albatross around your neck

chapter 2: in which everything comes to a grinding halt, and oh you are so fired

info post

So… uh, looks like somehow last night I must have turned off the replay feature? Can’t figure how I did it, but I guess Take Sixty Seven really is going to be the one that turns it all around.

And I’m sorry, about last night. I promise I really do have my reasons. I’m not as much of a wreck as it sounds, it’s just that- anniversaries, you know?

Anyway, I’m in a hell of a lot better shape than Ro is, so there.

That morning, he had actually skidded to a stop when he reached the bridge, boots catching on the tile and nearly pitching over the railing. The room was empty, except for the tall young woman with wide eyes and the small girl just barely visible in the chair at her side. As he had watched, the woman- Vah’nya, not Vee just yet- had tapped a key on the control panel. And the blast doors had sealed behind him.

The exterior shields slammed down outside the viewport and the emergency lights cast an ominous red glow about the room.

“Where the hell is everybody else?” he had asked, cautiously making his way over in the dim lighting.

Vah’nya had sighed heavily in response, distractedly flicking loose braids away from her face. “I sent them away.” She paused, looking sideways at the young girl. “Un’hee’s in trouble, and she doesn’t trust anyone except us and the admiral. We made a deal, that we’d seal the door after whichever of you got in first.”

Reaching the side of the chair, he had glanced down at Un’hee only to draw back in surprise- even though they were still in hyperspace, the child’s eyes were open and full of tears. She began to speak, and dropping to his knees, he still struggled to hear her.

“There’s too much,” she had sobbed. “I don’t- don’t know what to do.”

Behind him, Vah’nya spoke quietly. “There’s a disturbance out there. You saw it too. We can’t go past it without straining her, but we can’t break out without tearing the ship in half. Please just trust me when I say that whatever we do, we need to do it quickly.”

He had stood up, taken the child’s hand in his and placed the other on Vah’nya’s arm. “Okay. I believe you. Here’s what we’re going to do.”

One minute later, the three members of Team Don’t Break Everything (a joke, attempted to lighten the mood- it translated better into the Chiss sense of humor than he expected) were at their stations: Vah’nya was at the weapons console, Un’hee in the pilot’s seat, and he was manning thrusters, shields, and basically everything else.

On Un’hee’s count: a violent drop into realspace- a blistering salvo of laserfire in all directions- metal groaning as thrusters worked to arrest momentum-

And desperately, the two adults were back in front of the pilot’s chair, doing everything they could to shield its occupant from an impact as the sounds of debris striking the forward shields caused the deck to shake. Finally, the girl took an unsteady breath, and with a shaky smile whispered, “I think we made it.”

He had mumbled something, something like you were so brave and it wasn’t your fault, not one bit, don’t you even think it and of course you can have extra dessert tonight, pushing back the questions of what had just happened to the ship and putting on a brave face for them both. Sky-walkers, after all, were untouchable.

So naturally, it was just as they were starting to believe that everything would be fine that the admiral and the rest of the officers on watch got the doors open.

Admiral Ar’alani had stormed onto the deck, followed by the rest of the officers streaming through the doors like a dam had burst, and fixed him with an acid stare more painful than any of the impacts had been.

“WHAT in the depths of the Chaos where you THINKING?”

A quiet voice in his head had whispered no sudden movements, and slowly he had begun to stand. Suddenly, Un’hee had thrown her arms around his neck, and on instinct he shifted to support her weight, lifting her out of the chair. At his side, Vah’nya had risen, standing at a civilian approximation of attention and glancing down to meet his eyes as he straightened up.

At the sight of the two navigators, the admiral’s glare had softened, just slightly. He thought he noticed a hint of regret- he’d been startled, at first, with the care which Ar’alani had taken to comfort Un’hee, but now that he was paying attention, he noticed that no officer was spoken of more highly by the navigators than her. Perhaps it was her support that had allowed Vah’nya and her abilities to flourish.

She waved them closer, the pilot moving in to take position as they got out of the way. Ar’alani glanced at each of them for a few seconds, with a warning look directed at Vah’nya as she tried to get the first word in. She prepared to speak-

And then suddenly stopped, as the viewport shields receded, light illuminating her face. Un’hee, gazing away with her head resting on his shoulder, gasped. For a moment, the entire bridge was still.

Ar’alani broke the silence, with a few curt orders to the weapons officers. She then turned to Vah’nya: “Navigators, you will return to your quarters. I will speak with you about what happened at a later time.”

Vah’nya moved to take Un’hee, who was clearly reluctant to let go, especially given whatever it was she had seen, but too exhausted to resist. Shields, he thought distractedly, remembering the positions they’d taken up to protect her in the crash. Were you trying to protect me?

Vah’nya spared a quick glance on her way out the doors, giving him what he guessed was meant to be a reassuring smile. It dropped away from her face, and her eyes widened at whatever she saw behind him.

Puzzled, he turned to look and saw…

Nothing. No warships, no planets, no distant stars… just the cold and the dark.

The cold?

And as his mind resolved the fact that his commanding officer was currently covering his eyes with her hand, she leaned in closer and spoke quietly.

“You have done well, Lieutenant Commander Eli’van’to. But there is a task at hand, and you are the only one able to complete it. I must ask that you give me your trust.”

Look who has returned home; it’s ROMAN BLOODY TULACH, a 47 year old Captain on The Black Trident. He has been described as enrapturing and machiavellian. He has been tasked with watching over Lola Gutierrez.

//**ROMAN IS HERE AND HE IS AMAZING I AM SO EXCITED

the basics about this truly twisted man: his full name is roman alastair tulach, he is 47 years old, a pansexual and panromantic casanova often with incredibly sinister intent hidden beneath a near-irresistible charming smile and a mischievous twinkle in his eyes that brings forth immense fascination from those fortunate (and others unfortunate) enough for the pirate to grace them with his presence.

truly a man who needs no introduction, roman tulach started his career to become a marauding legend as a young man. he spent the next decades using such smart tactics and wisdom that one could suspect that he had meticulously wicked plans before he even considered the opportunity of piracy.

now, his name is infamously known across every single country, ocean and sea that his influence can reach; while he is best known both his ship and his own actions, most agree that his greatest accomplishment was establishing his dominion over the waters of the world. it wasn’t long before stories spread, those who had grown to fear him as inhuman painting him as poseidon incarnate. he is the monster parents tell their children of before bedtime, a deadly threat each day for those who work on the docks across europe, and, with what seemed like delight, roman learned he is bizarrely thought to be the real-life version of the boogeyman to some. even for those who prefer to stay on land, an icy chill can run down the spine upon hearing his name uttered aloud. the horror stories shared about his merciless behaviour have often served as campfire tales for people looking for a scare, and conversely as a conversation piece for roman, finding himself recounting the tales with a smugness to his words. 

while it is clear now that he is a man who would laugh in the face of death, his life had not always been one of such... grand schemes, or one of luxury. with parents who had never been... all that attentive or loving toward their son, nor toward his siblings, they had grown up in poor conditions with little money to get by and hardly enough food to fill all hungry bellies.

having grown up in ireland at the time, as he became older and more aware of the world surrounding him, roman started to notice things that others might have simply accepted. while he and his family lived in squalor, the monarchy of ireland, the monarchies of all the countries he had learned of, lived extremely expensive lives without care for their people who had been born poor, lived poor and died poor. he began to see through the veil of flowery words that monarchs spoke in an effort to bring hope to the lowest of the lower classes, and soon developed an extreme distaste for the concept of an absolute monarchy altogether. the idea that the capability to run a country was somehow found in the veins of people who grew up never truly understanding the kingdom they would eventually rule over was abhorrent to him, and as conditions only seemed to worsen, roman, at the young age of fourteen, decided it was time take matters into his own hands.

turning to petty crimes in his early teens, he began to steal. first, what his family needed to survive. which then became what his family wanted. and finally, he found himself taking whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. but his reputation had begun to reach the ears of law enforcement and he knew that if he continued to stay, he would face jail time for his newfound hobby. pirate ships frequented the docks near his home city, cork, and roman knew that all too well when he made the decision to gather his belongs and head down there. after some bargaining and bribing he was allowed aboard one of those vessels, the furies’ retribution as a cabin boy. and it was on the ship that roman tulach began his career as a fully-fledged pirate.

he very quickly learned what life on a pirate ship was truly like, but unlike others who might have had second thoughts once they landed and began to raid seaside towns, roman never gave a hint of emotion, either positive or negative, toward their violet thefts. he would later recall that he felt a certain rush and thrill during his first raids with the crew. though the youngest member aboard the ship, he soon became the person to test the limits of such crimes and it became eerily clear that roman had come to enjoy these acts. soon he became quite adept in the crows nest, high atop the mast of the ship, using spyglasses and digital cameras with extensive zoom lens to find vulnerable places to pillage. from there, he taught himself how to pick out which houses would be stocked with more expensive items in order to increase the crew’s gains. this, and the fact that he never seemed to back down from a fight led to roman becoming an extremely valuable member aboard the ship. from then on, the crew experienced extremely good fortune, each person received more than enough money to satisfy their needs in life and then some. an undeniable high point in his life, roman still had yet to reach the greatness and infamy he has since now earned.

and while the curious tale of the pirate himself is compelling on it’s own due to either recounts becoming so warped that they no longer resembled the true events he experienced, and also thanks to roman himself, who likes to embellish when he does talk of his younger times as a pirate.

the origins of his ship, the dreaded black trident however, is undoubtedly the most notorious story told about roman tulach and his crew. some saw that it was a ghost ship and roman had unlocked the secret to evaded Death himself. others suspected him of having sold his soul to the devil for untold fortune and fame, and even more still suspect that he is in fact Death, sailing across the ocean to guide the souls of the dead toward the afterlife-- or in some cases, Hell.

however, a recount of the story with roots in reality begins as follows: the notorious gang of pirates that had sailed aboard the furies’ retribution drifted into the harbour of a northern portuguese harbour with wounded aboard and the ship itself nearly torn to pieces-- whispers travelled around that it was the aftermath of a sea battle with a royal naval ship. attempts were made to repair the furies’ retribution, but due to the enormous damage it had sustained, it was a miracle that it was still floating. not only that, but the crew had lost their captain to the gun fire during the skirmish. now without a leader or a ship, the pirates had accepted the loss as a sign to give up, turning to petty crimes to fund their lives, and left the crew for good. but roman seemed not at all worried for his future, and it was clear that the man had much more ambitious plans than just picking pockets to get by.

after a night of heavy drinking those who still remained of the once ruthless crew awoke much later usual and headed to the docks in search of friendly allies or mercenaries that might be willing to hire the rag-tag team. to their surprise, they found roman on the docks and their ruined ship gone. the young man was aiding in loading supplies onto a very distinguished looking and very new ship. when one asked, a worker mentioned that the furies’ retribution had caught on fight during the night, causing it to sink in the middle of the small calm harbour. and as for the ship they had been filling, they called it os fogos da justiça; or the fires of justice, a ship that had been constructed some few months earlier, rumoured to be the request of the portuguese king. if truly commissioned by him, it was meant to deliver supplies to his private island in the warm waters of the mediterranean sea. while some of the group were not exactly the sharpest crayons in the box, they still had questions-- positively baffled that roman tulach, clearly a dedicated pirate and an outspoken anti-monarchist, seemed to be helping workers with labour that would only serve to help a royal, rather than taking those much sought after and valuable supplies for himself. something was very clearly off about the situation, but they could not yet see roman’s intentions for what they truly were.

what had seemed to be an act of from the depths of a good heart turned into a living nightmare when the last crate was placed aboard. it happened rather suddenly. without warning, roman pulled a knife and slit the throat of one of the workers as he descended down the ramp off of the ship; he didn’t even have the chance to scream. he did not flinch as screams began to ring out and the pirates, who had seen roman’s quick wit and critical thinking while working together, realised that roman had never helping these people at all-- he had been preparing to steal this onyx giant for himself. along with that knowledge, they knew that to follow him was a wise decision, and that this ship was a way out of life upon only land. springing into action, they began to climb aboard their newly claimed property, cutting down any and all that attempted to stop them.

what they left behind was nothing short of a bloodbath, the docks stained with the blood of many who had attempted to be noble and prevent the theft. some tales which break into the fantastic claim that the stained blood can still be seen today on that very same pier, growing from a brown colour to a much brighter red upon the anniversary of the killings.

breaking in their new ship, the pirates boldly raided a small gathering of houses just ten miles away from the harbour, and while in the past they had let those they had stolen from live, this time there were no survivors. the last man alive, one who had hidden while the pirates had collected everything of value from the houses was eventually found and brought onto the deck of the new ship, face to face with the newly instated captain: roman tulach. deciding he wanted to play a little game with the survivor, he asked the man how badly he wanted to live. but in reply, the man did not beg or plead. instead, he said, with overwhelming calmness: “our king will hunt you down. you will hang for your crimes.” again, roman asked the question-- but again, received the same response.

anger overtook the pirate, and instead of simply killing the man with a gun, or a knife, roman paced up and down the deck, trying to counter what the man kept repeat. and then his eyes fell upon the bow of the ship, where a decorative sculpture of poseidon held a trident made of a black metal. while it had only been meant as piece of art, in sliding it out of the grasp of the god he realised that the ‘art’ was exceedingly sharp. a crooked grin painted roman tulach’s face as he turned back toward the man, hopping back down and marching forward before roughly plunging the trident into his chest, killing him almost instantly. the man’s body was tossed overboard, but instead of replacing the trident to it’s original space, roman weighed it in his hands and knew that this ship would not be know as the fires of justice. it is unclear what exactly prompted roman to take the trident from it’s statue, nor why it could be removed in the first place. what was most important, though, was that from then and forevermore, roman tulach captained the black trident. a ship that he allegedly vowed would forever be a black stain on the history of monarchs who had attempted to snuff out piracy from the world.

what followed the maiden voyage of the black trident around europe were some of the most brutal pillaging, killings and destructive instances in recent history-- and the mastermind behind each and every scheme was the man himself, already having become part of some countries’ folklore, roman tulach. he has committed some of the most heinous crimes imaginable, all for the sake of his ultimate goal: true freedom. however, no one truly knows what that means for the captain, as he often delights in social manipulation, and toying with the minds of others.

while there is clearly a volatile part to his psyche, roman tulach is also known to be quite the womanizer-- though he also shares the company of men and others in just the same way as with women. a result of some of these love affairs left roman with children. isabella, born to luciana masters and miles, dylan and emerson tulach, born to monique d’alessio. no one knows truly to what extent he is capable of loving his children to the public-- and the next logical question is whether or not those who mothered his children were ever shown love either. of course, only fuelling the rumour that he was inhuman, roman never spoke enough on emotions toward his family or lovers. his private life was precisely that: private. at the very least, he had enough trust in his children to assign them ships, and areas of the world to take in the tulach name. two other family members, his brother and an extended family member were also given the privilege of captain ships to maintain his grasp on the world of piracy. once they gained control over the majority of the world’s oceanic territory, it was thought that roman would stop there, having proved that a man with nothing could grow up to be their own king. and rule over the oceans and seas he did-- until a new law was passed. one that targeted pirates. specifically tulach pirates.

roman was known to have fits of rage in times of extreme danger-- when his former lover was hanged and he learned that belle had been with her, the man’s fury nearly took the life of a allied pirate, roman being so blinded by rage at the potential loss of his eldest child that he began strangling the man closest to him at the time he discovered the news. however, when this law was passed, a law that called for the execution of all tulachs and the pirates affiliated with them upon arrest, the self proclaimed pirate king fell dangerously silent, and immediately demanded that those who were accompanying him in his office leave his presence at once. the legacy and family that the man had built over two decades was being threatened, and challenged.

it was that very same day roman tulach took the early steps of thought into his grand retaliation plot. after a week of deep and rarely uninterrupted thought, he gathered his six lieutenants for another full week on his island to devise the perfect revenge, a way to hold advantageous influence over monarchs all over the world, and guarantee that the headhunt for the tulachs would cease, all in total secrecy.

needless to say, he has been very pleased with the results his plan has yielded.

a few personality traits that describe roman: enrapturing, machiavellian, resourceful, ambitious, manipulative, perceptive, calculating, meticulous, laodicean, phlegmatic, highbrowed, bittersweet, draconian, frightening, destructive, wicked, domineering, deceptive, charismatic, silver-tongued, persuasive, learned, vulpine, scholarly, intellectual.

possible connections: EVERYTHING PLEASE, GIVE ME ALL SORTS OF CONNECTIONS FOR MY EVIL MAN I LOVE HIM.

how would the ROs react if MC showed up at their bedroom door in the middle of the night hugging a pillow and looking for comfort after a nasty nightmare? bonus if MC's normally tough and doesn't scare easily ❤️ please bless us with some fluff 💕

Nightmares you say? 👀

(tw for brief blood and death because this got away from me and turned into drabbles. Written in the who-will-admit-to-the-feelings-first stage, and as if everyone’s uhhh staying at the same inn? Sleepover at The Lucky Albatross for [insert reason here]? haha. And thank you both for the ask! ❤️This really helped me kickstart my writing again after hitting a bit of a block 💖💖)

Sweat clings to your forehead as your eyes snap open, clammy cold jittering from the base of your skull and slamming down between your shoulder blades. Pressing your eyes closed again, you narrow your consciousness to your breaths, mind solely focused on the rising of your chest. 

In. Out.

Blood gurgling from swollen lips, a hand clutching at dirt with a shiver. They look to you, pleading, wanting, no strength left to form the words you know would be their last.

In.

You stare helplessly as they collapse into the red already soaking into the ground, finally succumbing to the wound that’s pierced through their ribs.

You watch their body deflate in an exhale before stillness takes over.

Out.

Back in your bed, your fingers grip at the sheets around you in frustration and you sit up with a scoff. 

No paradise and verdant fields tonight it seems, only nightmares. And in a cruel twist of fate of course, nightmares about someone who’s taken up more of your thoughts than you’re comfortable admitting.

You know you’re all safe. Your magic is strong enough to reach out and feel the comforting (comforting?) presence of all the people you expect in the rooms around you. 

But you’re already up, securing the glamor, watching your mortalis form take shape.

You need to know for sure. Need to know that this isn’t some cruel illusion. Need to know their heart still beats, can beat, will beat in time with yours.

You find yourself...

---

The Healer:

...at the Healer’s door, hand hovering over the wood before you let your knuckles fall against it with a faint knock. There’s no response at first, and you curse under your breath for this moment of weakness, before you hear shuffling on the other side. 

It goes quiet, and despite your self-chastising, you find your hand has already knocked again. Another magic reaches out cautiously before you can feel their guard drop, the door opening soon after. 

Guilt flickers in your thoughts when you see them, golden eyes darkened with sleep above the disheveled open neckline of their nightshirt, warmth radiating from their exposed skin. They blink a few times before they fully come to terms with the fact that it’s you standing in front of them, the realization apparent when their eyes widen with clarity.

“I had a nightmare,” you explain, the words spilling out into the silence. “You...you died.”

The statement takes a few more seconds than usual for them to process, before their eyes soften and they step to the side to invite you into their room. The smell of cedarwood grazes against you as you pass, and you have to resist the urge to turn towards the source along their bare neck.

Once the Healer pinches fire alight on a couple candles, they ease you over to a chair near their bed.

“Ah- wherever you want to sit.” They murmur, voice laced with sleep. “I know the inn’s chairs aren’t exactly built for comfort.” They scratch at the back of their head and stay standing. 

Watching their reaction for a moment, you decide to sit at the foot of the bed, where the covers are only mildly disturbed.  The mattress sinks under your weight as you leave your legs hanging over the side, the balls of your feet pressed into the floor. Soon after making sure you seem settled enough, the Healer makes to sit in the chair instead. 

But your body reacts first, reaching out without thinking to grab at their wrist, to stop them from moving farther away. To be able to feel them, tangible and real.

They swing their face to you when your hands connect, and you know they’ve felt the shiver run through your fingers. Whether from the lingering sight of their blood staining the ground, or from the static in the touch between you, you’re not sure. 

Judging from the worry lining their brow, you’d guess they’re reading the former.

Within the space of a few seconds, their arms are around you with a hand firmly planted at the back of your neck, enveloping you in an embrace.

“I’m here,” says the voice in your ear, the vibration in their chest grounding you through their body. 

It’s only then that you can feel what they’ve seen, your body shaking and swaying in the terror that crept into your limbs.

Fabric twists between your knuckles as you clutch at their back and bury your face into the crook of their neck while they squeeze tighter. The warm earthy scents from before fill your senses completely.

“I’m here.”

---

The Magesmith:

...at the Magesmith’s door, but you can’t quite bring yourself to knock. There’s a faint light trickling out from the loose parts of the door’s frame, and you can tell that they’re still awake. That should be enough, you can feel their magic through the door, clearly alive, clearly still there. It should be enough.

But it’s not.

You register the sound of the knock before you realize that you’re responsible for the echo in the hall, followed by the realization that it’s too late to retreat as the Magesmith opens the door. 

With their headband discarded and the glowing light of the hearth’s fire, their dark auburn hair falls against their face in a gentle, haloed wave.

“You-” they start with a cocked eyebrow, before seeing the sheen of sweat across your forehead. “What are you doing here? What’s going on?” 

You stare at them for another moment, reassuring your senses that it is in fact them. No illusion, just them in all their slightly sour-faced glory.

“Nightmare,” you respond softly, the Magesmith leaning in just a hair to hear you.

“Nightmare?” 

The question comes across more tenderly than you would have expected from them, a sudden shift from the previous questions. It’s the first time the two of you have been alone in a long while, and the sudden awareness of this leads your gaze over their barely parted lips and across their sleeveless arms, the various smithing burns and scars writing shimmering stories over their skin. 

“I, uh...” You sigh. “Nevermind, it’s fine,” you finally spit out, turning towards your room again.

“No, wait, please-” The Magesmith reaches for you but pulls their hand back at the last second. They smother the desperation in their voice and instead try to read your features for an answer to the questions they don’t want to admit they’re thinking. 

Why me? Why did you come to me?

You watch them swallow the thoughts, lips pressed together as they look away.

“You...” Deep brown eyes snap back to your face at the sound of your voice, waiting for you to form the words. “You died. I watched you die and I wanted...I don’t know what I wanted. To see if you were alright?” You cringe at the words as they flow out and turn from the Magesmith’s scrutiny again.

Though you’re looking at the floor, you see them bring their hand to scratch idly above their prosthetic arm.

“Did I at least put up a fight?”

Jerking your head up in disbelief, you level them with a stare only to be met with genuine interest, and the faintest smile tugging at the corner of their mouth. In the odd situation, you can’t help but let out a short, crisp laugh.

“You can come in, if you want,” they whisper tentatively, as you feel the unease evaporating off of you. “Waiting for the fire to die down anyway.”

It takes you a moment to respond, the silhouette of flames dancing between you and them. 

“I’d like that.”

---

The Sage:

...at the Sage’s door, clenching and unclenching your fists as you still try to shake off the residual images ingrained into your vision. Eventually you steel your nerves to knock, the sound as loud as thunder along the still hallway.

You hear a quiet hum on the other side of the door, followed by a soft “Just a minute,” and what you can assume is the Sage stumbling from the comfort of their bed to greet you.

This was stupid, that’s plenty of confirmation, you shouldn’t- but they’re already at the door, easing it open while gently rubbing a knuckle into the corner of their eye.

Worry shapes their face almost instantly when they register that it’s you, and they immediately survey the hall for a sign of any dangers. Content that there isn’t anything threatening your safety, they turn their entire focus back.

“Are you alright?” Their hand twitches as if it wants to reach out to you but they restrain themself. Looking into their eyes, the flecks of topaz in hazel are brilliant even in the dim night lighting, and you force yourself to rein in your staring before you fall in further.

“Just...just a nightmare,” you eventually respond, matching their hushed tones. You can feel them exploring your features, unsure of what to do. 

They decide though, as you feel fingertips barely float above your shoulder, before their hand commits to giving you a light squeeze.

“Please come in?” they ask, easily reading what you’re hoping for. You nod and follow them inside.

With ease, they charge the crystal lantern into a faint golden glow, and let the fire curl off their fingers as the spell politely moves around you to swirl into the hearth. A healthy fire builds in the small fireplace and they take a seat down at the bench in front of it, offering the space next to them. Gladly, you take it, pressing your palms into the edge of the wood while watching the flames grow.

They’re happy enough sitting in silence, turning from the fire to you and then back. But it drags on longer than intended and you give a small sigh.

“It was you. I watched you die, and I couldn’t do anything.” 

You hear the sharp intake of breath from beside you, and know that their eyes are focused on you now. You wring your hands together, still trying to shake off the icy grip of the hellscape you awoke from.

Carefully,  gingerly, their hands come into view as they surround yours with theirs, the cold of your fingers sending small goosebumps racing up their arm. But they hold fast, letting the warmth of a small muted spell ease into your skin. Their palms glow as they run their hands over your wrists and your fingers, the heat reeling you fully into the present.

The motion continues, and you can feel the strain melting off as the heat inches up your arm. Sensing you relax, if only just slightly, they smile.

“Better?”

“Better.”

They keep a hold of your hands even when the spell ends.

---

Oisein:

...at Oisein’s door, and you barely rap your knuckles against the wood before it’s already open, lavender mortalis irises staring at you with concern. In the haze of your fervor to find them you missed that their magic was already reaching out to you, because of course it was, reading your nerves and your fear.

They give a tentative half smile. “I’d say you’re going to cause a scandal sneaking around like this, but...” They stop, deciding whether or not to gauge you again before you feel their pathos magic retreat. “You okay?”

“I had a nightmare,” you say, avoiding their gaze. 

“What, really?” Some of the tension disappears from their face and they sigh with relief, a teasing smirk on their lips. “Well I can't complain if it sent you running to me for a late-night rendezvous-”

“I watched you die,” you interrupt, and their smirk shatters when they see you shudder. “I had to make sure-”

Their hand is already wrapped around your forearm, trying to move their face back into your sight. “Hey, no wait, I’m sorry- hey-” they start, and when you still won’t meet their eyes, they move their hands to gently cup your cheeks, guiding your face back up. 

"No nightmare can get rid of me that easy, yeah?Sorry 'bout your luck, but you're still stuck with me," they whisper, a quiet chuckle following close behind.

Their face holds a smile, until you both realize you’ve drawn closer together. Their palms surge warmth through either side of your face, fingers lightly traced over the cool soft skin beneath your ears. There’s a flicker in their eyes down to your lips, and they try to nonchalantly draw their hands away from you, coughing in embarrassment and hiding behind the golden hair falling over their face.

Spreading their lithe fingers against their room door, they open it wider.

“Want to stay for a little? I’ll behave, really,” they offer without a single shred of their usual sarcasm.

You nod and walk in past them, and they tentatively place a hand on the small of your back as they close the door, walking you over to sit at the corner table. 

As you lower into the chair, their hand ghosts up over your shoulder and down your arm, trying to maintain contact while they sit opposite to you. They let their fingers hold yours, thumb smoothing over your knuckles.

With an exhale through their nose, they look from your hands up to your eyes with almost a tinge of defiance.

“I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

You believe them.

the first time crowley makes aziraphale laugh, he sort of, well. startles it out of him, crowley thinks. like aziraphale weren’t quite sure how to do it properly before they were doing it together, and that’s a real shame, because aziraphale’s got one of those faces that’s a bit prone to be laughing, one of those mouths that fits so neatly around a smile with the lips and the teeth and the lines that form in his cheeks. 

crowley doesn’t remember a whole lot about laughter, doesn’t remember whether he learned it in heaven or in hell, and it’s not until much, much later that he wonders whether he learned it right there with aziraphale, at exactly the same time. 

he likes laughing. he likes smiling, actually, which he knows is not exactly cool and never has been. he likes sarcastic little jokes and pranks and tricks and quips - which came first, the joke or the laughter. he likes wit and he likes satire and he likes banter and he likes parodies, farces and gags and hoodwinks and mischief.

but best of all, he likes laughing. he likes laughing with aziraphale. 

some centuries are better than others, for laughs. some centuries it seems like aziraphale is full up of it, like he’s spilling over with it, frothy sea-foam chuckles and wine-slowed giggles. like he looks at crowley and something in him just opens, and he can’t help himself. 

some centuries aziraphale doesn’t laugh at all, though, and the years drag on and on. 

he doesn’t laugh much in the years that they follow around little warlock dowling. oh, he chortles and he guffaws, but it’s all part of the act aziraphale is wearing around his neck like an albatross. his eyes don’t glitter and his belly doesn’t move, and crowley never thought he’d be the one to be teaching a child how to find joy in the world. “he won’t turn out for your side if you don’t get yourself sorted,” he hisses at aziraphale. “i’m teaching him about laughing while he trods on slugs and ruins cook’s best desserts before dinner. you need to step up your game.”

“i know,” aziraphale says, weary, watching warlock as he picks aziraphale’s tulips and giggles, brandishing the flower in their direction. “i know.”

some days it’s okay. aziraphale shows warlock a few of his magic tricks, inserts a few gavottes into a sunny afternoon, and aziraphale smiles like he means it, but most days, it’s just crowley, trying desperately not to turn the antichrist into, well. the antichrist. 

the days leading up to the apocalypse are the worst. aziraphale doesn’t laugh - he barely smiles. he puts on a paper-thin show with his magic tricks and hates himself when he’s done. he smiles the worst smile - the fake one - and laughs the worst laugh - the anxious one - and crowley wants to bundle him right up and take him off to alpha centauri where he can zing oscar wilde’s best one-liners into the atmosphere until aziraphale learns to do it properly again.

afterwards, there’s nothing but silence in the hollows of crowley’s flat. 

“we’re going to die, aren’t we,” aziraphale says. 

“well, erm,” crowley says, “yes. probably.” 

“you know, i’m a bit relieved. it’ll all be done with, finally. the pretending. the fear.”

crowley looks at him, really looks at him. he’s exhausted, and crowley hates it. there are no laugh lines in his face, no ready suggestion of a smile, and crowley hates that more. “bollocks,” he says. “we can’t stop now. we’ve come this far, haven’t we? we’re so close, angel. one last sprint ahead of us and we’ll be clear of all this, you can’t give up now.”

“i’m tired of running away from them,” aziraphale says. 

“so stop running away from them. run straight at them. barrel them over, knock ‘em down like nine-pins.”

aziraphale doesn’t smile, but his eyes change, just a little, like he’s remembering about smiling. “how do you suppose we could do that?” 

crowley knows his face so well. he knows how aziraphale wears it, how he holds it. he knows how aziraphale shines out of it. he thinks aziraphale probably knows his face just the same. “i think i’ve got an idea.” 

he’s not sure that it’ll work. even as he’s walking back out of heaven’s doors, he’s not sure that it has worked. even as he’s walking back across london, he’s not sure.

then there’s aziraphale, wearing crowley’s face, scowling as he walks back. he sits next to crowley on the bench and holds out his hand.

and aziraphale looks at him, and he laughs. 

he laughs, and he laughs loud and big and strong, his mouth open and his cheeks flushed. he laughs all the way down into his chest, and yes, crowley knows what what would feel like now, in that chest. he knows what that feels like in that throat, in that voicebox, on that tongue. 

it feels like freedom, and it feels, all of a sudden, like the very first time: standing on the gates of eden, having a laugh. simple. easy. 

it feels like finding something, and being found in return. 

“can i tempt you to lunch?” he asks, in a silly voice, hoping to tempt aziraphale into laughing again.

aziraphale does, bright and quick. “temptation accomplished.”

Monument Woman

Pairing: Marcus Pike x OC (Rosemary Carter)

Warnings: Talk of death and illness

A/N: I’ll be on vacation this week, but I’m hoping to post weekly - Thursdays as reblogs of the previous chapter, Fridays around 6pm EST new chapters, and Saturdays as next day reblogs.  And then posting when ever I so choose for one shots and drabbles.

Reminder: I ain’t ever seen Pedro Pascal in FUCK ALL, I’m just coming up with this as I go along, using imdb.com, wiki, and 84,000 tabs I got open to plan out this shit.  I also write soft versions of his characters so if you’re craving asshole vibes, I ain’t got any but my own to offer.

Tag List:

@zeldasayer​ , @beskars​ , @coolmaybelateruniverse​ , @the-feckless-wonder​ , @pascalisthepunkest​ , @mandoandyodito​ , @randomness501​ , @fioccodineveautunnale​  , @ahopelessromanticwritersworld​ , @lilkermit14​ , @tortles [please message me to be added or subtracted]

Part 3 – The Clock is the Enemy

“What a beautiful day, Rosie.”  Robert’s smile was small, but evident. He laid back in the patio chair with a blanket around his shoulders.  The normally oppressive summer heat of August had been milder this year, but Robert was always cold now.  His shoulders hunched over under the heavy cotton fabric, as if the weight of the world were on them.

She looked over at him from inside the kitchen and smiled, glad that he was feeling more energetic today then he had been the last couple of weeks. She had taken him to the doctor this morning and the news was grim – mere weeks were probably left for Robert and her heart clenched as she realized she had to watch yet another person she loved slowly die in front of her.  Tears sprung in her eyes and she quickly looked away so he couldn’t see them.

She stood at the stove waiting for the coffee to finish, her hands tapping the side of the brightly decorated mug in front of her.  Since his confession months ago about his diagnosis, she spent as much time with him as she could, helping him as he got his affairs in order.  Last week, she moved in with him as his health took a turn for the worse and he struggled to care for himself.  He felt as if he should have told her no, but he was so grateful for her, he remained quiet on the subject.

When the foam had dissipated, she poured in the cognac and topped it off with a lemon slice – just the way Robert always took his coffee at home. She carried it out on to the porch and sat next to him.  He sipped the hot liquid and smiled.

“You know, my mother drank her coffee like this, too.”  He nodded at Rosemary’s inquisitive look.  He never talked about his family or his existence before Saugatuck, claiming his life here along the coast of Lake Michigan had enough memories to explore for a lifetime.

“I never heard of anyone drinking their coffee like that before I met you.”

“You don’t know a lot of Ukrainians, then.”  He smiled.  “She drank it with more cognac than is probably recommended, but she needed the pep in her step as she headed off to work.”

“What did she do?”

“She taught home ec at a local high school.”  He grinned as Rosemary started to laugh.

“Did she include the coffee recipe in her class?”

“No, but it would have probably helped!”

The two laughed again and soon it petered out to a comfortable silence. The trees waved slightly in the breeze and they could hear the kids down the road shouting and laughing.  The day was perfect and they both soaked it up knowing that these were numbered.

---***---

“Marcus!  I’m so glad you called!”  Hetty Pike’s smile was evident in her tone as she heard her only son’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Hi, mom.”  He couldn’t help but grin every time he talked to his mother.  She was a bubbly woman who talked with her hands a lot. When he was a kid, she always held his face in her hands and told him that she loved him, her head shaking as if to reiterate what she said.  When he’d protested the action as a teenager, she told him she’d never stop because it was her duty to know he was always loved.  “Is dad around?”

“Abe!  Abe! Pick up!  Marcus is on the phone!”  He could hear her voice clearly even as she pulled away to call out to her husband.  Pike rolled his eyes with a small smile as he heard his father’s booming voice come over the line, drowning out his much softer mother, who said her good-byes while the two men talked.

“Son!  It’s been ages!  How goes the art thieving?”

“Not bad, dad.  I’m calling because I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

For the next hour, they chatted as Marcus sought out his dad’s advice on various aspects of the reopened cases.  The senior Pike had been an electrician before he retired and often provided advice to the agent on cases where he could, often becoming a sounding board as his son worked verbally through the case.

After walking through a few scenarios, Hetty got back on the line and the three talked about this and that for a while longer before Pike said his good-byes with promises to call more often and to try and come out for his sister’s 40th birthday party next month.

The energy of the phone call dissipated into nothing as Pike stood in his kitchen, the quiet house a stark contrast to the liveliness he grew up with. He became lost in thought as memories flitted through his brain – happy memories of his parents who were so deeply in love, every day was a chance to prove it to the other; of his sisters and him getting into numerous shenanigans that left them breathless with laughter; of his blue-collar father being proud of his son’s artistic talent and happily attending his shows.

Pike let himself smile a bit before pushing himself off the counter, pocketing his phone as he wandered down the hall into his studio.  He bought the small two-bedroom house in the outskirts of D.C. because its large windows let in tons of natural light, allowing him to set up an in-home studio to indulge his artistic appetite in.

Art had always been Marcus’ passion and something he had been good at since he was quite young.  He was proud that he could parlay that passion into a career.  He didn’t do anything professionally, instead choosing to let his talent serve as a distraction from the stress of real life. As he sat in front of the blank canvas, his hands rested in his lap, fiddling with the pencil.

By this time, his brain was creating a mash up of his memories and Carmichael’s words from some months ago.  He hadn’t been on a date since the last time he was stood up, but no matter how much he hardened his heart, he still yearned for someone to love, the kind that his parents had.  The kind he thought he had with his first wife, then Lisbon, then Eleanor and Carrie and Sumata.

It seems the only place he could express his heart freely and without pain was on the canvas.  He shook his head as he turned on his playlist and let himself get lost in the one place that he could be himself with no judgement.

---***---

Several Days Later

“Helen?”  The director looked up from her desk and looked startled at the pale woman standing in front of her.  She immediately rose and skirted the desk to take Rosemary in her arms, giving her a warm hug.  She felt the younger woman’s arms snake around her waist, and she continued to hold her as sudden sobs wracked the body pressed against her own.  They stood like that for many long minutes before Rosemary pulled away and wiped her eyes on the back of her hand.

The two women sat down in the office chairs and Helen took Rosemary’s hand again, noticing the slight tremors she failed to feel before.  She squeezed slightly and waited.

“Helen, I need to take some time off.  Robert is getting worse and I don’t want to leave him alone right now. I know I have vacation. . .” Helen cut her off.

“Take all the time you need.  I know this has been hard for you, don’t worry about us here.  We’re fine.  Marquetta can handle anything that comes in for you and I’ll take over the programs you are scheduled to work.  You need to focus on you and Robert.”  She didn’t say it, but the and your good-byes hung in the air between them.

“Okay.  Thank you.” Rosemary stood on shaky legs and they hugged again before she went to her office.  Despite the grief that hung around her neck like an albatross, she set her away message on her voicemail and email before packing a few things up for Banana.  The dog had gone with her to Robert’s and the mutt spent his days sleeping against Robert’s frail form, providing a steady stream of warmth and companionship when Rosemary was at work.

After looking around her neatened desk, she walked to her workshop and glanced around there.  She left a few notes for Marquetta on some projects that needed to be completed before walking over to her locked cabinet.  She pulled out her keys and opened it, glancing at the bronze sculpture housed inside.  She looked at it for a bit longer before closing the doors again.  It was still on her to-do list but it was going to have to wait; Helen knew it was there, but only Rosemary had access.  With the turn of her key, she left the museum to focus on the one person who needed her the most.

---***---

Three weeks later

The day was a sunny one, the sky a deep azure blue that spoke of the coming fall and as he laid in bed with the windows open, Robert took as deep a breath as his lungs would let him.  He loved Saugatuck in the fall – the leaves, the roadside stands that popped up as the harvest came to fruition, and he loved to decorate the store as Halloween grew closer.

He let himself get lost in the memories of the past for a moment before forcing himself to focus on the paperwork in front of him.  His lawyer had dropped off a new copy of his will and testament and Robert carefully read everything before signing it.  Even as he laid there dying, there was something about signing the will that created a finality to it all.

As he sealed the envelope and sent a text to the lawyer to come pick it up, he heard Rosemary enter the house.  He could smell food and for the first time in days, he felt his stomach grumble in hunger.  He began to push himself out of bed when Rosemary enter the room and frowned at him.

“Get back in bed.”  Her tone was firm, but gentle.

“I can get up; I’m not going to eat in my bed.”  Robert grumbled as she walked over and gently pressed him back into the pillows.  Rosemary was only a couple of inches shorter than his six-foot frame, but with his body becoming weaker, she seemed taller and stronger than she ever had before to him.

“You���re going to stay here.  I don’t need you falling like you did yesterday and scaring the bejesus out of me.”  Rosemary wandered back into the kitchen, pulling out the take-out boxes from Coral Gables.  She arranged everything on a tray and took it into the bedroom.  Just as she set everything down, a knock came at the door.  She walked back towards the front of the house, seeing a woman standing on the other side of the screen door.

“Fern!”  Rosemary was surprised to see her close friend on the porch, her voice rising in excitement.  They hugged and Fern made sure to squeeze her poor friend a little harder than usual. They broke apart.  “What are you doing here?”

“Robert is one of my clients.  I dropped off some paperwork for him earlier and he told me to come pick them up.  Sorry to interrupt dinner.”

“Never!  Come in, I bought more than enough, and he won’t eat that much.”  Rosemary’s voice dropped a little and she smiled slightly as a friendly hand rested on her wrist.  “Anyway, please stay and join us.”

Fern nodded and walked into the house towards the bedroom as Rosemary ran to get more plates and silverware.  When she entered the room, the two were in discussion, their voices low and serious.  The conversation stopped as she walked up to them and both smiled at her.

The three sat and ate, enjoying each other’s company and Rosemary noted that Robert ate more than he usually did, which made her feel better. Fern stayed long after dinner was over and as Robert dozed off, the two women continued to visit, but moved the conversation into the living room.  

They had been friends for several years, meeting after bumping into each other at Robert’s store.  Soon their duo became a quartet as local banker Amy met them at a local charity event and Rosemary’s old college friend Tina joined them as she set up her vet practice in Douglas, just south of the town.  The three women had been worried about Rosemary for weeks, visiting where they could and keeping a lively group text going.

When she realized it was midnight, Fern took her leave and Rosemary cleaned up the kitchen.  She walked into Robert’s bedroom to check on him.  He woke up when he heard her and smiled.  She touched his shoulder and sat in the chair next to his bed, the place she spent the most time in these days.

“I’m sorry I woke you.  How are you feeling?”  He reached out to pat her hand and she held it as tight as she dared.  He was so pale, as if he were fading away from her in front of her very eyes.

“Like death warmed over.”  The chuckle sounded strained as his breathing continued to be hard for him.  “Rosie, I never said it, but I’m glad you’re here.”

“I always make time for you, Robert.  You know that.”

“And dinner is always Coral Gables.”

“Exactly.  Tradition.”

“Tradition.”  Robert coughed hard and heavy.  He took the tissue she handed to him and wiped the spittle from his mouth.  “A good historian loves tradition.”

“And the story it tells.”  She sat back and watched him.  He suddenly looked at her, as if he were seeing her for the first time.

“Rosie, are you happy?”  She looked at him, surprise on her face.  “I mean in general.  I’ve never seen you date anyone long term, you hardly go on vacation.  You work a lot.  Are you happy?”

“I guess?  I don’t know. I love my work, I have the girls, I have you.  And yeah, sure I could do with more vacation time, but who doesn’t?”  She looked away, focusing on the window, although it was too dark to see. “Dating is. . .  It’s not easy and most men don’t seem to appreciate my odd hours.  Or I’m too tall.  Or I’m too loud.  And I’d rather be single and happy than in a relationship and miserable.”

“That’s fair.”  He smiled. “What happened to that doctor in Kalamazoo?”

“Him?”  She wrinkled her nose.  “God, he was a massive asshole.  Ego the size of the Grand Canyon.  I went on two dates with him and had enough.”

Robert laugh slightly before sighing.

“I just worry about you Rose.  I don’t want you to be alone when I’m gone.  I want you to live a happy life, full of love that you deserve.  Promise me that you’ll make time for that.”

“I promise, Robert.”  She smiled as his eyes drooped closed, his soft snores starting almost immediately. She set back in the chair, propping her feet up on the edge of the bed to watch him until sleep came to claim her.

My ESC 2019 ranking

Hey there, folks - after a lot of deliberation, I’ve decided upon my ranking of this year’s songs. I feel quite passionately about this year’s field, as always, and make some trenchant remarks, but a lot of them are tongue in cheek, and no shade is intended on those who like the songs I don’t or vice versa. Here’s my ranking with my thoughts on why I put each song where I did.

41. Croatia – The Dream I try to find a redeeming quality in every song, but sometimes the task proves impossible. This ironically-named nightmare of a track sounds like a poorly-produced early 00s track that tried to straddle the line between classic and futuristic and failed at both. The usual things that I hear in its defence are that Roko has a good voice, and that the Croatian segment is better. To the first point, maybe, but it doesn’t take away from the fact that the voice doesn’t shine through the scream mode of most of the song; to the latter point, if you know some BCS, you’ll know that the Croatian language bit is as cloyingly cliché as the English part. Some people are saying that this could be a surprise qualifier. If that happens, I will shed tears of blood.

40. France – Roi If France don’t change their national final system to equalise the jury and televote more after this year, I don’t know when they will. Destination Eurovision had a bunch of good songs, but thanks to the power of a Youtuber’s fanbase, one of the least remarkable and most cloying songs got the nod instead. Roi is an unabashed hymn to self with the most criminal franglais abominations (rhyming beaucoup with boo, really?) to which I’ve ever been subjected.  Now it’s supposedly got a chance of winning thanks to a gimmicky staging, which I feel uses people as props. I wouldn’t even mind the antipathetic performer and cringey, self-centred lyrics so much if the tune were interested, but it’s equally empty and pompous.

39. San Marino – Say na na na Well, this song certainly does get me saying nah, nah, nah. I do not get the amount of good will for it, as I neither find it a good track, nor enjoyable ironically like Who we are or Chain of lights were. It’s a “party track”, but the party in question is the kind I want to flee where the food is bad, the music is obnoxious and overbearing and the ambiance is that of an uncomfortable throwback. Bewildering how this is considered a worthy qualifier.

38. Moldova – Stay I swear Eurovision has songs like this just to be able to detect extra-terrestrials, because if anyone says this song is their favourite, and they’re neither Moldovan nor Romanian, then it confirms to me that they are aliens because this is banality writ large. Three minutes of contradictory and cliché rhymes (“it’s now or never, it’s forever”. Ok then mate), dull music, little progression, an oddly unpleasant vocal and even a staging that comes second-hand.

37. Finland – Look away My impulse is to look away from this song indeed – a dated slice of repetitive, oddly downbeat despite being uptempo EDM slathered with a simultaneously overwrought and undercooked social message and brought to us by an uncomfortable duo who look like two acquaintances whose fishing trip got interrupted abruptly and they had to cook up a Eurovision song last minute. There is nothing about this I like at all.

36. Israel – Home The one faintly interesting thing about this song is the remarkable wailing in its first few seconds, but they removed even that. This has to be one of the most maudlin songs I have ever heard, delivered gratingly. A friend of mine nicknamed Kobi the “Joystealer”, and the name is very apt. I feel like all the joy in the world is out of reach when listening to this lament, which is syrupy and bitter at the same time, like a coarse cough medicine. The “I am someone” has to be one of the most cloying lines of the entire year, too.

35. Estonia – Storm Estonia having to resort to sending a croaky renta-Swede to sing a budget Avicii b-side in front of a Windows XP screensaver with lyrics that imaginatively rhyme “this” with, well, “this” is like seeing someone who had always dressed elegantly having to resort to sporting torn, worn, ill-fitting hand-me-downs that were already out of fashion when bought first hand. This land of song and art can and should be doing so much better.

34. Montenegro – Heaven The fact this ironically infernal song is not just not bottom but also almost avoided my bottom 10 just goes to show how deep the bottom is this year. Sounds like Podgorica’s 56th best sixth form choir got some cassette tapes of bad late 90s R&B-lite, got a donation of a dodgy Casio keyboard and, at the last minute, got their granddad to do a bit of fiddling, mixed it all together and the result was this chaötic hot mess on ice. It’s a shame, because these kids seem genuinely nice, and they don’t deserve to be lumbered with the albatross around their neck of this song and the resultant cast iron “last in the semi” result it will achieve.

33. Switzerland – She got me There’s little separating the female attempt at a duego and the male one for me. Luca radiates a smug energy that annoys me more, but the song is a smidgen less generic, but then using the same dancers as from Fuego made the decision easier. I’m not sure what she got him, but it certainly wasn’t a grammar book, as the song is filled with bizarrely affected ungrammatical English, because I guess it’s uncool to properly conjugate.

32. Cyprus – Replay It seems almost self-parodising that Cyprus lamely returned to try to catch lightning in the same jar with a song that is entitled, and feels like, a giant replay. Fuego was an encapsulation of many things I really don’t like at Eurovision – a lyrically empty song with limited musical merit or memorability that got a lot further than it would off the basis, mostly, of staging. This year, the staging is worse and the performer is less charismatic. If it does as well, I will be astounded.

31. Norway – Spirit in the sky What if Aqua came back – perish the thought – and, for their comeback single, took a rejected b-side from the late 90s of theirs in their typical bubblegum style, but injected it with a dreadful attempt at joik and an aesthetic inspired by their newfound animal spirits? It would sound something like this bizarre Norwegian song, whose victory over En livredd mann still bewilders me. It’s a bit infectious, but so are many diseases, and part of the reason that it buries itself into your mind is because of its pretty flagrant lifting of last year’s “Monsters”’ chorus, which in itself was all too familiar. One of the year’s biggest cringefests for me.

30. Lithuania – Run with the lions Take a guy most noted until now for screeching in the world’s worst falsetto whilst pretending not to sing, while a drag act that barely qualified as a baroness let alone a queen wás pretending to sing, also badly. Give him a song that advocates running alongside large carnivores who’d probably find humans an attractive snack. That combination should at least be interesting, but it’s one of the dullest propositions of the year. The only real interesting thing is that dodgy falsetto making a reappearance. It’s pleasant enough but forgotten instantly.

29. Russia – Scream Russia confined themselves to a few fruitless years in the desert with the Samojlova charade, and now they look to return to ESC superpower status by bringing back the guy who won them the public vote back in 2016. Their logic in trying to go one step further, though, was rather flawed. Concentrating on winning over the juries, they took for granted that the public was going to enjoy this rather melodramatic effort as much as they did You are the only one. I doubt they will, and I doubt the jury will be much swayed from last time. Musically, its orchestral touches represent a step up from YATOO for me, but it is let down by the emo lyrics and some bombastic staging.

28. Belarus – Like it When I first heard this song, where “you gonna like it” is repeated approximately 14 thousand times, my first impression was “no, I certainly am not going to.” It’s a bizarre stream of non-sequiturs dolled up with a technicolour assault to the eyes. I’ve softened to it somewhat, in part because of a reimagining of the lyrics as being a call for help after getting drafted into Eurovision by Lukaszenka, but I’ll still be stunned if it qualifies.

27. United Kingdom – Bigger than us I had a Freudian slip a few days ago when writing the “Undo my ESC” post – I wrote “Bigger than us” as “Better than us”. A fair swathe of the year’s field very much is more remarkable than this anodyne X factor winner’s single which seems to be aiming for 19th rather than first. Michael is a likeable character, but unfortunately that doesn’t come across too much in his live performance, most notable for him flapping around his arms as though they were on fire.

26. Iceland – Hatrið mun sigra Musically, there are elements of this that are really up my street. Decent throwbacks are rare, but the 80s’ techno ambience of the track is pretty good. I just wish it were not accompanied with a disdainful hauteur and the OTT attitude of a bunch of sophomore arts students who’ve just discovered irony. The last thing the world needs now is more hate, ironic or not.

25. Sweden – Too late for love Sweden made one step in the right direction this year – they’ve sent a man rather than an overgrown embryo, and someone with a bit more humility than Grosso last year. It’s a much better song for me than the past two attempts, but that’s not saying much – manufactured gospel has little soul, and there’s a charisma chasm here only partially filled by drafting in American mammas to sell the song as something more than what it is.

24. Poland – Pali się This is one that I wish I liked more. It’s middle of the pack for me. I like the fact that there are clear heritage influences but find the song itself to be rather too linear and the voices too shrill – and I am a fan of white voice.

23. Macedonia – Proud I had high hopes for Macedonia as I adored their artist, Tamara’s, imperious Brod što tone back in Skopjefest 2014 – a song that frankly got robbed of representing Macedonia. Where BST was subtle and poëtic in its message, Proud, which I regret wasn’t in Macedonian also, is rather too much on the nose for me and sounds a little like a charity single. This is augmented by the rather basic video which reminded me a little too much of Bebe’s “Ella.” Nonetheless, it’s a nice composition and well sung.

22. Spain – La venda Spain this year had a selection that they called “eurotemazos”. It’s difficult to translate, but Eurobangers, smashes or hits all carry a shade of the meaning. As soon as I heard that, I knew it was an ill omen, and indeed, the list of songs was full of bad attempts at bops and a few soporific ballads-by-computer. La venda was the best of a bad lot. Miki has energy but the song is completely inconsequential.

21. Germany – Sister Germany have once again invited disaster by inviting Chaosmeisterin, Barbara “Wild Eyes” Schönberger back to compère the national final. The end result was this inexperienced wildcard (when will you ever learn, Germany?) clinching the win with two gals who’d never met before this year singing about sisterhood in a group called S!sters with their song Sister. This is hotly tipped for last place in the final, but I feel it has sóme merit. The verses, and especially the bridge, are lovely, and seem to be building to something great – until we get a really generic, squawked chorus where the two non-sisters try to outshriek one another.

20. Australia – Zero gravity I’ll never get over the fact that we could have had something truly Australian in all senses of the word for once, and instead we got this. It’s catchy but repetitive and rather gimmicky, and I lament that it will qualify over better songs thanks to a rather cringey staging gimmick.

19. Belgium – Wake up This truly is a musical coitus interruptus. The moody verses get you in the mood, building a sense of urgency and direction, only for everything to get abandoned without warning with a very dreary, incongruous chorus. “City Lights” this ain’t, and it’s a shame, as it’s still decent, but could have been so much more satisfying.

18. Czechia – Friend of a friend Some countries take decades to find their niche at the contest. It seems like Czechia has found theirs in the space of a year and a bit, and found a particularly narrow niche. Field a cutesy lad with a retro-inspired, somewhat catchy but also somewhat problematic song inspired by infidelity. Last year’s “Lie to me” was written from the perspective of the cheated; this year’s, from a potential cheater who spends half the song listening with his girlfriend to his neighbours having noisy sex and the other half protesting he barely knows the female neighbour anymore. Truly weird.

17. Denmark – Love is forever This song reminds me of one time I was by the seaside and got offered to try a freakshake. It was one of the most OTT sweetest things I’ve ever had in my life. I enjoyed it, but it’s something I could only enjoy on an annual basis. This song is much the same. It’s bringing the Gallic cuteness where France failed, and the fact Leonora looks into your soul unnervingly whilst singing just adds more interest to the song for me.

16. Azerbaijan – Truth Azerbaijan bring a halfway decent song for the 2nd time so far, by my count. This is nowhere as near as good as “Skeletons”, but still strong. I like the atypical lyrical matter and the fact that the Symphonix crew created something contemporary but wearing Azeri traditional influences on its sleeve. The unplugged version of this is even better.

15. Netherlands – Arcade Perhaps I would enjoy this more were it not for the intense amount of hype, the hubristic arrogance of many people in thinking the win is already in the bag, and the amount of condescending barbs flung my way on other corners of the net for not considering this some transcendental masterpiece that deserves to win more than any other song. It’s not in the same league as the oft-compared, timeless Amar pelos dois for me. It’s a nice, heartfelt song – albeit one that relies too much on a head voice that I find rather unappealing – and it has a few clever turns of phrase, but I will never understand why this one has been singled out when there are several songs I consider more moving in this final.

14. Georgia – Sul tsin iare This song has really grown on me. It has an incredible, almost scary intensity and was written on an epic, orchestral scale. It feels like the music to the climax of a war film. I felt what it meant before I understood the Georgian. I particularly love the chorus backing Oto and the staging that matches the song’s drama.

13. Hungary – Az én apam I expected a lot of things from a Joci Papai return, and this song only delivers some of them, but it’s a song worthy of enjoying in its own right. If Origo was fire and had an undercurrent of hurt, Az én apam is water, but is warm in its own right. It’s a nostalgic song with the same poetry I expected of Joci.

12. Latvia – That night Latvia’s song has been criticised for not being very impactful, and it isn’t, but therein lies its charm. It’s a low-key, saudadic effort that beautifully occupies three minutes. It is the kind of track I imagine listening to whilst, and which makes me imagine as a result, driving down a long, lonely road at night in the rain. It’s hushed, it’s delicate, and it sounds to me like petrichor smells.

11. Greece – Better love Greece is sending something very atypical from them, almost as an allergic reaction to doing so badly with the more ostensibly ethnic “Oneiro mou” last year. I’d be disappointed, but this is really quite good indeed, a very professional and rounded effort that has produced a soaring, anthemic song. Katerine’s voice has a beautiful, dark and deep huskiness that imbues a certain quality too. My only problem with this song are the careless lyrics that seem like a compilation of Instagram clichés.

10. Ireland – 22 My dear Ireland sneaks into my top 10 for the first time in a few years thanks to a full-on earworm of a song that has become one of my most played tracks this year. This song is very simple, but sometimes unassuming simplicity is elegant. It’s got a retro, blue-eyed soul feel and is at once nostalgic and catchy. It deserved a lot better than the slot of death to which Björkman consigned it.

09. Malta – Chameleon Malta getting into my top 10 for the first time since 2014, with a song that is even more contrary to our expectations of Maltese songs than “Tomorrow” was. This song is aptly named, as it is an explosion of colour – not just in the clever video, but also, the music itself is so vibrant and fun. The only part I don’t like is the rather cliché bridge, because both the drop-based chorus, the slow build of the verses and the exuberant post-chorus are really good. GIVE ME X I’M A Y is one of the lyrical memes of the year and is infectious. From beige to a rainbow; well done, Malta.

08. Slovenia – Sebi Slovenia are on the money for the second year in a row. Whilst “Hvala ne” was an in your face, high-octane buzz of a song, this year, we’ve gone in the completely opposite direction: a very contemplative, intimate song that imbues a sense of peace and harmony. What they do have in common is some of the best lyrics of the year. In Sebi’s case, the text is graceful in its effortless simplicity and minimalism. It feels like the only thing that matters during those 3 minutes for the song’s performers are each other, which creates a particular atmosphere indeed.

07. Albania – Ktheju tokës When I heard the venerable Festival i këngës, Albania’s selection process, was essentially going to revamp itself, I was worried that it would lose its magic, but in the end, I needn’t have so much. For the second year running, the best song by far won – a song full of dramatic potential. Thank heavens they left the song in the wonderful mellifluous Albanian language and did not dig out the song’s heart with a needless revamp. I hope Shqipëria can keep this trend and momentum up. Ktheju tokës is a heartrending song about immigration and divided families, inspired by true experience, and performed with power and style by the enigmatic Jonida.

06. Armenia – Walking out Another country for whom I have a lot of time at the contest is Armenia, who always tend to bring something different to the show. I was initially a bit confused by their effort this year because of its abrupt stops between different parts of the song which at first sounded rather jarring. Now, this, and the great variation in tone and style between the verses, the gentle bridge and the ferocious choruses are part of what make the song for me. Srbuk has charisma and a fierce set of pipes. All these elements have made Walking out one of the major earworms of the year for me.

05. Austria – Limits The first time I heard this, I was underwhelmed. It’s a nice song, but it is lacking a bit in instant impact. Nonetheless, something about it demanded repeated listens; with each one, my appreciation for this confessional, Kate Bush-inspired slice of heartrending emotion grew exponentially. I am hoping that the live performance will give it the instancy it needs to bring to life how exceptionally good a song this is. It’s up there with the very best in terms of the lyrics. It’s so personal, so intimate, so searing and one of the most underrated tracks of the year. 04. Serbia – Kruna Pretty much everyone who knows my ESC predilections knows I am a huge fan of Serbia. They generally stick with their own language, and bring songs that highlight their rich musical traditions. My support isn’t categorical – I despised “Beauty never lies” and felt let down by last year’s style pastiche, though I felt Balkanika were wonderful contestants – so this year, I was relieved to see them back at the height of their powers with an unassumingly lovely ballad, performed with power and purpose by the mesmerising Nevena. It’s a song of few words, and it feels like every single one was weighed out carefully to pack the most meaning. Delightful.

03. Romania – On a Sunday One of the biggest surprises of the season for me has been Romania. I had no interest in their national selection, and was nonplussed when this won, albeit grateful that it beat two truly dreadful frontrunners. My first impression was that it was an odd but catchy song, and that it was weird and a little funny how the grown woman singing it seemed to throw a tantrum in the middle of the performance. Something about it made me listen again, and again, and again – and then the amazingly theatrical and imaginative video came out, which added to my appreciation even more. It’s a really emotional song, which somehow invigorates rather than saddens me, perhaps because of the bewitching power of Ester’s performance. She delivers this with an unbelievable intensity and has such a singular voice. I fear for its chances because it’s not the most accessible song – but I really hope this will at least qualify.

02. Portugal – Telemóveis I remember my first reäction to this well. I was confused and a little perturbed – it seemed like the rantings of a madman over highly dissonant, if rather bewitching, music. It stuck in my head, though, and very soon, the confusion grew into appreciation and then full on love for probably the most singular, sui generis offering of the entire year. This is a song that sounds timeless but futuristic; that could not have been composed by any other country, but which blends influence of fado with sounds from the subcontinent, the near and far east and what seem to be other planets. The text – all too often dismissed as “lol he’s singing about cellphones, how random lmao” – is a deep, introspective, metaphorical look at mortality that is gushing with saudade. The fact that this, the most forward-thinking proposal of 2019, might not even qualify is scandalous; it should be in it to win it.

01. Italy – Soldi As much as I adore Telemóveis, there’s a song that I love even more. The first time I saw Soldi performed live, it was like a punch to the gut in the best possible way. This song about a deadbeat dad and how money can tear a family apart is just one example of how Italy is brimming with exceptional lyricists. I’d translate some of my favourite lyrics, but firstly, I find every line to be powerfully moving, and secondly, the English can’t quite do justice to the perfectly measured rhythm and cadence of the original as well as the emotion. On top of that, musically, it’s one of the freshest tracks of the year, with super modern production but symphonic touches. Who thinks of making a trap-inspired song, but with an orchestra? Italy, that is who, and I so, so hope they finish this barnstormer of a decade for them with a much awaited win.

New Feelings

In which Mark learns why most of Gyro’s inventions aren’t on the market, Graves has realized he’s not losing his job anytime soon, and something knew could be blossoming outside the sarcasm and frustration.(also i suck at titles)

Graves leapt onto the back of the malfunctioning robot and clung on as best as he could. For some reason or other the robot had lasers built into its servos, which had quickly caused Beaks and the four other scientists to scatter and hide under work-benches, leaving Graves to handle the problem.

Typical. To be fair the lasers actually weren’t Beaks’ idea, but were part of the original design. However, the robot was supposed to be a butler, so Graves couldn’t help but wonder if Doctor Gearloose was insane.

Graves had, correctly, assumed that the robot wouldn’t be able to reach him on his back, and was attempting to dislodge the bodyguard/saboteur by thrashing around. But it was all for naught, as Graves quickly dug into one of his jacket’s many hidden pockets and withdrew a taser, which he then stabbed into the robot’s neck cables.

The robot shook and spun before it shorted out and keeled forwards, crashing to the ground in a heap. Graves carefully clambered off it, dusting himself off as everyone else crawled out of their hiding places.

“Unbelievable!” Beaks shrieked, stomping over to the pile of scrap. “It’s been like a week and you losers still can’t stop that thing from turning evil! And why do you keep giving it lasers?!”

“Th-the original schematics…”

“I don’t care about that nut job’s schematics! Even I think the lasers are stupid, it’s a freaking butler!”

Beaks rubbed his temples and sighed. “Ugh, I so need a latte before I kill someone. Okay, get rid of that junk and start over, and no lasers or I’ll let it use of of you lame-oes as target practise. Graves, let’s bounce.”

Graves, who up to that point had been prodding the robot to check that it wouldn’t get up again, sighed and walked after him.

A short walk later they were both in the limo and leaving Waddle headquarters.

“Well, at least this time a wall didn’t collapse,” Graves commented to an irate Beaks.

The parrot looked up from his phone with a scowl.

“Ya know, Gravesy, humor really isn’t your strong point. Maybe just stick to looking angry all the time, it works for you.”

“I wasn’t joking,” well not entirely anyway, “it took longer for you to tick it off. You might be onto something here.” This, of course, had nothing to do with the fact that Graves wanted some more time before he had to sneak into that death trap of a money bin again. Certainly not.

“Shuddup. It’s a machine, they’re supposed to deal with insults if they won’t work right.”

Beaks stopped and frowned for a moment, and then looked back at his phone and started tapping at the screen.

“What if we got rid of the morality chips and found a way to just make it obey commands, or got it to follow Albatross’ first law of robotics? And I really gotta change the name from Armstrong, better talk to my marketing team…”

Graves let Beaks work in rare silence for the rest of the trip, which lasted a grand total of twenty minutes.

The limo came to a stop near a chain coffee shop; the chauffeur quickly scrambled to open the door. Graves exited the vehicle first to check for any paparazzi, before giving the all clear to Beaks.

After Beaks gave the bored barista his incredibly specific, over-complicated, more-sugar-than-caffeine order with a blueberry muffin and Graves had gotten his tea, they both sat at a table near the window.

“You know, if you want to avoid the press, you could just have coffee at the office, or at home.”

Beaks rolled his eyes in a way that implied Graves had said either something incredibly stupid or something incredibly obvious but impossible to do.

“If I did that then I wouldn’t be able to post my daily coffee pic. The internet needs to know what I’m drinking today!” He proclaimed, before taking several pictures of his coffee and muffin from different angles.

“...I’m not entirely sure how to respond to that,” Graves replied, “but if all of this is really necessary, won’t the press have an easier time finding if we’re next to a window?”

“I need better lighting,” Beaks said, now typing a caption and posting the picture.

After a beat he looked up a Graves with narrowed eyes. “Ya know, I’m not paying you for your opinion.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Graves smirked, “you’re paying me to do a job that no one else can do. We both need one another so as to rebuild our reputations before either of us dare part ways.”

He crossed his arms smugly. “Am I wrong?”

Beaks’ hand clenched, the screen of his phone cracking. He dug into his hoodie to grab his backup phone, not taking his eyes off of Graves.

“Yeah, yeah, well I’m still rich anyways, but you’re totally dependant on me for cash; and I could fix my rep by myself,” he took a sip from his coffee, getting foam on his beak. “It just seem like too much work to do it myself when I can use you to steal other people’s ideas.”

Graves highly doubted this. “So, you’re over Gizmoduck then?”

Beaks spluttered, desperately trying to find an answer to such a question.

Whatever he did come up with was ignored, however, as Graves was distracted by the foam in his boss’ beak which he still hadn’t wiped off, the twit.

Graves rolled his eyes and grabbed a napkin. He then leaned over the table and dabbed at Beaks’ beak.

Beaks stopped mid-rant, his face turning slightly red. Graves blinked, he couldn’t tell if the flush was anger or embarrassment. Either way, it seemed he may have overstepped his bounds.

The pair stared at each other for a moment, neither sure of how to react, until a shout caught their attention.

They both turned to see Roxanne Featherly standing outside, trying to get Mark’s attention.

“Mr Beaks, I was hoping to ask you about any potential new projects…” she had a small camera crew with her, and judging from the shouting down the road, more paparazzi were on the way.

“Time to go!” Graves announced, grabbing Mark’s arm and dragging him out of the coffee shop.

“But my coffee, my muffin…!” He protested.

“You can have more back at the office, now hurry up!”

The pair had quickly jumped into the limo and shouted the chauffeur to get them out of their before the press could get anywhere near them.

Mark slumped in his seat, pouting childishly about his coffee no doubt, the strange moment between them forgotten.

Graves sighed, he hadn’t even gotten to have a sip of his tea…

Graves blinked. When had he started thinking of his boss as “Mark” and not just “Beaks”?

It probably didn’t mean anything, right?

Daily Use New Vocabulary Words in English with Meaning For SSC, Bank Exams

New Post has been published on https://yourclasses.in/vocabulary-words

Daily Use New Vocabulary Words in English with Meaning For SSC, Bank Exams

(VOCABULARY)

  Dearth (Noun) –कमी

Meaning: a scarcity or lack of something.

Synonyms: lack, scarcity, scarceness

Antonyms: abundance, surfeit, superfluity

Usage: “there is a dearth of evidence”

  Upheld (Verb) –सही ठहराना

Meaning: confirm or support (something which has been questioned).

Synonyms: confirm, endorse, sustain

Antonyms: overturn, oppose, deprecate

Usage: “the court upheld his claim for damages”

  Benign (Adjective) –सौम्य

Meaning: gentle and kind.

Synonyms: kindly, kind, warm-hearted

Antonyms: unfriendly, hostile, repugnant

Usage: “his benign but firm manner”

  Fiddle (Verb) –बेला बजाना

Meaning: touch or fidget with something in a restless or nervous way.

Synonyms: fidget, play, toy

Antonyms: work, leave alone, execute

Usage: “Lena fiddled with her cup”

  Augur(Verb) –अच्छे या बुरे परिणाम को चित्रित करना

Meaning: portend a good or bad outcome.

Synonyms: bode, portend, herald

Antonyms: conceal, estimate, guess

Usage: “the end of the cold war seemed to augur well”

  Stipulated (Verb) –अनुबद्ध

Meaning: demand or specify (a requirement), typically as part of an agreement.

Synonyms: specify, set down, set out

Antonyms: optional, discretionary, elective

Usage: “he stipulated certain conditions before their marriage”

  Affluent (Adjective) –धनी या समृद्ध

Meaning: having a great deal of money; wealthy.

Synonyms: wealthy, rich, prosperous

Antonyms: poor, impoverished, pauperize

Usage: “the affluent societies of the western world”

  Paradox (Noun) –असत्याभास या विरोधाभास

Meaning: a seemingly absurd or contradictory statement or proposition which when investigated may prove to be well-founded or true.

Synonyms: contradiction, a contradiction in terms, self-contradiction

Antonyms: accuracy, certainty, correction

Usage: “The uncertainty principle leads to all sorts of paradoxes, like the particles being in two places at once”

Unprecedented (Adjective) –अप्रतिम, बेमिसाल

Meaning: never done or known before.

Synonyms: unparalleled, unequalled, unmatched

Antonyms: normal, common, usual

Usage: “the government took the unprecedented step of releasing confidential correspondence”

  Curb (Verb) –नियंत्रण करना

Meaning: restrain or keep in check.

Synonyms: restrain, hold back, keep back

Antonyms: release, ransom, emancipation

Usage: “she promised she would curb her temper”

  Clusters (Noun) –समूह

Meaning: a group of similar things or people positioned or occurring closely together.

Synonyms: bunch, clump, collection

Antonyms: individual, one, solo

Usage: “clusters of creamy-white flowers”

  Punitive (Adjective) –अत्यधिक ऊँचा

Meaning: extremely high.

Synonyms: harsh, severe, stiff

Antonyms: reasonable, moderate, cheap

Usage: “a current punitive interest rate of 31.3 percent”

  Defection (Noun) –पक्षपलटा

Meaning: the desertion of one’s country or cause in favour of an opposing one.

Synonyms: desertion, absconding, decamping

Antonyms: enough, faithfulness, harmony

Usage: “his defection from the Labour Party”

  Bolster (Verb) –समर्थन देना या मजबूत करना

Meaning: support or strengthen.

Synonyms: strengthen, support, reinforce

Antonyms: undermine, weaken, challenge

Usage: “the fall in interest rates is starting to bolster confidence”

  Adjudicating (Verb) –निर्णय करना

Meaning: make a formal judgement on a disputed matter.

Synonyms: judge, adjudge, try

Antonyms: deferring, dodging, hesitating

Usage: “the Committee adjudicates on all betting disputes”

  Intervene (Verb) –हस्तक्षेप करना

Meaning: take part in something so as to prevent or alter a result or course of events.

Synonyms: intercede, involve oneself, get involved

Antonyms: combine, connect, ignore

Usage: “he acted outside his authority when he intervened in the dispute”

  Unequivocal (Adjective) –असंदिग्ध

Meaning: leaving no doubt; unambiguous.

Synonyms: unambiguous, unmistakable, indisputable

Antonyms: equivocal, ambiguous, vague

Usage: “an unequivocal answer”

  Intriguing (Verb) –जिज्ञासा या रुचि जगाना

Meaning: arouse the curiosity or interest of; fascinate.

Synonyms: interest, be of interest to, fascinate

Antonyms: bore, stupefy, weary, fatigue

Usage: “I was intrigued by your question”

  Expedite (Verb) –शीघ्रता करना

Meaning: make (an action or process) happen sooner or be accomplished more quickly.

Synonyms: speed up, accelerate, hurry

Antonyms: delay, hinder, latency

Usage: “he promised to expedite economic reforms”

  Opacity (Noun) –अपारदर्शिता

Meaning: the quality of lacking transparency or translucence.

Synonyms: opaqueness, non-transparency, lack of transparency

Antonyms: transparency, translucence, clarity

Usage: “thinner paints need black added to increase opacity”

Expeditious (Adjective) –शीघ्र

Meaning: done with speed and efficiency.

Synonyms: speedy, swift, quick

Antonyms: slow, gently, quietly, stilly

Usage: “an expeditious investigation”

  Revelation (Noun) –रहस्योद्घाटन

Meaning: a surprising and previously unknown fact that has been disclosed to others.

Synonyms: disclosure, surprising fact, divulgence

Antonyms: keeping, concealment, covers

Usage: “revelations about his personal life”

  Clause (Noun) –धारा

Meaning: a particular and separate article, stipulation, or proviso in a treaty, bill, or contract.

Synonyms: section, paragraph, article

Antonyms: lessening, subtraction, degradation

Usage: The risk fee covenant clause is associated with the incentive fees on contract.

  Unequivocal (Adjective) –असंदिग्ध

Meaning: leaving no doubt; unambiguous.

Synonyms: unambiguous, unmistakable, indisputable

Antonyms: equivocal, ambiguous, vague

Usage: “an unequivocal answer”

    (ONE WORD SUBSTITUTION)

  A building in which aircraft are housed – Hangar

A former student of a school, college or university – Alumnus

One who studies the art of gardening – Horticulturist

A pole or beam used as temporary support – Prop

Handwriting that cannot be read – Illegible

Words are written on a tomb of a dead person – Epitaph

 A list of luggage – Waybill

The line where the land and sky seems to meet – Horizon

Decorative handwriting – Calligraphy

A person difficult to please – Fastidious

Study of the nature of Gods – Theology

That which cannot be defeated – Invincible

The study of worms and insects – Entomology

A person who attends to the disease of the eye is an – Oculist

  (MISSPELT WORDS)

  (A) Alleg

     (B) Allegged

     (C) Aleged

     (D) Alleged

   2. (A) Dining

     (B) Dininng

     (C) Dening

     (D) Dieing

  (A) Genarelly

     (B) Genarally

     (C) Generaly

     (D) Generally

  (A) Neigbhour

     (B) Neighbour

     (C) Nieghbour

     (D) Neighbor

(A) Forfeit

     (B) Forfiet

     (C) Forfet

     (D) Fourfeit

  (A) Mispeled

     (B) Misspeled

     (C) Mispelled

     (D) Misspelled

(A) Disease

     (B) Diesease

     (C) Disese

     (D) Diesese

  (A) Advarsary

     (B) Adversiry

     (C) Adversary

     (D) Adversery

(A) Athletics

     (B) Ethletic

     (C) Atheletics

     (D) Ethletics

  (A) Ommission

     (B) Omision

     (C) Omission

     (D) Ommision

(A) Heinous

     (B) Hienous

     (C) Heinus

     (D) Hienus

  (A) Secratery

     (B) Secretery

     (C) Secretary

     (D) Secratary

(A) Auxilliery

     (B) Auxiliery

     (C) Auxilliary

     (D) Auxiliary

  (A) Marriage

     (B) Mariage

     (C) Marriege

     (D) Marrieg

(IDIOMS AND PHRASES)

    All fingers and thumbs:

Meaning: – If you’re all fingers and thumbs, you are too excited or clumsy to do something properly that requires manual dexterity. ‘All thumbs’ is an alternative form of the idiom.

Example: – I’m all fingers and thumbs when it comes to wrapping packages.

  2. All heart:

Meaning: – Someone who is all heart is very kind and generous.

Example: – Of course Jenna gave you her last dollar—she’s all heart.

Albatross around your neck:

Meaning: – An albatross around, or round, your neck is a problem resulting from something you did that stops you from being successful.

Example: – That old car is an albatross around my neck.

  All dressed up and nowhere to go:

Meaning: – You’re prepared for something that isn’t going to happen.

Example: – Why the Jill is all dressed up and nowhere to go.

“Stabbed in the back”

Meaning: – An unfaithful act that causes a big loss of one’s reputation, money or happiness.

Example: – I have done everything for her, but she left me because of that guy, she stabbed in my back.

  An old flame:

Meaning: – An old flame is a person that somebody has had an emotional, usually passionate, relationship with, who is still looked on fondly and with affection.

Example: – Last week Alec was seen dining with his old flame Janine Turner in New York.

Alike as two peas:

Meaning: – If people or things are as alike as two peas, they are identical.

Example: – Jane and Jenny are five years apart, but they always wear similar dresses. They are as alike as two peas in a pod.

  As a rule:

Meaning: – If you do something as a rule, then you usually do it.

Example: – As a rule of thumb, I do not start a new project on Fridays.

Age before beauty:

Meaning: – When this idiom is used, it is a way of allowing an older person to do something first, though often in a slightly sarcastic way.

Example: – It has been reversed to ‘beauty before age’ to create a comic effect.

  Be on the pig’s back:

Meaning: – If you’re on the pig’s back, you’re happy / content / in fine form.

Example: – We found ourselves on the pig’s back after our product gained such widespread success across the country.

Babe in the woods:

Meaning: – A babe in the woods is a naive, defenseless, young person.

Example: – Bill is a babe in the woods when it comes to dealing with a plumber.

  Baby boomer:

Meaning: – (USA) A baby boomer is someone born in the years after the end of the Second World War, a period when the population was growing very fast.

Example: – This is not the era of baby boomers, You must not be like them.

Add insult to injury:

Meaning: – When people add insult to injury, they make a bad situation even worse.

Example: – My car broke down in the middle of nowhere, then, to add insult to injury, it started to rain.

  Against the clock:

Meaning: – If you do something against the clock, you are rushed and have very little time to do it.

Example: – The team was working against the clock to finish the project on time

NSFW #16: Volsung’s Folly

The hour was early. A thick patch of mist surrounded Mountain Springs Lake and the trees bordering the banks, giving the place an almost mystical feel. At the end of the wooden dock, a boat bobbed- while done in the fashion of a Viking longboat, it was neither adorned nor intricately carved. The more peculiar part was the boat’s contents- a pair of large, curious raised shapes covered in a royal purple and forest green banner, two pairs of wrestling boots protruding from beneath it. There was no sound but the soft splashing of water at the lakeshore, the nearly imperceptible creak of the thick rope holding the boat in place… and softly, but growing louder, the marching cadence of feet on soil. Twelve souls came first, in two rows of six apiece, faces streaked in viridian and ochre, clad from head to toe in furs and mail and steel, the men wearing great horned helms and wielding greataxes, the women in winged headgear bearing round shields and short swords. The two at the front of each procession carried torches, which they planted on poles on either side of the dock’s end, flanking the docked boat. That done, they stood at the edges of the wooden platform, facing each other in pairs. A moment passed. In synchrony, the wild-looking warriors turned their heads to the path whence they came. The head of their company approached, first preceded by their bannermen- two masculine figures, one burly and one slight. Their outside hands carried flags- a blazing orange phoenix on a field of green- and between them, a wooden chest with trim and lock of bronze. This was carried to the end of the dock and sat down, the bannermen taking their places at the end of the line of warriors. Only then did the leaders of this procession make their way to the end, the axemen and shieldmaidens letting out a fierce but respectful cheer. Their armor was leather and studded with iron, furs wrapped around their shoulders and capes in their respective colors billowing behind. Belts of gold, the symbols of their position, were fastened about their waists, and runed bronze circlets rested on their heads, one adorned with an emerald and the other with a fiery topaz. The smaller of them carried a greatsword about two thirds her size, the larger a massive shield with the same stylized phoenix on a green field that appeared on the bannermen’s flags. There was a seventeenth member of the company- a lithe but strong armed looking fellow in light leather armor, carrying a quiver of arrows and a longbow, but he hung back for the time being, sharp eyes observing the proceedings. Nobody smiled or joked- after all, this was a solemn occasion. Mike McGuire spoke first. “Y’know, we’ve been doing a lot of reading. Well, my partner here always does a lot of reading, but I digress. We’ve been reading up on some Norse lore- y’know, fuckin’ Viking stuff. It’s good reads, really engaging. Everybody’s always gettin’ tanked on mead or gettin’ in fights, which frankly is my kinda reading material. But I had no idea it’d be as educational as it was, especially when it comes to the guys our opponents were named after.” John Bishop Church came in next. “Völsung Death Squad. What a powerful name. It carries a heavy meaning. But what did it mean to them?” He gestured vaguely towards the longboat. “A name to instill fear into their victims. Or maybe just a name to plaster across t-shirts.” The two share a look. John continued. “Masterson. Lovecraft. When Mike and I saw their names opposite ours - we got excited.” “Yeah. I mean, anybody who ran with our friend and legit fucking badass Sarah Roberts was bound to be good for a nice, challenging fight.” John stepped forward. The soles of his boots creaked on the wooden planks of the dock. “People think of a legendary Norse clan and their minds race to their courageous exploits. And maybe one could derive that from the Völsunga Saga. That story was wrought with tragedy. And it all could have been avoided. Like these two, they didn’t listen.” Another step towards the chest. “Völsung was greedy and agreed to wed off his daughter Signy to the king of Gothland, Siggeir. And against his daughter’s warnings of treachery and betrayal, they wed. And despite them nearly coming to blows over Odin’s trickery involving a magic sword, Völsung went head first in battle - and died. And all of his many sons? They were eaten alive one by one at the mercy of a she-wolf. Except one. Sigmund. He lasted a little while longer. Got some revenge even. Until he thought he could kill Odin. Then he died, too. After all of that blustering. After all of those adventures. Even with the aid of their magics, the Völsung clan died when they could have lived.” “Sound and fury signifying fuckin’ nothing. Kind of a shaggy dog story in the end, and I ain’t talking about that wolf. And all over a treasure that Völsung and his clan just couldn’t leave alone.” Mike strode at her partner’s side, her steps long to match her larger partner’s pace. The flanking warriors nodded at their passing as they approached the end of the dock, the chest, and the boat bobbing in the lake. She paused, looking directly into the camera, cocking an eyebrow. “Y’know, considering the Völsung clan’s, er… proclivities, I sure’s fuck hope those two weren’t related.” John cast her a sidelong glance. “They weren’t.” “Good, cuz that woulda been weird. Anyways, where was I? Oh yeah. It was all so goddamn unnecessary. One could argue that Odin was being a giant troll and knew exactly how things were going to play out, but still. Völsung and his family could’ve easily defied their sad fuckin’ fate just by saying that a fancy sword wasn’t worth it, no matter who stuck it in a tree.” “A sad fate, indeed. Like these poor fellows. Let’s pretend that these fallen warriors in front of us are indeed ancestors of this long forgotten clan. We had such high hopes for them. They made sweeping proclamations. Competition. Our eyes lit up with exhilaration as we witnessed the arrival of two men who could be our greatest challenge to date.” John sighed. “But what we saw instead was their untimely demise. Falling to the allure of a fruit-filled conspiracy. There was false hope when we saw them dismantle The Syndicate. But whohasn’t? They weren’t who we were hoping for.” “Not at all. How in the name of Fenris’ giant goddamn teeth were we supposed to expect a challenge from a pair of so-called warriors who couldn’t even crush a couple of looney-tunes melonheads? I mean it’s not like they didn’t put up a decent fight, but we’ve had enough of ‘decent’ fights. We weren’t sold on ‘decent’. We came for something we could talk about in Valhalla. Something that we could be proud we took part in, win or lose. How the fuck could we be proud of losing to the sloppy seconds of the motherfucking Melon Club?” Mike rested her forehead on the end of her giant sword, sighing in obvious disappointment. “With that said, we are willing to look past that. We are going to give them a proper send-off. Worthy of their status. Honoring their memory. Celebrating their accomplishments.” Church went towards the chest. He retrieved a keyring from his belt and held up one bronzed key. A sun ray peeked through the mist and caught on the key. He knelt and unlocked the chest, flipping the lid backwards. He rummaged through the contents and picked out two familiar looking championships. New England Championship Wrestling Tag Team Champions. Replicas or not, they were convincing. He hefted one to Mike and then got to his feet. “These right here represent just what they were capable of. Champions in their own right. Four hundred forty five days. Legends say they never lost them. And then one day, a man tempted them with greater fortunes. And they forfeited these. They traded their greatest achievement for a chance to step foot in the best tag team division in the world. Their avarice blinded them to the reality that this silver tongued man had failed long ago and only sought to attach his name to theirs. Like an albatross, he hung around their necks and dragged them down to the depths of his mediocrity.” Mike nodded. “They didn’t need him. Never did. Sarah didn’t and she’s doing fantastic for herself. She beats the fuck out of who needs beaten the fuck out of and doesn’t need any little weasel telling her how, what, where, or fuckin’ when. They shoulda followed her example. Pity.” She tisked, shaking her head and looking at the belt in her hands before dropping it into the boat atop the banner, Bishop following suit. “Just in case any of you’re confused out there, Faithful, the Death Squad ain’t fuckin’ dead. This is all symbolic and shit.” “And this upcoming match? Believe us, we’re looking forward to it. Maybe not as much as before. But still. We’re aware of the ramifications of this match. We would rather have something more up for grabs. But, that’s a conversation for Monday. Lovecraft and Masterson. They’re bigger than us. Stronger than us. More time put in than us as a unit. They came into this company and looked past us. Tore down the very teams that outwitted them and said that these...” He tapped the front plate of his Tag Team championship. “...were theirs.” “And some could be pithy and say ‘didn’t you guys do the same thing?’ No. When we said it, the belts were in the mitts of one guy who I’m pretty sure has to double check to make sure he puts his underwear on the right way. When we came here, the division was in sorry fuckin’ shape, and I don’t wanna say we fixed it ourselves, but we pretty much fixed it ourselves. We earned the right to lay claim to these. We earned the right to fight and win and defend them. This division, these titles... despite some fuckin’ smirking degenerate’s claims, they mean the goddamn world to us. You don’t get to barge in outta nowhere with your snakey little puppeteer and claim what belongs to us without so much as a by your leave from the fuckin’ kings.” The warriors tamped the ends of their greataxes against the wooden planks, the shieldmaidens smacking their swords against their shields, letting out the same barking cry they did when NSFW first appeared at the dock. “Honor us and we would have honored you. Just think about it. NSFW versus nearly six hundred pounds of monstrous power. Not a militant group of proud boys. Not a dubious pairing that was never meant to last. Not mindless mercenaries. Not just for fun. And no worshipping of the lesser gods. No. A real legitimate tag team. Challengers to our championships. That’s what we want to see in the Völsung Death Squad.” “That’s right. We want a good hard fight. Something that we, you, and everybody who sees it won’t ever fuckin’ forget. Because that’s what we’re about. ‘NSFW vs. The Tag Division’ wasn’t just a cute title on an award. That’s what we do. We take on any and all comers, friend or foe, who want to try and take the throne. Over and over, people come for these crowns, and over and over, we still reign supreme.” John unsheathed a dagger from his belt and slashed at the rope binding the boat to the moor. Mike planted her boot into the hull and kicked the boat further into the lake. The mist by this time had began to clear. Sunlight shimmered upon the water on this cold day. “Mike, these two have been gifted a great opportunity. And right now, we are going to absolve them of their past shortcomings. In moments, their legacy, tainted by a pretender, will be burned away and they may start anew.” “People can say what they will. This division is one of the crown jewels of this company. We’re Not Second Fiddle Warriors, we’re as worthy fucking champions as anyone. And we expect you to be just as worthy contenders. Learn from your goddamn namesakes and earn your place in Valhalla.” Turning her head back behind them, Mike nods briefly before looking back towards the longboat. It floated out a ways away, and as it did, the archer made his way out, the gathering of warriors, shieldmaidens, and bannermen stomping their weapons and letting out the rhythmic, barking chant, anticipating what was to come. Stepping back, NSFW gave him plenty of room as he lit an arrow in one of the torches, nocked it, and let it fly. The arrow landed perfectly on the drifting boat, setting it ablaze, the morning sun and the rising fire staining the shimmering water a vivid display of oranges and yellows. Letting out one last cheer, the gathered throng of warriors and their kings watched the burning vessel sail across the lake.

ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ·s ᴀɴ ᴀʟʙᴀᴛʀᴏss ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɴᴇᴄᴋ → ᴅᴏᴏᴍᴇᴅxʏᴏᴜᴛʜ

          there's laughs coming from her as           she does another line with tj. it'd           been a long day. long day meaning           she'd been out and about and found           one of the nuns from the orphanage           she grew up in before finally running           away. because skye wasn't rude, she           talked for a bit but as soon as she saw           an opening, she split. In a way, she           always appreciated the orphanage. but           all in all. she hated it.. on the way to her           house, a quick text to tj and stopping by           her dealer's and she was set for the rest           of the day. now she was just on cloud nine           ...or thirteen...what was the highest cloud out          there? doesn't matter, but she was sure that          she was on that cloud. 

                           but this time wasn't like all the rest.                            her heart raced a little faster than                            normal, the room spun a little which                            it really shouldn't have. her stomach                            turned and when she got up to take                            care of herself and let all of this pass                            over, she instead retched on the floor                            and then fell, her vision going black                             and her body falling limp.