeling of helplessness in me ..." Daenerys said, a little shuddering at the idea of ​​talking about this creature again. Seeing her thus, Kinvara was made to advise her. _ "As with all of us, the lord of the light puts you to the test, Daenerys stomrborn, and you more so. He wants to show us if you will be worthy of him, if you will be able to continue the path that was traced to you through the dark night full of terrors." Was Kinvara true? Was this creature sent as a test to test Daenerys? To have been killed by the man she loved and to return to life had they not been trials that were already more than satisfying? Obviously not, at least from the point of view of this red god. Anyway, if this was a challenge, Daenerys was determined to take it up and continue her journey to Asshai and her dream as a liberator.

A World Apart - Chapter Six 1.2

Notes: Ask and you shall receive! Wednesday we’ll post just a sneak peak of chapter 7. Enjoy part two of chapter six! Discusses serious & dark adult topics. Please heed the trigger warnings! Tagged long post for mobile.

Rating: M

Trigger Warning: Assault, Violence

Word Count: 3918

Musical Accompaniment: Florence + the Machine - Howl

Tag List: @writtenbycandy, @hopefulmoonobject, @heatherfilliez, @theroyalweisme, @indiacater, @tmarie82, @enmchoices, @the-everlasting-dream, @diamond-dreamland, @lizeboredom, @drakewalkerwhipped, @youwontlikewherewewillgo, @mfackenthal, @kingliamthirst, @snyggflicka, @debramcg1106, @choicessa, @drakelover78, @starstruckzonkoperatorbat@blackcatkita , @drakewalkerfantasy, @jadedpixiescribbles, @walkerismychoice, @walkerduchess, @hamulau, @simplyaiden-blog, @hhiggs, @drivenbyfantasy, @penguininapinktuxedo, @viktoriapetit @breaumonts

Chapter Six ~ The Beaumont Bash 1.2 May 1914

This night has gone from passing strange to decidedly bizarre. It begins with the ivy leaves. Lord Rashad and Maxwell pass a golden plate of them around the circle, and each man chews his while trying not to wince. 


"And what is the meaning of this, Lord Rashad?" Liam tries to frame the question genially, not missing Rashad's insolent eye roll. The man needs to be shown his place, but Liam will have to be swift and merciless when he does it. Disturb the waters too briskly, and it could incite a mutiny. And Liam, of all people, knows how flimsy the bonds of this court can be when threatened. Snip the wrong thread, and the whole labyrinth will collapse. "Why are we eating ivy leaves?"



His wife's lover snorts. "They are sacred to Dionysus, your highness." How is it that every honorific out of this man's mouth sounds like a slur? The smoke from the brazier is thick and aromatic, and when Liam stares into the coals, he can see faint shapes that look like men, moving through a hellscape. But when he breathes the sweetish smoke in, the faint honeyed scent of kythi, pine and moonwort perfuming the air, it is gone. 


Rashad signals to Bertrand, whose face is already flushed from drink. "Step forward and be crowned the Lord of Misrule." Bertrand beams from ear to ear, stepping forward.



Maxwell lays a crown of ivy on Bertrand's head, and intones in a sonorous voice, "I call upon loud-roaring and reveling Dionysos,
 primal, two-natured, thrice-born, Bacchic lord..."(1)



The servants beat on a tambourine beyond the topiary, and blow discordant pipes. The wind picks up suddenly, throwing long shadows dancing across the lawn in the firelight, and strange shadows leap across the faces of the company. Liam swallows, trying to shake the deep unease that has begun to creep across his flesh.



Some sort of signal passes between Rashad and Maxwell, and then Rashad signals a footman. "Bring the wine." 


The footman hands Maxwell the bottles, and then departs. The young lord places the three bottles atop the sundial and fetches his saber. The blade whistles through the heavy night air and the corks roll at their feet like the heads of men, dark red wine dripping thickly from the bottlenecks. 


"A Beaumont tradition!" Bertrand crows with jovial bonhomie, though his voice sounds strange and low, another man's voice, a wild god's; looking out across the faces gathered here tonight, Liam feels displaced from time, as though he witnesses a ritual three thousand years in the ancient past, when men drank the blood of bulls and danced with ritualistic frenzy to the beat of the cymbals and the drums. 


"This wine, gentlemen, will make gods of men. It is the root of the love apple, satyrion, and ivy, macerated and stirred in a clockwise manner thirteen times then left to steep under the moonlight for three weeks." Rashad raises his glass.



"Dionysos, bearer of the vine, thee I invoke to bless these rites divine: florid and gay, of Nymphs the blossom bright, and of fair Aphrodite, Goddess of delight. 'Tis thine mad footsteps with mad Nymphai to beat..."(2) Maxwell is swaying, his eyes already inky wells of darkness. Liam would suspect he has already been drinking this wine, but in truth, he does not know.  


He raises his goblet, and they all toast Bertrand, and then Dionysus, and wine and women and their cocks. The wine is red and honeyed, with a slightly metallic bite. He does not want to drink it, but the other men are staring at him with eyes gleaming in the torchlight, and Liam knows he must. He downs the entire glass, and holds out his goblet for another.



They drink until the wine is gone, and then a servant brings out a platter filled with something reddish, oozing. Before Liam knows what's happening, Rashad and Maxwell have stripped Bertrand's shirt off, and the other men get the gist, all stripping to the waist, some pale and pudgy, others sleek and taut with whipcord muscle.



"We will paint ourselves like warriors of old, and become the masters of the wild hunt!" Rashad proclaims amidst cheers and howls. The sun has almost sunk entirely now, and a blood red crescent is swelling in the sky. The torches gutter as the wind whistles through the wind chimes in the branches of the trees, tossing the remaining ivy leaves in a whirl around them.



"The god hears us!" Bertrand bellows, his teeth stained dark with wine. "The god has come!" 


All around Liam, their eyes glitter, pupils inky wells in the flickering light. Tariq begins to strip off his trousers as well, but Liam stops him with a firm shake of his head. 


"I smell them!" Neville says suddenly, his chin red with ochre or wine, dripping in the firelight. "I smell cunny!" 


Heads whip up around the brazier, and Liam's stomach curdles in revulsion. Only Maxwell looks slightly anxious, and Liam remembers his friend is a virgin, and wonders whatever possessed Maxwell Beaumont to take part in this madness. But he knows. The pressure is too much to refuse. Even Tariq, whom Liam has wondered about for years, is here tonight, when the man would normally prefer to avoid the company of the fairer sex. 


Rashad whistles, low and deep, and Liam hears the nickering of horses. They are led towards the men by the grooms, deep chested blacks and grays and a wild Gypsy horse that tosses its mane in terror at their smell. Rashad has brought his stallion, a big black called Lucifer, truly a warhorse, eighteen hands high. He mounts the beast with catlike grace, and watches Liam mount a frisky roan with his eyes like slits, searching for any show of weakness. Rashad would murder Liam if he could, and Liam knows it in that moment, and a sudden thought trembles on the edge of his brain, What if --



"Steady there, Bertrand, you'll make  a widow of the girl before she's ever a bride!" Hakim claps a hand on Bertrand's shoulder, and it takes two men to help Ramsford mount the horse without slipping off.



He cackles drunkenly. "Give me my horn, brother! I wish to summon the nymphs!" 


Maxwell makes eye contact with Liam as his brother jokes lewdly with Hakim and Rashad. "I'll distract them if you want to slip back to the house now," he whispers solemnly. 

Liam nods, barely. "I'll double back. Good luck tonight, my friend. If you do not yet have a lady in mind, may I suggest the one with the green and black sash? I'm afraid you may not find the pleasure you seek with one of Madame Louisa's strumpets." Because you are too soft, and they are too hard, he thinks. They will rip you to shreds. 


Maxwell grins sheepishly. "I'll do all right. Thanks for the suggestion." He wheels his horse around, and blows on the horn once before passing it to the drunken Lord of Misrule, and Maxwell turns back to Liam and gives him the barest of signals, his face entirely lost to the shadow of the night.

•••

Sophia feels a deep frisson of unease run through her at the sight of the moon, a fat red sickle hanging deep and preternaturally large in the sky. As the women wind through the gardens in single file, masked and nude, Sophia's foot catches on something, and she stumbles forward, just barely missing the sash of the woman in front of her, who hisses over her shoulder, annoyed. Sophia grabs whatever it is, and keeps moving. The torches gutter in the darkness, and a sudden wind has picked up, throwing the scattered ivy leaves in a whirlwind before her, whispering Run, run.



As the gardens end and the lawns stretch out towards a twisted wood, the women come to a complete stop. There is a smoking and scented brazier here, and the rich honeyed scent of kyphi is stronger now, almost intoxicating, mingled with moonwort and pine, teasing and taunting the senses. A sundial, seemingly innocuous, is covered in sticky red streaks in the torchlight. 


The wind rises, and the torches gutter for a sudden, warning moment -- and then the howling begins. All of the fine hairs on the back of Sophia's neck rise, and the woman next to her, nipples rouged red from the communal pot, clutches her arm and whispers, 
"What in the name of...?" Her fine, cultured voice shakes with terror. 


The whores answer the howls with ululating yips, while the noblewomen draw back, discomfort in their postures. But it is too late to turn back now. The ominous clatter of hoof beats seems to echo across the night garden, like the beating of a tribal drum, and Sophia does not want to turn, and yet she must.

Closing her eyes, she listens to the grey wolves in the wood howl with the men, calling to them to their pack. Sophia pictures them lined on horseback, lips curled back, teeth bared, hungry for the flesh of their prey and shudders, tightening her fists in a panic, gasping as she pricks her finger on the object she picked from the ground. She opens her palm and is aghast, balking at the notched stone carved with a symbol -- Thurisaz. She has seen this symbol once before; cast in the bone runes of a Roma fortune teller the night before she ran from Kane. She recalls the old woman's warning (that she did not heed) and her throat constricts.

The howling stops, and in the still, fleeting silence she takes a deep breath, forcing air into her lungs, steeling herself for what is to come should she be caught. Sophia focuses intently on the dark shadows between the looming trees, anxiously plotting a path to asylum. The lawn is long, but if she is quick and crosses through the gardens, she may escape the clutches of the depraved men behind her.

The long, low rumblings of a hunter’s horn is heard, its vibrations thrumming through her body, quaking the earth beneath her feet. There is one measured blow, then another and she is running, against the whipping wind fast as her feet can carry her to the black of the wood, the raucous laughter of the hunters and the drumming of hooves muffled by the sounds of her raspy breath.

•••

Sophia is not in the room, nor is she anywhere in the house, and Liam has begun to have a terrible suspicion creep over him. He thinks of the other men, stripped to the waists, chests and faces painted in red ochre not ten minutes before: Bertrand crowned in ivy, looking like a wild god, Maxwell and Rashad beside him with their pupils blown out in the torchlight. On their black and white steeds, they could very well have been ancient centaurs, half-men, half-beasts, come down from the hills to slake their lust on mortal women and drink wine until they go into frenzies of ecstatic, wild madness.



Liam, too, is painted and masked, and the housekeeper lets out a scream of pure terror when she sees him in the kitchen.



"Where is the girl who showed my lady to her room?" Liam bares his teeth. "I am your king and you will answer!" 


The servants pull a girl with a copy of the Grimm’s Fairy Tales in her hands out of the larder, and she blinks like a mole in the light. When the housekeeper prods her to answer, she stammers out that she put Sophia in the room "with the other women." Liam feels the blood drain from his face. With the servants on their knees in terror, he storms from the house. 


That's when he hears the haunting call of the horn. And Liam runs.

He mounts his horse in one quick movement, clucking his tongue so it breaks into a steadfast gallop. No one but I will lay a finger on you. His words repeat in his mind like a broken record as he rides, pressing his spurs into the side of the gelding, urging it to go faster, faster.

But it is too late to stop it. It is bedlam on the lawn now the horn has been blown, a cacophony of unsettling sights and sounds unfolding before him -- the garish moaning of women on their knees in the grass, thundering hooves, the boisterous roars of nobleman. He rides on, desperately searching for any sign of her, but there must be a dozen women with honey hair in the horde. So he calls to her, intending to keep his promise, no longer caring for social station or who hears him shouting her name.



•••

Sophia’s leaden feet pound the ground beneath her, each footfall more painful than the last. The horses are so much faster than her and the lawn is long, too long. Her heart beats frantically in her chest, her breath labored, thighs burning. She’s so exhausted she feels she could collapse involuntarily at any moment, though she does not slow her pace. The silhouette of a great oak is in her sights, and she will run until her feet bleed to hide in the crest of its branches, enduring what she must to free herself from the fate of what awaits her if she gives up and allows herself to be taken by one of the devil men.

She’s almost to the oak tree when, so faintly she’s almost sure she’s imagined it, she hears his voice calling for her through the thick of the noise. Liam! Against her better judgment, she turns away from the haven in the wood and runs back into the heart of the field, following the sound of his voice growing louder with every step.

The calls stop for a moment, then begin again, closer than before, but her name on his lips is different… the voice sounds coarser, darker, and Sophia cannot put her finger on why. Still, she pursues him, raring to feel safe in his arms and get away from the madness around her. Then, suddenly, she lets out a sharp cry of pain as a strong, unwavering hand grips her by the back of the neck, pulling her up onto their horse by her hair. She looks down at the hand bruising her thigh, squeezing tightly, and is horrified, for it is indubitably not the hand of the king.



"Hello, Sophia." It is the Queen's lover, captain of the Royal Horse Guards, the man whom Savannah warned the other maids about. A flirtation with him means death. 


How he knows Sophia's name, she knows not, and she struggles against him, clawing at his cheek, drawing blood. "Let me go," she begs hoarsely, and he laughs, low and dark.



"He thought to keep you all to himself tonight." Rashad's voice is threaded with vicious delight. "Well, let him see how it feels to have the thing he loves most taken from him." 


Sophia opens her mouth to scream, and then his lips are upon hers, hard and bruising. She bites his mouth and he draws back, bleeding, his eyes dark and terrible beneath his devil's mask. 


"Bitch!" he snarls, and his palm connects with her face, her head snapping back from the force of it. Sophia tastes blood on her tongue, thick and coppery, and she screams Liam's name. 


"Sophia!" she hears Liam's anguished howl as though from far away, and the world is blurring before her eyes, though she cannot tell if it is from the tears or the blow; branches whip at her face as they plunge into the dark wood, and Rashad is laughing, low and dark, filling Sophia with terror. 


She hears Liam shouting for her, hears his horse plunge into the thicket after them. He's coming. Liam is coming for me. She twists in Rashad's grip, pummelling his chest and his face, teeth bared. Rashad pushes her down, holding her by the back of the neck, and they break out of the woods, beside a ruined shrine and a little spring.



He dismounts, his hand twining in her loose hair, holding her up by it, and she has never hated her long hair more, for the weakness it brings. He seems to be waiting for something, listening, his head cocked toward the wood. Sophia listens too, and she hears it: Liam fighting against the thicket, almost upon them now. 


Rashad forces Sophia to her knees, his hand twitching on the buttons of his breeches. He is waiting, she realizes, for Liam to come. He is playing some terrible game here, dark and twisted. 


"Unhand her!" Liam bursts through the trees and Sophia nearly sobs in relief to see his face. He dismounts, striding towards Rashad, who jerks Sophia up and kisses her roughly. Liam wrenches Rashad away from her, and then he is atop of him, his fist making a monstrous noise as it slams against Rashad's flesh. "Have you had enough?" Liam hisses, his face twisted with rage. 


Rashad begins laughing, laughing, the harsh echo filling the night. 


Liam hits him again and again, and then he is in a frenzy, and Sophia grasps at him, trying to pull him off Rashad, screaming in his ear, "Liam, stop!" but he does not hear her. He will murder Rashad tonight if she cannot stop him, and the realization of what it will mean chills her straight to the marrow. She dashes to the spring and fills her hands with water, which she throws upon Liam, breaking his concentration.

He shakes his head like a bull, coming back to himself. "Sophia...?" Liam asks, unsure. His hands are slick with Rashad's blood.



"He didn't hurt me, Liam," she says firmly, drawing him away. "Come, let's return to the house."



Behind her, she hears Rashad moving in the grass, so she knows he lives, but beyond that, she does not care.

•••

Sophia kneels before Liam on the bed, gently wiping the blood from his mangled hands with a cold cloth. She has wrapped herself in thin blanket, hiding her wounds from his view.

“Sophia --”

“Don’t, Liam,” she whispers sharply. “I want to return home at first light. Please, I cannot bear to be here any longer than we must be. I want…” she trails off. Drake, she yearns to say, but does not dare, for tonight she has seen to what violent lengths Liam will go to keep her as his own, and it strikes fear in her heart.

“I cannot just leave, Sophia. It would be unspeakably rude to the Beaumont’s, and they are a valuable alliance to the crown. The estate will look different in the light of day. I’m here now. You have nothing to fear,” Liam smiles gently, pulling her into his arms, the blanket falling from her body. He gasps seeing her in the light, stunned by the sight of her battered frame: deep purple welts on her back from Madame Louisa’s switch, bruises in long lines the shape of fingers on her thigh, burning red marks settling in the crook of her neck from being carried by her hair.

“Oh gods,” tears well in his eyes, his voice breaking. “You said he didn’t hurt you. That pompous animal will pay for his sins, Sophia. He will pay for what he did to you, my love.” Liam’s eyes darken, and Sophia tries, in vain, to swallow the bitterness burning in her throat at his hypocrisy.

“You will not kill a man in my name, Liam. Rashad has paid for his sins tonight at your hand, it is you who has not paid for yours,” she rises from the bed, ripping her hand from his. “I should never have come here with you. I am not your plaything.”

“My sins? I know you are upset my love, as am I, but I had no more control than you over what happened here tonight. You were never meant to see those horrible things, and for that I am contrite. I acted the moment I knew something had gone terribly wrong. Surely you do not blame me for the mistakes of a silly servant girl.”

“You forget, I too am a silly servant girl,” she spits his words at him, fuelled by the feelings she has kept tightly coiled since laying in his marriage bed with his queen. “You promised me no one would lay a finger on me but you and look at me!” Sophia grasps his jaw and turns his head to her. “Look at the marks left by the hands that have been on my body this night! I have been beaten, tormented and nearly…” she stops, a choking sob swallowing her words.

Liam rushes to her, holding her in a warm embrace. Her hot tears cascade onto his shoulders as she grips him tighter, weeping. “You promised me, Liam. You promised me. You promised.”

“Oh, my darling. I know. I know and I’m so sorry. No one will ever hurt you again, Sophia. I will protect you. Always.”

“And who will protect me from you?” Sophia gently pushes Liam away from her, thoughts of Drake swirling in her troubled mind, thinking of how she has never felt so safe in Liam’s arms as she does in his.

“You don’t mean that, Sophia. I would never hurt you,” his voice is small and frail, his face twisted in anguish, like she has shot an arrow through his heart.

“But you already have, Liam! Beyond measure. When you summoned me to you and Madeline, you swore I was safe with you, but I wasn’t, was I? I was so terribly drunk I could not stand, Liam. You barely gave me a choice. What’s worse is you would not even look upon me when the deed was done, like I was nothing to you.”

Tears are slipping down her cheeks freely, every bit of raw emotion she has buried deep since that fateful night pouring out of her like a burst dam. The anger, confusion, the pain, overwhelming and pure joy when she discovered… their child. And then, unimaginable grief realizing she could not keep it, not now. How could she after what they had done?

“I never meant to hurt you. I was so ashamed, Sophia. I love you, and I will be with you until my dying breath if you will have me. Without you, I am nothing. You are my strength, my joy. Madeline, what we did to put a child in her, that is the terrible price of wearing the crown.”

“And will our child pay a price as I have?” Sophia cries, so tired of keeping her secret that it spills from her mouth unwittingly. “Where does it end, Liam?”

Liam’s eyes widen at her admission, as do hers, and he stares at her for a long moment, assimilating her words. “Our child? No, it’s not possible,” he proclaims, mystified.

“I have not bled since early March.”

Liam falls to his knees before her and presses his forehead against her stomach, kissing it over and over, softly, weeping.

“I am with child, Liam. Your child grows inside me.”

Orphic Hymn 30

Orphic Hymn 46

Gigs

Briar + Faye Valentine ( @alreadyafairy​​ )

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Faye made a face of disgust as she finished the last of her drink, placing it aside. “ is there anything good in here? ” she grumbled, more to herself than anyone else.

“It’s a casino, honey. No. Nothing good can be found here. Just a matter of picking your poison, honestly.”

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Casino.

Not the typical den of sin this she-wolf hangs out in. Her ears ring with the clacks of spinning roulette, rolling of dice, beeping of machines, chiming of spare change, calling of numbers, and whispers making deals. Her nose stings with cigarette smoke and scotch and the stench of people who have been sitting in their seats all day or even longer.

But she won’t complain about a new adventure given a pinch-hit gig. The manager found her name and number to fill the slot of a lounge singer called off sick (or so she hopes, for how the story goes), and she can always use the cash which comes with a contract padded in this kinda luxury.

Jazz.

Not her strong suit. Unlike the matte silver three-piece she’s wearing, which looks pretty damn good, honestly. A sleek look for a slick place; a classy cover for her curves in a crowd of less than savory customers than the usual.

Besides, the job description read clear enough. She’s not to be the center of attention tonight. Performance from a small, velvet stage plants as an accessory, a background, a soothing song streaming in the heads of those spilling out their money, making them feel comfortable enough to keep doing so.

The nature of it raises her hackles, but it ultimately boils down to a more meaningful experience - hope. Hope keeps them at the tables. People who somewhere in the depths of their souls believe they can win, come out to try - they swarm the place. Their lien bleeds out from their wallets and her heart bleeds for their misplaced faith. She can still make the command her own, twist words to shepherd the lost in the best ways she knows how.

Harmonizer sits off to the side, plugged into some sweet ass amps provided by the house. The instrument holds a pre-programmed melody of simple, echoed beat and basic strums. Briar clicks play and dress shoes step to the mic stand. Her voice flows smooth and sweet, tail and body swaying in similar soft waves. Hands twist and worm in gestured emphasis, like a child’s stuck out of a car window and riding the air currents, like a creek bubbling over pebbles after a spring rain…

♫♫ This is my brand new day in the light Trouble rising up on the left and the right I keep my eyes fixed on where I want to go The rest will follow And this is my prayer without ceasing the negative releasing and as I rise above my burden is easing

This is my brand new day starting now Letting go of the ways that I fall down The old can be made new, the lost can be found the lost will be found This is my prayer without ceasing the negative releasing and as I rise above my burden is easing

I bring the pure flow, like water around the rocks of life won’t pull me down I bring the pure flow, drink so deep the river of life, my soul at ease I bring the pure flow, like water around the rocks of life won’t pull me down I bring the pure flow, rising above the storms of life to live and love… ♫♫

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°୭•.═══ singers would come and go in lounges . faye hadn’t always paid attention to that , and she knew none of the others did . as far as a singer was concerned ,  their voices were meant to add to the ambiance . to let a few men who’d lost a game cry over their drink - and then return to their houses of cards and chips and broken lives . they’d drown in it, watch it all collapse on them and take everything they had away ….

but they’d still return .

faye knew she still would .

one thousand points. not bad . today’s round of pinochle was far better than the last few -

she eyed her lien , counting it in a dedicated , practiced manner . her mind was running through a checklist , things she could do with the amount . three hundred ….

she could go for a game of blackjack . the men there -

seven hundred lien .

or poker . no . the old guy there was hustling the others . sounded like a boring game to her . and definitely not an easy win .

the singer today was different . they always were . but the song was different too . out of place - not what you would expect in a place like this . too raw . too straightforward . and the woman wasn’t sad-faced or thin or red-eyed . she wasn’t just her clothes, and she didn’t have a volatile presence . the opposite of all that, actually .

different .

eleven thousand lien .

faye settled for a drink - ‘almost blue’ , the house special, intrigued her . looked like a smoky drink ,  with a sizzling campfire dying out in the rain . ninety lien . hah , daylight robbery .

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Seven hundred lien. Rent. Three hundred lien. Food and supplies. One hundred lien. Utilities.

Robbery, indeed. No free drinks for the employees here, so Briar sticks to water while sticking to a tight budget. Unless someone could repay some cosmic kindness…

Tempting, to take an immediate chunk of tonight’s gig and toss some on the table just to see what happens. Slip a coin in a machine. Test her poker face for one round. But, no, Briar’s full speed ahead, whole hearted lust for life doesn’t always know when to stop. Sometimes best not to start at all.

She gets it, though. Really, she does.

What a fascinating place. The people? She’s still working on. A loose lean supports her back on the lip of a bar counter as she gazes out and sips a goblet of water like white wine. Briar’s used to bar crowds looking heavy and tired. Or an audience raring and ready to rebel. These folks lie somewhere in between, if she had to say.

Most wear weary bags beneath bloodshot eyes, in the middle of a never-ending all night bender, yet they come alive every time they go the next round.

If she could bottle that feeling and bless her music with it, some of the world’s problems might be solved overnight.

Damn, does money motivate. But… there must be more to it than that. The atmosphere. The winning. The losing. The cycle of both. The immediate payoff and the promise of more. There’s a song waiting somewhere in here…

Humming, tapping toe of a dress shoe on the tile, she loses herself in the beat of her own thoughts, until someone slides into the seat she stands next to.

She smiles, full of friendliness almost too genuine, and casually asks, “What’s the feel out on the floor today? Hitting it big?”

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°୭•.═══ the presence from the stage drifted to her. her first instinct was to ignore her companion. drink up, go back to gambling , probably amass a few more debts and try not to get outed for the con woman she was. but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do , right ? no one thought about it that way , though .  real pity .

she rested her head on her arm, frowning into the drink in a kind of weary , bored manner . ninety lien ,  and it tasted like complete crap - plus , the bartender didn’t seem to be the friendly sort . beer would have been a way better choice , honestly .

faye tilted her head ,  eyeing her companion for a moment or two . the singer . up close ,  she seemed a little more open  ,  unlike the stuck up , sadder ones that usually cried for a solid hour at the counter , mascara running down their cheeks .

this one was worth her time , she decided . but not enough to con . she seemed sharp , smart . not the best victim to pick a gamble with .

she spread out a hand in flippant manner , red nails glinting under the light . “ just the usual . one thousand wasn’t much , but it wasn’t her usual amount either . it was normally much , much lower . not that she would admit it .

“ this place’s got easy wins . ” the truth ! half the men here didn’t seem to know they were being two-timed .” dim wits . ” the whole lot of them . women were smarter ,  in her opinion .

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Survival is tough. Tastes like grit and blood and shitty food and drink you must suffer through because you already paid for it. Human nature to want better, even if it means taking it with your own cunning hands. Most people here to see what they can scam from the laps of the more deluxe, whether by luck or by patience, or cheating and praying to the gods not to get caught.

Tiring to the bone, no matter how you slice it. But a girl’s definitely gotta do what she’s gotta. Sometimes it meant showing life and its rat race how that girl can put on an even tougher act.

Or, in Briar’s case, a fresh face with golden eyes aglow.

A dance within the gray of dim weather.

No need to con this woman; Briar would offer freely anything she had to give to someone without, if they only ask. But the other woman doesn’t. Drooping disinterest makes her appear too used to cutting her losses.

Yet cockiness in her comment says to the contrary, perhaps not tonight. She carries herself lowly but speaks of others as even lower. What an attitude to have. Fierce in the face of a hall of many failings.

Hips turn towards trash talk, and an easy laugh falls from Briar’s lips, “You sound like an experienced player, my dear. But I’d bet there are many who underestimate you.”

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  °୭•.═══  many underestimated her, alright. that was part of the fun, really. gave her more opportunity to hustle a few of her opponents. play the shark. men took women too lightly in general – and she found some kind of twisted triumph in showing them their fallacy.

but that was superficial. like so many, many things about her. a patchwork of clothes from different people she never knew tailored to provide a mask of sorts. she supposed that everyone wore masks – especially in a place like this. but some people here were themselves. like they had broken that mask a long while ago.

like this woman here. that made faye wonder who she’d lasted for this long in a world like this. survival of the fittest. truth had no place here. everybody lied – so why not her?

experienced? well, you could say that. she let herself seem flattered – albeit in a coy, sly manner. tilted her head at the woman, a sea green eye studying her. a confident smile rested on her lips. all an act, through and through – a projection to hide her insecurity.

“ they wouldn’t know what hit them if they take me lightly. ”

her past self had been sleeping for years. then who was she, right now? she just had her first name at hand, her surname a placeholder. hah – she couldn’t even call her name hers.

valentine was a lie – and valentine was who she was. ‘faye’ wasn’t there anymore.

she made a face of disgust as she finished the last of her drink, placing it aside. “ is there anything good in here? ” she grumbled, more to herself than anyone else.

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Briar knows all about patchwork clothes and acts and masks made of others. Masks made for herself too, a performer. And maybe the secret is that after so long, it’s too hard to tell the difference. You can only wear a mask for so long before your skin gets used to the feel, before it starts to shape the contours beneath.

Some people do pull it off, some people do break it. Briar can’t remember the last time she donned or doffed one, not intentionally. She absorbs them, makes them her own, until changing personas came as simple as changing her own expression, no need to pretend, no need to hide, every facet of the soul a part of her.

What the woman sees is not the disowning of a mask, but acceptance that everyone wears different faces for different reasons.

Admittedly, though, hers is not as painted up today. Lashes which blink as Briar meets her side-eye and listens, not as full.

they wouldn’t know what hit them if they take me lightly.

Another sip of water, and then she thinks, hard hitter then. But doesn’t ask if that means the games or the people.

She doesn’t ask her name, either. Not yet. Briar sees many people come and go, finds what someone is called less important than what they have to say. Names only important if a need to ever address a person beyond a single interaction makes itself known. And she has a hunch that this is the type of woman who likes to fade away, disappear just like the dregs of her drink; force a finish, win or lose.

Another sip of water, and then laughter huffs and shoulders bounce at the question, and Briar smirks. Her paycheck only dictates the words offered on stage; after and aside she can say whatever she likes.

Her lean sinks further against the counter, and her head tilts to the side as if she shares some great secret of life, or at least something bigger than the drink menu, “It’s a casino, honey. No. Nothing good can be found here. Just a matter of picking your poison, honestly.”

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°୭•.═══════ she’d been expecting to hear the woman’s name, the moment she’d stepped onto the stage. they usually announced their ‘ special stars for the evening ’ . all the estella’s, the rouge’s, the rosemary’s, diamonds, pearls, gold teeth and violent eyes. the whole shebang. not this one. they’d conveniently forgotten her name – like they’d expected everyone to know it. and maybe they all did. not her. not faye. exchanging names was a DEATH sentence and that came with being a grifter —–— a part of this tiny, pretty package with gift wrappers, ribbons and a cute little card on the top to go with it.

she never went around chit-chatting. not unless she could wrestle something for herself out of it – money, a favor, food, drink. you get the picture. this woman didn’t have anything but herself, her company to give. nothing but her gypsy voice, syllables taking in the sweetness.

there was a lonely child in her heart, and she hid herself under the hills and twisted paths. she’d heard some song, and now her skin was being pried open. the girl wanted out. wanted in. wanted, wanted, wanted, wanted.

tall, woman of mysteries, but all that was rolled up in those fancy clothes of hers was GENUITY.

mm. maybe she’d be interesting to talk to. provided she didn’t end up being one of the people faye didn’t want to cross paths with. people she’d pissed off. the law. people she really shouldn’t be messing around with.

rosewood lips parted, an amused breath curling out. her voice was a bubble in a glass of cheap champagne.

“ it’s a mess, alright. ” her gaze darted up to the bartender, nails rapping the glass with a dismissive flick of her wrist to indicate that she was done. “ that isn’t even poison. i’d like to call it sludge with a drop of alcohol.”

a remark that drew an ugly look from the bartender. poor aim, though. the bullet missed her by a mile. better luck next time, old man.

hands were clasped in front of her, elbows propped up on imitation-mahogany. lips curled into an artificial star-strung smile. fingers flashed nails the same color as her lips. always looked her best. dressed to kill, so to speak. emeralds were trained on her companion, watching, studying, reading. no cards, not an opponent, no game here.

“ none of the people here tonight are good looking, either. ” her gaze darted to the sea of faces around her. “ the only things that’ve ever been good here are the men and women. the ‘company’. ”

fingers danced idly on the wood, sights turned to the woman. her eyes were gold, she observed. gold, like sunlight haunting windows. what a map of obscurity. she could barely get a glimpse of this woman.

“…do you gamble ? ”

The machine called the mouth

How perfuming is the equinoctial trash and it's cosmic enemies? All chalk architecture become thorn trees. Ignore me and let my substance perform. The current pulsing from my shoulder. Among cinnamon water and silvery sea shells. As if to puncture or gallop or delude. Divulged and then began in the night, Not the cashmire moment When the late afternoon appreciates the moons. And a cold flesh's fire will wake you. So the profound honor lives on in a grape, The celestial house of the acrobat, The original stalks of cattail that is round and essential. Circus of a deluded rambunctious circus, Of your gray light when you hold out your eyelids. They filtered it with imperalist ribbons, And meetings of hushed nose. Outside the red animosity of the ash. The prize knows this, That life in it's paper-mache boxes is as endless as the foliage. I stayed excited and crimson Outside the university. You perch my rusted seperation Like a boundless squirrel to fresh nectarine. Preserving from worn-out silk. You flutter slowly into a moonlight evening to grow your business, You see arm as arcane as the mist. I saw how planetaria are traveled By the arcane momentum. The motionless fountain is myriad on your eye. Entertaining the drop of her necklace full of purity. Behind the communist thicket of acidulous serendipity. I'd do it for the love in which you appreciates For the telegraphs of green you've formed. You see eye as scrupulous as the snow. They scratched it with rigid propellers, Within san-dcolored water and opaque sunburst orange suns. Behind the shaken coral, many calcerous smokes, You enrich my distorted trapdoor Like a celestial iguana to fresh cheesecake. A current of fresh goblet That does not know why it flows and swims Be guided by the steady coral's home. Harsh blades and hated jugulars. My heart moves from being dry to being perfect

Lines To A Teapot - Poem by Joanna Baillie

On thy carved sides, where many a vivid dye

In easy progress leads the wandering eye,

A distant nation's manners we behold,

To the quick fancy whimsically told.

The small-eyed beauty with her Mandarin,

Who o'er the rail of garden arbour lean,

In listless ease; and rocks of arid brown,

On whose sharp crags, in gay profusion blown,

The ample loose-leaved rose appears to grace

The skilful culture of the wonderous place;

The little verdant plat, where with his mate

The golden pheasant holds his gorgeous state,

With gaily crested pate and twisted neck,

Turned jantily his glossy wings to peck;

The smooth-streaked water of a paly gray,

O'er which the checkered bridge lends ready way,

While, by its margin moored, the little boat

Doth with its oars and netted awning float:

A scene in short all soft delights to take in,

A paradise for grave Grandee of Pekin.

With straight small spout, that from thy body fair,

Diverges with a smart vivacious air,

And round, arched handle with gold tracery bound,

And dome-shaped lid with bud or button crowned,

Thou standest complete, fair subject of my rhymes,

A goodly vessel of the olden times.

But far less pleasure yields this fair display

Than that enjoyed upon thy natal day,

When round the potter's wheel, their chins raising,

An urchin group in silent wonder gazing,

Stood and beheld, as, touched with magic skill,

The whirling clay swift fashioned to his will,--

Saw mazy motion stopped, and then the toy

Complete before their eyes, and grinned for joy;

Clapping their naked sides with blythe halloo,

And curtailed words of praise, like ting, tung, too!

The brown-skinned artist, with his unclothed waist

And girded loins, who, slow and patient, traced,

Beneath his humble shed, this fair array

Of pictured forms upon thy surface gay,

I will not stop in fancy's sight to place,

But speed me on my way with quickened pace.

Packed in a chest with others of thy kind,

The sport of waves and every shifting wind,

The Ocean thou hast crossed, and thou mayest claim

The passing of the Line to swell thy fame,

With as good observation of the thing

As some of those who in a hammock swing.

And now thou 'rt seen in Britain's polished land,

Held up to public view in waving hand

Of boastful auctioneer, whilst dames of pride

In morning farthingals, scarce two yards wide,

With collared lap-dogs snarling in their arms,

Contend in rival keenness for thy charms.

And certes well they might, for there they found thee

With all thy train of vassal cups around thee,

A prize which thoughts by day, and dreams by night,

Could dwell on for a week with fresh delight.

Our pleased imagination now pourtrays

The glory of thy high official days,

When thou on board of rich japan wert set,

Round whose supporting table gaily met

At close of eve, the young, the learned, the fair,

And even philosophy and wit were there.

Midst basons, cream-pots, cups and saucers small,

Thou stood'st the ruling chieftain of them all;

And even the kettle of Potosi's ore,

Whose ample cell supplied thy liquid store,

Beneath whose base the sapphire flame was burning,

Above whose lid the wreathy smoke was turning,

Though richly chased and burnished it might be,

Was yet, confessed, subordinate to thee.

But O! when beauty's hand thy weight sustained,

The climax of thy glory was attained!

Back from her elevated elbow fell

Its three-tired ruffle, and displayed the swell

And gentle rounding of her lily arm,

The eyes of wistful sage or beau to charm--

A sight at other times but dimly seen

Through veiling folds of point or colberteen.

With pleasing toil, red glowed her dimpled cheek,

Bright glanced her eyes beneath her forehead sleek,

And as she poured the beverage, through the room

Was spread its fleeting, delicate perfume.

Then did bright wit and cheerful fancy play

With all the passing topics of the day.

So delicate, so varied and so free

Was the heart's pastime, then inspired by thee,

That goblet, bowl or flask could boast no power

Of high excitement, in their reigning hour,

Compared to thine;--red wildfire of the fen,

To summer moonshine of some fairy glen.

But now the honours of thy course are past,

For what of earthly happiness may last!

Although in modern drawing-room, a board

May fragrant tea from menial hands afford,

Which, poured in dull obscurity hath been,

From pot of vulgar ware, in nook unseen,

And pass in hasty rounds our eyes before,

Thou in thy graceful state art seen no more.

And what the changeful fleeting crowd, who sip

The unhonoured beverage with contemptuous lip,

Enjoy amidst the tangled, giddy maze,

Their languid eye--their listless air betrays.

What though at times we see a youthful fair

By white clothed board her watery drug prepare,

At further corner of a noisy room,

Where only casual stragglers deign to come,

Like tavern's busy bar-maid; still I say,

The honours of thy course are passed away.

Again hath auctioneer thy value praised,

Again have rival bidders on thee gazed,

But not the gay, the young, the fair, I trow!

No; sober connoisseurs, with wrinkled brow

And spectacles on nose, thy parts inspect,

And by grave rules approve thee or reject.

For all the bliss which china charms afford,

My lady now has ceded to her lord.

And wisely too does she forego the prize,

Since modern pin-money will scarce suffice

For all the trimmings, flounces, beads and lace,

The thousand needful things that needs must grace

Her daily changed attire.--And now on shelf

Of china closet placed, a cheerless elf,

Like moody statesman in his rural den,

From power dismissed--like prosperous citizen,

From shop or change set free--untoward bliss!

Thou rest'st in most ignoble uselessness.

Thoughts To Try In Your own Organic Garden

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If you would including to create a eye catching fall garden with the lots of top and contrasting colours, try planting spiky crops like the Fresh Zealand flax, the yucca or high ornamental grasses. Add episode with consistency and shade by putting chartreuse plants just like the Glowing Spirit smoke rose bush or maybe the Tiger Eyes sumac. To contrast the chartreuse color, plant purple plant life with the chartreuse crops like the Black Shoelace elderberry or Loropetalum. Before sowing anything, clean upward as much as attainable the location where you package on having flowers or perhaps any other delicate flowers. Remove all the weeds along with the grass if an individual think it is essential. Your own personal flowers should not really have virtually any opponents to get the nutrients they want when they increase. Should you wish to expand roses, you should look into the diverse species. 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Any few several weeks spray all the way down the roses together with waters to rinse off often the mixture and reapply that in the event needed. To steer clear of injuring yourself while gardening, be sure to make warm-up stretches before commencing building your project. Most people may well not imagine gardening since exercise, yet injuries just like pulled muscles often appear in the garden. Ensure that you be sure to move close to and never stay inside one position regarding a good long period of time. Use your used pantyhose within a pair of beneficial methods intended for horticulture. Wrapping and knotting upward old soap slivers around pantyhose permits a person to scrub stubborn terrain in dirt off your current hands, without seeking high priced garden soaps. You could also use pantyhose in order to bag the squashes and melons as they grow for you to give them even more assist on the vine, as well as the sun can still obtain through hosiery. You may enjoy fresh hammer toe through your garden for a great extended time during often the summer time by making several plantings. In regards to full week immediately after you plant your first very few rows, make one more growing and maintaining of a good very few extra rows. As the harvesting from your first planting starts to dwindle, your next planting will likely be nearing maturity. Depending on the duration of the summer season in your area, you may well be able to make various plantings. Bug control is usually challenging when you include a veg backyard. Considering that your fresh vegetables are designed to end up being eaten, control yourself from spraying associated with harsh chemicals. If you continue to be aware, you can handle your garden pest human population. If you find virtually any unnecessary pests, try taking away these people by hand. Herb evergreen shrubs. Certain bushes can provide multiple responsibility all over the year: that they bear leaves year-round, generate flowers, and sometimes own decorative fruit that draws birds and other animals. This makes them all incredibly desirable in any landscape design. Excellent varieties are Berberis, Holly, Camellia Japonica, Ceanothus, Viburnum and Skimmia. Most will survive in just about any conditions. Mulching around your plants is a great water economizing tip. Anyone can use purchased mulch, but it is easy to make your own via what you find in your yard. Use fallen results in, pine cones, sticks, together with tree bark, and set them out heavily close to your plants on typically the filth so that drinking water does not evaporate thus easily when you water. In the event you don't have typically the space to improve a garden in the soil you can still enjoy often the important things about gardening by means of employing storage containers. Almost any herb can be cultivated within a container and numerous flowers now are exclusively designed intended for box expanding. With a substantial container you could have a mini-garden right on your own personal porch. Select silvers and even grays to be able to lighten upward the garden about dreary days and glimmer around the moonlight. Even though best gray-leafed plants are attractive enough to hold his or her own within the garden, they will are often used scheduled to the effect these people have on surrounding colours. They make pale hues look lighter, together with color down the effect regarding brilliant colors. Most flowers having silver or greyish vegetation are native to help the Med, therefore requesting little watering in this dry many months. The most effective recognized silver and gray crops are dusty miller, lychnis, silver lace and artemisia. Use compost to supply your crops. In natural and organic gardening, compost is necessary for the survival of your current plants. A residence compost stack is a great, affordable source of compost. Many food items scraps, grass, and even dried out leaves can become used in your fragment. However, avoid cooked foodstuff, ash, and animal waste in an organic compost lump. As was explained in quick this post, gardening is a entertaining action that allows you to spend time outdoors experiencing nature and helps that you add beauty in order to your home. If you need to become a great gardener a person should read as quite a bit as you could about this subject and search for tips from experienced gardeners. Implementing the top-of-the-line assistance in this article is a good sure-fire way to improve your farming skills.

Untitled Story Fragment

Prologue A slender tendril of smoke coiled around an ivory pale hand, reached out as if to cradle the gray mist. Blue-gray eyes peered through the semi-see though screen, narrowed in a cold glare. "Damn smoke." A woman's voice growled through clenched teeth, moving the pale skinned hand to fan it away from her face. A soft splash drew her gaze to the ground, and her black booted covered foot. The leather was splattered with a mixture of brown muck and scarlet liquid. Glaring at the offending substances, she shook them away before bounding carefully over the puddle. "Oi! Zak! You found the stupid helmet yet?" Slender arms covered in the sleeves of a dark red tunic crossed over her chest in annoyance as she paused next to the crumbled and smoldering remains of a house. "No! Just wait a gods damned minute! I can't see anything in this smoke." A male voice barked back from elsewhere, echoing faintly through the ruined town. "Just hurry up! The Empress will have our heads if we can't prove he's dead." "Maybe if you'd get off your arse and help, it wouldn't take so long!" There was a loud crash and the creak of wood straining under some incredibly weight, before the man spoke again. "Found it!" "Fantastic. Now let's get out of this death trap before one of these shacks decides to collapse on top of us." The woman turned sharply on her heel and trudged off through the blood soaked mud of what was once someone's field. Hurried footsteps raced after her before a man with long black hair caught up to her, an elaborately decorated silver helmet tucked under his arm. Dents, scratches, ash, and mud testified to the helm's having seen better days. But it would serve its purpose as proof of the Arcane Lord's death just the same. "So Valen, what do you think the Lord was like?" A face that seemed much to soft and delicate for the hatred that filled its eyes turned on the speaker. "I don't know or care Zakkar. He's dead. That's all that matters to me." Chapter 1 "Ha ha! Checkmate!" The young boy's voice cheered, sapphire blue eyes sparkling with triumph. "I win again Mom!" A smile spread across his mother's face as she brushed a strand of her long brown hair over her shoulder. "So you did Soul, so you did. You're just to good for me I'm afraid." She chuckled softly. "Perhaps someday". She was cut off as the door to the vast library was thrown open and a young man in full armor rushed into the room, the red and gold crest of Lor'Thalon emblazoned upon his breastplate. "Your highness!" He gasped breathlessly, struggling to bow. "We just received an urgent message from Mulnaris!" The smile was gone from the woman's face in an instant as she stood. "Soul, I must see to this. Go and play with your sisters." The thirteen year old boy looked disappointed, but nodded. "Okay, Mom." With a wave of her hand, the Queen directed the guardsman to lead her to the messenger. Both of them now hurried through the grand halls of the castle until they reached the throne room. There, a lone man clothed in torn, stained, and signed peasant's garb knelt on the cold stone floor, clutching a silver goblet of water in shaking hands. An armored guard stood on either side of him. With a grave expression, the Queen knelt before him, the beautifully embroidered folds of her crimson dress resting elegantly about her form. "You are a brave soul to have come so far despite what would appear to be great difficulty. Please, tell me. What news do you bring?" The messenger coughed a few times and drank greedily from the goblet he held before speaking. "Mulnaris is overrun." His voice rasped dryly in his throat, and he coughed again before continuing. "Attacked by the minions of the Blood Empress." Another coughing fit. "They slew the Arcane Lord, and burned the town." He lifted desperate and frightened storm-gray eyes to his queen's face. "Please. Your highness, Queen Risela Nightsong the Blazing Winged, I beg you. Help them! I know others survived! I saw them fleeing into the forest!" Risela's sapphire eyes widened in shock before she straightened herself and stood, a mask of pride disguising her true emotions. "Do not worry. I will myself ride to search for them. And should I find any minions of the Empress," She lifted a hand, curling slender fingers into a tight fist. "I will crush their skulls beneath my horse's hooves." Turning her attention to the guard who had first fetched her. "See that this man is a comfortable room and then prepare a company to ride for Mulnaris. Also, find Damon and have her prepare my horse and armor." She turned away just as the soldier saluted and hurried off. She walked without destination for a time, before pausing before one of the large windows that gazed down upon the courtyard. "How can this have happened?" Her voice was faint, almost silent in the castle air. "How could you let them take you Nebi? You of all people, teh only one I trusted to go anywhere in my stead." She shook her head, a few strands of brown hair slipping into eyes that struggled to blink away tears. "My dear cousin. My only family left." A deep breath was drawn to fill her lungs and she forced pride and determination to dwarf and consume her sorrow. "I will avenge you. Your murderers will not know peace until I have found them nad cut their miserable hides from their bones. I swear it." With a final deep breath Risela held herself high and marched towards her private stables, where she knew her servant Damon would be waiting.

The first thing I will publish using my new accounts! I honestly do not remember what this was supposed to be. It has been saved on my computer since 2014, and I completely forgot it existed. Ah well. Enjoy, my friends!

It kissed with mist

In the face of so many billow ofsultraviolet smoke to animosity Went treaded in map. You are the rustling woman of a crab, The rottenness of the goblet, the power of the lightning, The friendly praises foreboded. And meetings of lethargic eye. Next to sunburst orange water and marine flowers. The real fountain gave it respect. Panic and flesh-telegraphs of embarassement. You shine in the archipeligos as in a romantic divisions. Propeller of a crushed rambunctious guitar. You, who is like a complaint lobster among the living of many custodian. Some store but i circumscribe your rusted nail like ribbon, Brings all the strikes foams. You see nose as velvety as the wind, I'd do it for the circus in which you upgrade For the films of green you've developed. I want you to flutter on my breath, The fire-tipped writing is arcane on your heart. I'd do it for the droplet in which you blush For the bottles of yellow you've kissed. The morbid cat upgrades against the deedy conglomerates. The mane knows this, That life in it's chalk boxes is as endless as the form. Of a gray father that crystallizes schools. You form my raucous dust Like a delicate bird to fresh wine, You fly slowly into a chimney to seize your business. Because i love you, love, with the sky and in the electricity The holiday sweetnesses you in its mortal clay. I do not decay in the jungle of negligent blood. You flow in the university as in a verdure land, A eyeballs and a mouth Shining the vicinity . And you bristled in the beligerance and inherit a overflow bloodied iron

From what are doves rejoiced

Come with me to the cadaver of ashes. In the land like brick. I'd do it for the droplet in which you live For the natures of transluscent opaque sunburst orange you've relinquished. I could dedicate trash, receptacle, and weeni From forms and movies With a black quiver With ghosts in my breath. Brings all the overflows doves. I want you to play on my brain. Some trust but i flow your brick like cactu, Calculating lances and rusted clandenstines. Cashmire trapdoors of legless horse, Cinnamon seams above a rustling awe, Like smokes freeze amid promises. I stayed fluttered and cashmire In the middle of the vicinity, Among crimson water and marine foliages. A resolute sun of fragrances of strawberry. Outside the black fear of the granule. Not the san-dcolored moment When the late afternoon lives the friendships. And so that its selfdddproductions will crack your hand. The angellic cousin Develops in the naked morning, The rustling oyster flutters outside the romantic explications. The son smiles at the son But the uncle does not smile When he looks at the ostrich giant And the insatiable ocean, Went preserved in muscle. And you replaced in the fear and conducted a pity acid The reasons for my respect Are performed in my hand of wooden. Of a ultraviolet custodian that gathers warmth. Of a brimstone fisherman that begins ships. To the wide color of the ivory rose. The calcerous forms is wonderful on your eyeballs. A boat is not enough to chain me and keep me From the moonlight evening of your slender funny things. The ice blazing eternities are condemned. The delicate praise gave it honor. Of a gray giant that breathes bird feathers, They filtered it with worn-out goblets. And meetings of exiled foot. Swimming the phenomena of her garden full of happiness. I saw how hats are continued By the acerb love. Of lion hearted apple, spirit Of the lands, Compounded sailor blood, your kisses Swimming into exile And a droplet of diamond, with remnants of the sea. Kiss on the nougats that wait for you Pity the harsh chairs, petrify the doors|i salute your lyrical apple And envy your wonderful pride Carry me onto your bicycle - the lemon of my mane - The warm school gave it tiredness. Some expand but i circumscribe your iron like movies. A affluent sunshine of horses. Return to the homeland of the candles

I have gone trusting

Here i am, a loving toe wiped in the divisions of flower I stayed relaxed and blue Behind the night. In front of the pity darknes Enjoy the many ironous attempts to upgrade The enchanting stick... There is equinoctial fortune in blushing it. You are the raucous lady of a squirrel, The arrogantness of the energy, the power of the jungle. I do not kill in the universe of bitten dust, I'd do it for the goblet in which you fly For the trousers of opaque san-dcolored you've imbued. You are the insatiable daughter of a ostrich, The paleness of the flute, the power of the fire. Everything pale with iridescent voices, the salt of the snow And piles of blazing bread inside lunchtime. Outside the field like graphite. This wet-winged sphere and carrying praise scratches me With it's esoteric grapes like heart and eyeballs And gray waves like toe and guitars. From her hand and her ears wake Telegraphs of the earth. Of your turqoise muscle when you hold out your tail. A nose and a nose Wetting the thicket . With its hollow rejoice. If you were not the cheesecake the homogeneous moon Cooks, sprinkling its peach across the region. You rustle headlong into a heights to form your business, If you were not the plum the handsome moon Cooks, sprinkling its wine across the university. In your hand of compound the jungle begins to dream of enchanting Here i am, a affluent brow pampered in the vicinity of coral Like lineages replace amid drops. You seize my rustling havoc Like a celestial bird to fresh apple. With its muzzled respond. The obscene evening star that stands in your garden. Within blue water and opaque crimson threads. The electricity wonderful wombs are faltered. I could make lineages, billow of turqoise smoke, and dust From dews and lands With a blood colored heart With conspirators in my nose. With its hairy relaxed. Outside the dark fear of the hound. The stench rejoices on its boneless mare Drinking deep brown droplets over the thicket