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grandmaster-anne · 1 year

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Princess Anne

Horse & Hound | Published 13 August 2020

“IT was a fairy story ending,” read the 1971 Horse & Hound report of the Princess Royal’s victory at the European Championships at Burghley. “Of course, everyone knows now that Princess Anne won the individual championship, but only those who were there can appreciate the extent of the popularity of her victory, or the tension that gripped the thronged arena during her jumping round on Sunday.”

The reporter WW Thomson’s gushing account of the 21-year-old’s performance aboard Doublet perhaps reflected a nation gripped by this sporting tale; a rapid rise to the top, a home-bred destined to be a polo pony and a mother who happened to be The Queen.

“This really was a fabulous event. The Queen and Prince Philip were there, the weather was right, the winners were right, and Princess Anne not only beat the best in Europe, but trounced them,” it read.

In the following decade, the Princess was on the podium at another European Championships with a different horse, at an Olympic Games and in the top 10 of the world’s biggest four-stars, silencing any sceptics who’d wondered if Burghley had been a chance feat.

“It was very new really, having a woman royal doing such a tough sport,” reflects her fellow competitor and former team-mate Lucinda Green. “Not long before, eventing was considered a man’s sport. She was more than up to the task of eventing, but she just had to deal with the press, which is never easy. In retrospect she did our sport a huge service.”

FOR someone barely out of teenage-hood when she reached the sport’s highest echelons, the Princess’ start in the saddle was refreshingly low-key, with ponies turned out rugless and ridden straight from muddy fields.

The setting was, of course, grander than most – Windsor, Sandringham and Balmoral served as sprawling riding schools, and early equestrian thrills came from riding in her grandmother’s carriage to watch Trooping the Colour on Horse Guards Parade. But there was also an unremarkable Shetland (Fum), a hefty Welsh pony who stood on her toe (Kirby Cane Greensleeves) and humiliating bending races on the 13.2hh Bandit.

By the time she was riding the 14.2hh Watersmeet High Jinks, who was stabled at the Moat House riding school in Kent during her last year of boarding school, there was no escaping her gilded status.

On one occasion, workmen spotted the Princess’s policeman leaning against the end of the school, before calling out “‘Oi! You!... Are you royalty or something? Why’s that man watching you?” she recalls in her 1991 autobiography Riding Through My Life.

“At the age of 16 or 17 you’re not terribly ready with an instant repartee to queries like that, so I replied, ‘Well, yes, I am.’”

Competition discipline and manners were instilled by the riding school’s owner Cherry Hatton-Hall, one of many who helped shape the Princess’s eventual prowess. Before the Princess and her older brother were competent enough to ride with The Queen, Her Majesty would impart knowledge from her bicycle as she rode alongside them. And then there was the groom Frank Hatcher at Windsor, who was a stickler for ensuring feet were picked out and tack was on correctly.

But it was perhaps Alison Oliver (see box, above) who was the vital piece in the puzzle that enabled Princess Anne to transition from a horse-mad schoolgirl to a sportswoman riding for Britain in just three years.

“I was very fortunate to be in the right place at the right time,” says Alison about her royal student. “We just clicked.”

WHEN the Princess realised that a conventional career didn’t seem viable on leaving school, she was determined to channel her energy into doing something well – and the answer was equestrian sport.

As Mary Gordon-Watson, who was part of the British team at the 1971 Europeans, says: “She was obviously very determined and hard-working, like she is in everything that she does. She wanted to succeed, and she did, at the highest level.”

At first, the Princess was lured by the prospect of polo; riding her father’s ponies had given her a taste of the competitive spirit of horses. But it was the combination of being lent the crown equerry Lt Col Sir John Miller’s horse Purple Star, who sparked her interest in horse trials, and being sent to Alison Oliver’s stables at Warfield in Berkshire, that meant that an eventing career was set.

By the time she won gold at Burghley in 1971, she’d ridden at just two other-three-day events, but it was soon obvious that this was no flash in the pan.

“You couldn’t fail to be impressed when she achieved success all over again [at subsequent championships] with Goodwill, who was a totally different type of horse,” adds Mary.

“From Doublet, Princess Anne went to a veritable hurricane in Goodwill,” says Lucinda about the difference in the Princess’ two championship rides; the first who was bred as a polo pony was polite and willing, and the latter was a famously strong former showjumper.

“If Doublet had turned up later in my career, we would all have looked at him and said: ‘What’s that?’,” the Princess told Eventing magazine about the gelding who The Queen had bred out of an Argentine mare and on whom Prince Philip had played polo.

“It was only because he came along at such an early stage in my life and because he was home-bred that he got his chance to be an eventer at all.”

In contrast, she remembers Goodwill as “nearly everybody’s idea of the ideal type of event horse… with excellent conformation, strong, active paces and well-developed jumping muscles”.

The pay-off for this raw talent, however, was having to learn to adapt to the gelding’s strength.

“Dressage was largely a case of containment,” she admitted.

AT the 1973 Europeans in Kiev, the Princess’ and Goodwill’s appearance came to an abrupt end when she fell at the second fence.

But out of the saddle there was also her own high profile to contend with; a bugging device was found in her hotel room telephone, and on one occasion she was accosted with outstretched arms by an over-friendly hotel maid.

“She might have mistaken me for somebody else, somebody more famous like Lucinda Prior-Palmer for instance, but then we shall never know,” quipped the princess.

At the Europeans in Luhmühlen two years later, she was subjected to press speculation that Goodwill’s good dressage score was the result of doping, when what they had in fact seen was Capt Mark Phillips giving the horse a sugar lump before the test.

This angst – combined with waking up on cross-country morning with a cold – didn’t detract from her performance. She clinched the individual and team silver medals, a triumph she looks back on with greater satisfaction than her gold four years earlier.

“By that stage, everything that could have gone wrong had done, and I’d started again,” she told Horse & Hound.

However, it was at the Montreal Olympics the following year that the Princess was given a stark reminder of the levelling nature of the sport.

With her parents and three brothers watching on, concussion after a fall on cross-country day meant that she was even stripped of the satisfaction of remembering finishing the course. But her upbringing had armed her with an enviable sense of perspective and the luxury of being able to see her sport as a hobby.

“I had other things to do that would not be affected by my performance, good or bad,” she reminisced in her autobiography.

The following year, her son Peter was born, and although she went on to finish sixth at Badminton in 1979, no more championships beckoned. For over a decade, however, whether photographed with a medal around her neck, or dusting herself off after hitting the turf, the media – and public – were captivated. Eventing had been dealt an ace card.

Pictures by Keystone Press/Alamy, Leslie Lane, Alec Russell, Press Association, PA Archive/PA Images and Central Press Photos

#princess anne #princess royal #queen elizabeth ii #prince philip #duke of edinburgh #equestrianne #article #h&h

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lyledebeast · 1 year

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I haven't watched the Gilded age but from what I've read the gay character on there is from the upper class and therefore affluent while Thomas is from the working class. So it could be that in Fellowes mind he believes that it's easier to have a low key same sex relationship if you are rich and etc.. rather than when you don't have much in terms of resources. I actually read an interesting article recently about how LQBTQIA working class representation in period pieces is often neglected because many writers don't know how to cater for those characters.

"Also worth mentioning is that the Gilded age has Micheal Engler - a gay man as an executive producer and he also directed most of the episodes of the GG. He also directed the first Downton Abbey movie where he had alot of influence on Thomas's storyline. So I'm sure that helps the Gilded age to have him on board full time. Still I do think Thomas's storylines suffered because of some pre conceived notions about what limitations his social class could impose on him."

Thank you for preemptively answering what was going to be my first question about The Gilded Age, lol!

Yeah, I figured at least one of the men Fellowes allows to be in an ongoing relationship had to be wealthy. That, after all, is a key difference between Thomas/Richard and Thomas/Guy that allows the latter to be successful.

It sure does seem like, in much popular representation at least, you can only be marginalized in one identity category. You can be queer or working class, but you can't be both (same if you're a PoC or, God forbid!, all three).

I didn't know Micheal Engler was so involved in The Gilded Age. That explains a lot. Apparently, it takes a gay man looking over Fellowes' shoulder going, "No, being gay isn't just an unending obstacle course of state sanctioned horrors for everyone. No, not even in the 1920s. No, not even for working class men." I only wish he had listed to Alastair Bruce so well.

#thank you for the ask!#downton abbey #thomas barrow

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thiswasinevitableid · 1 year

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If I haven’t missed the boat yet on winter prompts, 24 with Vincent and Apollo? Vincent is, like, a professional harpist and unaccustomed to provoking strong feelings of lust in anyone, but Apollo is miserable because of his job and family and the cold weather and Vincent’s low-key performance brings him more joy than he thinks he’s felt in months. Also maybe Apollo (who is dressed to kill, obviously) starts hitting on Vincent after Vincent has already overheard him shutting down several people who attempted to flirt with him?

Here you go!

The irony of Abbadon Company hosting a party on Martin Luther King day is not lost on Apollo. Though he’s not sure where “how useful they are to me” falls on the color-of-skin to content-of-character judgment spectrum.

Apollo glares at his wine, then at the snow outside, and finally the woman his age approaching him with a flirtatious smile. His father has more or less ordered him to treat this evening as a chance to meet a prospective partner, but he has no interest in such pursuits. Other men may enjoy having their egos stroked by pointless–or calculated– flirtation, but Apollo doesn’t need such things to know he’s superior to everyone here.

The bulk of them will be working for him in the next ten years. The sooner they learn to only come to him when absolutely necessary, the better.

God he hopes it’s ten years. If his father lives much past fifty Apollo may be forced to kill him himself.

He moves from the dining room to the living room, the shape of the house and the marble of the floor making his steps echo even when the hall is full of people.

As he helps himself to another glass of wine (red, so expensive that people gasp when they see how many bottles his father puts out), the assistant V.P of Public Relations approaches him. This is the worst part of Indrid turning his back on the family; anyone who wants to raise their position at the company by flirtation or flattery now has only one Cold twin to direct that at. Not that Indrid deserved any of it, not once he started dying his hair and putting tattoos where people could see them. He looked ridiculous and was a disgrace to the Cold name, but at least he was here.

“That’s a lovely tie, Mr. Cold.”

Apollo looks at the other man, “Given your own ensemble I’m amazed you can identify any clothing of actual quality.”

Then he strides away to the far corner of the room, wishing the Christmas tree was still up to provide some degree of cover from these opportunists.

Sitting, he allows himself a moment to close his eyes and repeat in his mind all the reasons this will be worth it.

Music, light and elegant, curls around his brain. The longer he listens, the more it slips beneath his skin, coaxing his muscles to relax, his joints to remember they’re bone instead of iron. Were he alone, he’d let himself sway side to side as he soaked in the melody. Instead he opens his eyes and searches for its source.

A harp stands in the corner to his left. The man playing it is unremarkable. Apollo knows this because his height and weight are clearly average, as is the grey in his hair. Yet he cannot take his eyes off him, stares at the way his fingers strum the harp and his face creases into a smile as he plays.

Summoning all his stealth, he shifts one seat to his left, then another, and another, until he’s on the sofa nearest the harp. He watches him play for at least fifteen minutes, wondering if this is how cobras feel when they rise from their baskets at the call of the flute. He’s so engrossed in the music that he doesn’t notice the quartet of string instrument players until one of them says, “Hey Vincent, is it alright if we start setting up.”

Vincent glances at the gilded grandfather clock, “Oh, of course. I hadn’t realized it was eight already.”

Damn his father for hiring a parade of musicians to show off. Apollo is not about to let this harpist leave without a fight.

When Vincent stands, Apollo mirrors him and purrs, “Would you care to join me for a drink?”

“That’s a very kind offer, but the host made it clear performers weren’t to go off and join the party.”

“Seeing as I am Apollo Cold, if you’re with me no one will argue. If they do I’ll simply eject them from the premises.”

Rather than looking impressed, brown eyes glitter with bemusement, “You liked my playing that much?”

“Yes. Ergo, have a drink with me.”

Vincent chuckles, “Alright. Just one, though, I have to drive home.”

They adjourn to the cluster of wine bottles, and Apollo gets a thrill out of the way Vincent’s eyes widen at the labels.

“Someone here certainly has expensive taste.” He glances at Apollo, “which one do you prefer?”

“That one.” He points to a Cabernet Sauvignon that he identified as being the one that indicates he knows what he’s talking about without being completely vile to drink.

Vincent pours them each a glass, stepping back to allow a trio of younger attendees access. Two of them are making goo-goo eyes at each other to a degree that suggests they’ll be in the New York Times wedding announcements within a year. Apollo feels rather ill.

As he steps to the side he lets his eyes glide down Vincent’s chest, “Your suit is magnificent. Where did you get it?”

“I had it made when my older sister got engaged so I’d have something to wear to her wedding. Lavender was one of her colors and, well, I liked the suit so much it’s become my favorite to wear to formal occasions.”

Apollo looks more carefully at the grey fabric and realizes it is, in fact, magnificent. The pinstripes of lavender and metallic silver shooting through it like flowers in a sidewalk, perfectly matching the tie around Vincet’s neck and giving him a subtly playful air.

“Do you work at Abbadon?” Vincent sips his wine, letting out a little “mmm” and regarding the glass appreciatively. Apollo envies it.

“Yes. I stand to take over the company when my father retires.”

“That’s quite a tall order.”

That wrong-foots him; why isn’t Vincent allowing him just to stand here and flatter him? Men with wrinkles and noticeable guts usually can’t get enough of that. He poached four top engineers for Abbadon that way!

“I suppose, but I was born for it. Your harp…work? Is excellent. Do you play with the symphony?”

Vincent full on laughs, and Apollo feels like he’s under a blanket by a fireplace, warm, cozy, and perilously close to going up in flames, “Glad to know it sounds so professional. I’m actually a security consultant. I play as a hobby, have since I was a boy.”

“Your father let you do that all day?” Apollo gestures to where the harp is tucked safely under its black covering.

A grey-black eyebrow raises, “My father’s the one who encouraged me. Nothing made him happier than his children exploring the arts.”

Indrid’s last argument with their father flashes through his mind, his fool of a twin hissing that he’d rather be broke and bringing beauty into the world than trapped in a golden cage forged in blood.

“I can’t say ours did the same.”

“You have siblings?” Vincent seems genuinely intrigued in that piece of small talk.

“I’ve no interest in discussing them.” Apollo smiles, “I’d much rather talk about you.”

A quirk in Vincent’s polite smile suggests he knows what Apollo is doing, but he lets the younger man lead him out onto the balcony all the same.

As the clock ticks down to midnight, Vincent reveals himself to not only be musically talented but conversationally captivating and charming as well. By the time Apollo runs out of ploys to keep him in the house, what he wants from the interaction is increasingly jumbled. He wants to drop to his knees or into Vincent’s arms and beg him to take him with him, to not leave him alone here. He wants to throw himself over the railing or into the fire for having such ridiculous thoughts in the first place.

He wants a hug.

“I’d better get on the road. Quixote is probably fussing up a storm as we speak.”

“I could hire someone to go check on him for you.”

Vincent gives him a gentle smile and holds out his hand, “Thank you, but no. It was wonderful getting to know you, Apollo.”

Apollo takes the offered hand, shaking it, “will you play here again?”

“Maybe, if someone gives a good review to your father.” He winks, then pulls on his coat, “goodnight, Apollo.”

“Goodnight.” He holds the door for him, giving a final wave as Vincent goes to meet a rideshare that can get his harp home safely. Then he closes it, runs upstairs, and watches from the study window until Vincent is gone.

—------------------------------------------------------------

Vincent double checks his list, the lights inside Walgreens buzzing like dying bugs as he makes sure he’s not forgetting anything. The storm is only supposed to get worse over the week, and he’d rather not go out again if he can help it.

Blond hair in the security mirrors catches his eye, and a cursory glance over his shoulder confirms Apollo is two aisles over, idly studying the make-up shelves. Yet another data point in the confusing phenomenon that is Apollo Cold.

That the younger man was so taken with his playing at the party wasn’t odd, but the attempted flirtation that followed certainly was. 37 year old harpists don’t generally inspire lust in anyone, in his experience. And it’s not as if Apollo had no other places to put his attention; from his corner, Vincent watched him burn a path through the room, hair like summer sun and a face that would be beautiful if he didn’t look so murderous. Vincent even overheard a guest lay out his plan for flirting with the Cold heir, only to watch Apollo deliver a remark that caused the man to flee.

So, yes, having that sharp persona soften over the course of the evening was flattering and endearing. Vincent was half-convinced the younger man was going to beg to come home with him, and his mind has since formed a whole galaxy of thoughts circling around him.

Then there was the fact Vincent has played three events since the party and Apollo has been to every one of them. What’s strange is Apollo never comes near him while he’s there; just finds somewhere to hover or hide and listens to him play. Whether he’s doing this out of shyness or a desire not to make Vincent feel stalked is unclear.

And now here he is, in a drug store on the opposite side of town from the Cold mansion, nowhere near anywhere Abbadon does business, on a weekend, in a massive storm. If he follows Vincent to his apartment, it’s time for a talk.

He checks the reflections in time to see Apollo skillfully palm a bottle of nail polish. Then he’s making his way to the exit, with no indication he even knows Vincent is there.

Curiouser and curiouser, as his mother would say.

Vincent pays and leaves the store, snow sticking to his hair in the time it takes to pull up the hood of his coat. On the corner, in a fawn colored greatcoat, is Apollo, glaring at his phone. As Vincent gets closer, he can tell the heir is jumping between rideshare apps and cursing under his breath.

“Apollo? Is everything alright?”

The younger man actually jumps, expression one of pure terror when he sees who’s addressing him. Then his mask is yanked back in place.

“No, because no one in this blasted city is taking passengers right now.”

“Probably because the snow is about to make the roads impassable. Are you trying to get home?”

“Yes, as I’d rather not stay in some dump for days on end.”

“You could stay with me, if you’d like. My apartment is just a block up and I have the space.” He offers in part because he wouldn’t put it past Apollo to try to walk the miles home in a blizzard, daring the weather to kill him all the while. But, as guilty a thought as it is, the idea of Apollo, storm-tossed and sheltering in Vincent’s home is extremely appealing.”

“Very well. I will stay with you. Give me those bags.”

“I can carry them just fine.”

“Give me the bags old man, I do not want you falling.”

Vincent laughs and hands them over, “Alright, if a strapping young thing like you wants to carry my things, who am I to argue.”

They wobble and shuffle until they reach his building. As they climb the stairs Apollo cocks his head, “You have the entire top floor?”

“Yes, though it’s not as fancy as you’re hoping. It was originally two studio apartments that they renovated into one. Here we are.”

The click of the lock is answered by a jingling collar, Quixote trotting to the door and instantly circling Apollo to sniff him out.

“Hello, dog. You are very pretty.”

Vincent tries not to laugh as he takes the bags from him and carries them to the kitchen. Apollo out of his element is awkward, yes, but a thousand times more human than the man he met at the party.

Apollo joins him in the kitchen, sitting at the table and studying the room like a detective trying to solve a murder.

“I’m going to make an early dinner. Would you like something to drink? I have wine, though nothing quite like your father’s collection.”

“....Do you have anything less bitter?” Apollo says, so softly that Vincent’s heart twists with worry.

“Of course. Here” he pulls out a pomegranate San Pelligrino, “These are nice. I keep some in my fridge since my nephew wants to drink “fizzy water” like the adults.”

Apollo pops the tab and sighs happily after his first sip, “Yes I like that much better. What are you making?”

“Carbonara. Can you pass me a cheese grater? It’s in that drawer.”

Apollo finds the implement and hands it over, asking if Vincent always cooks for himself and if it’s always so elaborate and…

Twenty minutes later, dinner is nearly ready and they’re thoroughly engrossed in a discussion of mid-century, Italian cinema. For someone who snapped orders left and right the last time he saw him, Apollo is remarkably willing to take directions to set the table and further shut out the storm. Vincent wonders if he’d take directions so gladly in bed, if the way he brightens when Vincent says “thank you” translates to the kind of man who melts at the slightest praise when on his back.

He forces himself to push those thoughts aside; if Apollo is interested, his stealth at the concerts suggests he’s shy or embarrassed about it. Not to mention he’s functionally stuck with Vincent for the next few days, and hitting on him feels too much like he’s being a creepy old man. He only likes to do that consensually.

They chat happily over their plates, and it becomes clear that while Apollo is smart as whip in his field, he’s not as interested in taking over the company as he wants everyone to believe. As he’s clearing dishes, Vincent’s curiosity gets the better of him.

“Why take nail polish? Even the fanciest kind must be in your budget.”

Apollo cocks his head, “What do you mean?”

He’s good, Vincent will give him that, so good that for a moment he questions what he saw with his own eyes.

“In the Walgreens. We were in there at the same time.”

His guest stands, “you must have seen someone else. I was in the Starbucks on the corner, not the Walgreens. Excuse me.”

He disappears into the bathroom, and Vincent wonders what the odds are of him trying to throw the nail polish bottle out the skylight. A few minutes later, a baffled voice drifts down the hallway.

“What on earth is this?”

Vincent crosses the hardwood, Quixote at his heel, to find Apollo staring at a photo on the wall.

“That’s my father.”

“He is in a dress.”

He chuckles, “Very observant.”

“Watch it old man.”

“If you must know, young man, that’s from a Christmas panto. He studied abroad in England and did a few of those while he was over there.” He nudges the photo to rest at the right angle, “it’s actually where he met my mother. They were both Americans studying away from home, and to hear him tell it he saw her in a production of Twelfth Night and knew he was going to marry her.”

Apollo snorts but keeps listening. Vincent guides his attention to another photo, this one of both his parents at their thirtieth wedding anniversary.

“Mother was from the east coast, father from the west, so they compromised and moved to Chicago. My father ordered her fresh roses every week, even when she was staying home raising us. He’d take us to museums and plays on the weekends to give her a break and some rest.” He looks at the man in the photo, in his lapis lazuli blue suit and smiles, “I’ll always be grateful to him for taking my coming out so well. Though we disagreed about how flamboyantly I was willing to dress at work; he thought I should dress how I liked. I wanted to avoid too much pushback and losing chances at my career.” He touches Apollo’s arm, “that suit of mine you like so much was one of my first forays into wearing what I wanted.”

Apollo stares down at where Vincent’s hand rests on his sleeve like it’s the first time he’s seen the gesture. When he looks up, his amber eyes are fighting to conceal his nerves.

“I couldn’t risk someone, anyone, seeing me buy it. That is why I am all the way out here in the first place. It was foolish anyway, I won’t have any chances to wear it, and remover smells, he will be able to tell in an instant-” Apollo shakes his head, digs his hand into his pocket and produces the bottle, “here, take it.”

Vincent opens his palm. When the bottle drops into it, Apollo meets his eyes, “If you breathe a word of this to anyone I will destroy you.”

Vincent doesn’t doubt he could. But he doesn’t think he will. Not with how his shoulders and hunching inwards.

“Come with me.” Vincent holds out his other hand, guiding Apollo to the couch. He shakes the bottle and twists the cap, raising his eyebrows in question.

“He, I, I can’t.”

“You’re staying a few days here, right?”

“Absolutely. Because I am not a fool who passes up time with an interesting man.”

He blushes, “And I have some nail polish remover from when my niece stayed here. You can take it off whenever you need to.”

Apollo looks at their joined hands, then back up, “Do it.”

Vincent strokes the brush across the first nail, Apollo’s breath catching at every little touch. Light purple, flecked with gold, glides into place, and the longer he works the more Apollo’s heartbeat thumps in his wrist.

Fuck going home after the storm. He’s keeping Apollo here, with him, forever. He’ll spoil him and paint his nails and give him anything his heart desires, kiss his face and run his hands over those long legs and tempting body until he stops looking like a hunted lion.

Apollo keeps his hands still once Vincent is done. As he puts the cap back on he murmurs, “I like this color.”

“I…I chose it because of you. It reminded me of you.”

Carefully, he takes Apollo’s right hand and turns it over, then bends to kiss the skin of his wrist. He’s expecting a gasp. What he gets is a moan.

“Is that alright, sweetheart?”

“Yes, yesyes, Vincent, please, I want, I want…”

He catches each wrist, kissing them in turn before holding them apart so he can lean forward and kiss Apollo’s lips. Newly painted fingers flex and Apollo whines against his mouth.

“It’s not fair, doing that when I cannot touch you yet.”

Vincent kisses him again, just to hear him sigh, and whispers, “You seem to have stolen a quick drying variety. But more than that…” he kisses down Apollo’s throat, “we have time to get acquainted, and we can see each other whenever we like. Unless, of course, you want to go back to watching me play the harp from the shadows.”

Apollo lunges forward, kissing him demandingly, before pulling back with a smile at once wicked and brightly, painfully, hopeful, “Never."

#vinlo #vincent/apollo #winter fills

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senatushq · 1 year

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Eve

NAME/ALIASES. UTP AGE & BIRTH DATE. Prehistoric & Unknown SPECIES. Aspect GENDER & PRONOUNS. Female & She/Her or She/They AFFILIATIONS. Founder of The Eye of Horus OCCUPATION. UTP FACECLAIM SUGGESTIONS. Gabrielle Union, Eva Green, Tanaya Beatty, Adeline Rudolph, Camila Mendes, Conor Leslie, Davika Hoorne, Diane Guerrero, Erin Moriarty, Ivory Aquino, Jamie Clayton

History

No matter its gilding, a golden cage is still a cage. They tore a rib from a man made of clay, wrenched it into the mud and whispered a breath of life upon it. From an earthen mound Eve clamored, fingers raw and her eyes sour to the harsh light of the day. The first woman, the first wife of Adam, the first mother, and the first queen of the mortal realm. Eve was the mother of sons - Cain fated to kill Abel and Seth whose line would end with Noah. Blessed by Titania for reasons unknown to her, the fey queen embedded in her the knowledge to kill any who might attack her. Yet, she was not believed because who would take the word of earth and clay? Eve was a woman carved from stone and she watched as her kingdom grew under the weight of Titania and Ulthar’s magic, if they were the second draft, she was the first. The clay that made her skin never cracked, the hair upon her head or her children’s heads never changed, and the man that she was made to be wife for, never died. In those early days the angels were made to kneel and from her people The First named archdruids that were to be as Adam’s protectors and guardians of their great and royal family. Every passing year the walls grew smaller, her children remained fair and youthful and her people never knew disease or war or old age or death. Life would always be as such: perfect, peaceful, never-changing save for the faces who toiled about the palace, the gardens, the farms. When the fallen rebelled they did not just bring war to the garden, but free will. It was the first time a choice had been made that Eve bore witness to, when Lucifer was told to bow at her feet and the most beautiful of the princes of the seraphim, refused.

Eve did not count her people’s losses in the tens or hundreds, but in the thousands. In the ashes of where the garden burned the fey planted seeds to regrow what had been lost, the archdruids chose champions from the ranks of humans and Eve was promised that this time would be different. Her husband had survived, it seemed nothing could ever kill Adam. In the years that followed it began as a whisper, a hiss like a serpent that came in her dreams, then there was a voice - a woman. Adam’s first wife, Lilith. She spoke of a key that would free her from the garden, all that Eve had to do was seize. Lilith extended her hand towards Eve and in a moment of fleeting thought she considered a world beyond the one that she’d always known, beyond the life of servitude to a man she did not choose, freedom from music that turned brother against brother, freedom from the siring of children whose destinies were already written. Eve chose her own path and in a single moment, she took the demon’s hand and fled into a world that was entirely her own. Age followed the humans from the moment she left the remains of the garden behind, mortality was her own doing but it never touched her, Adam vanished, her sons fought and quarreled, Cain killed Abel. But Eve remained eternal. All her years she’d been made of clay, a thing to be molded and changed, and so she turned herself to stone and Eve’s hunt began. The Eye of Horus was born in the sands of Egypt, when Eve drove her obsidian blade through the heart of Keket and promised an end to the supernatural world.

Connections

Keket: Not Eve’s first victim, but one of many that the founder of The Eye hunted down. Keket was powerful, too powerful to be allowed to live among mortals.

Lilith: Led to freedom by the first demon, Lilith showed Eve that there was strength in choice and independence.

Michael: There was a time when Michael and his kind watched over Eden, now Michael has taken hold of Adam’s body and hunts as Eve does.

Abilities

Blessed: Gifted with knowledge, Titania imbued in Eve with the ability to know how to defeat, weaken, or kill her enemies.

Earthen: Created with the strength of ten men, Eve’s body was originally carved from clay and then hardened with magic. While physically powerful this also makes her immune to magic.

Immortal: Unkillable. Though many have tried, Eve cannot be killed or bound by any magical means. All wounds or injuries will regenerate instantly.

Supernatural: Able to sense and perceive supernatural forces around her, Eve can identify any creature by their presence alone.

Weaknesses

Magicless: However strong, Eve can be contained within physical prisons if captured.

Human: Like any other human, Eve must eat and sleep. If denied food she won’t perish, but she will feel the effects of starvation until she eats again.

THIS SKELETON IS CURRENTLY CLOSED.

#eve #aspectskel #closedskel

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luna-crow · 2 years

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Memory Lane | Luna & August

Neve tried her best to keep her jaw from hitting the floor. But, oh my gods. She had never seen anything so breathtaking! To think Luna’s manor had once seemed the most glorious structure in all the worlds. It was a quaint little cottage in comparison to the opulent wonders before her. Neve had never known such glamour existed, such wealth! It seemed impossible that any mind could summon such grand ideas. But, she supposed that was to be expected. How else would the most powerful man in Midsummer live?

Roheim had a dark sort of beauty, both in color and inspiration.Unlike the natural curves and pearly lusters of the Seelie court, the Unseelie palace took it’s cues from the more dark, angular parts of nature. The palace sat upon a hill, many pointed spires shooting towards the sky like stalagmites, the exterior gleaming black like the shell of a beetle. Even the trees that filled the royal gardens appeared strangely gnarled and bent, resembling knobby fingers reaching up from the soil. The sight of it all made Neve pause for a minute, as she tried to bury the sudden feeling that she did not belong there. Who was she to be even be deserving of gazing upon such splendour? But then again, Neve quietly conceded, from all accounts of the real Luna, she was not deserving of many nice things herself. And yet, she had lived this charmed life. It was Neve’s turn now.

The inside of Roheim had put the outside to shame. Neve gave herself a moment to gawk as servants lead her through the castle. The rooms were swathed in dark velvets and silk, with stained glass and tapestries depicting grisly battle scenes and bloody fae lore covering the windows and walls. But, it was the ballroom that truly knocked the air from her lungs. The gilded room was covered in gold from floor to ceiling, ornate mouldings and flourishes on every available surface. The pang of anger she felt, mingled with awe as she gazed upon the splendour of it, took her by surprise. Even a single nugget of gold could have bought her food for weeks. It was abundantly clear, as it had been many times, that the King placed the decor of his palace. The gold coating the walls of this room could feed all of Belladonna! She had watched those around her grow more gaunt and more hollowed out her entire life, and the gold embedded in these walls was the key to release them from their suffering! Where had Oberon been all these years? And there sitting atop a gilded throne at the end of the room was the smug monarch himself, the focal point in the room, high above all others, a smirk creasing his chiseled features. Again Neve could not help but feel something akin to rage churning in her stomach. Suddenly the grandness of the palace brought her little joy, the dripping grey walls of her orphanage and cold porridge swimming into view in comparison.

It was only as she stirred from her disgust that she felt eyes on her. It had become second nature for her to always be the most alert person in the room, her eyes scanning around her for signs of danger. But in the last few weeks she had felt that defense begin to lower. With a warm meal to eat each night, and guards to protect her, it had begun to feel unnecessary to remain hyper vigilant. But, now she cursed her lowered guard, eyes flitting about to find what had sent that sudden chill up her spine. Her gaze quickly found his:, a handsome middle aged man with brown hair staring back at her with woolfish intensity. In return she glowered at him, increasingly panicked at his attention.

Did he know? Who was he?

#August Beedle.

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abovethesmokestacks · 2 years

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Bucky Barnes x old money

impeccable taste and weekends at martha's vineyard. an upper east side townhouse. vintage cars. pocket watches. family business and legacies looming. the mere mention of his name is a key to the city. the gilded age never faded, it just upgraded.

#my moodboards #Bucky Barnes #Bucky Barnes x old money #Bucky x old money #aesthetics #old money aesthetic #companion piece to follow

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teenageread · 1 month

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Review: Gild

Synopsis:

The fae abandoned this world to us. And the ones with power rule.

Gold.

Gold floors, gold walls, gold furniture, gold clothes. In Highbell, in the castle built into the frozen mountains, everything is made of gold.

Even me.

King Midas rescued me. Dug me out of the slums and placed me on a pedestal. I’m called his precious. His favored. I’m the woman he Gold-Touched to show everyone that I belong to him. To show how powerful he is. He gave me protection, and I gave him my heart. And even though I don’t leave the confines of the palace, I’m safe.

Until war comes to the kingdom and a deal is struck.

Suddenly, my trust is broken. My love is challenged. And I realize that everything I thought I knew about Midas might be wrong.

Because these bars I’m kept in, no matter how gilded, are still just a cage. But the monsters on the other side might make me wish I’d never left.

Plot:

For the past 10 years she had lived in a golden cage within Highbell. As the King’s favorite, only he had keys to her cage, a cage she willingly went into 10 years ago. Despite being locked away, Auren knew it was for her safety as King Midas locked her in there for her own protection, so that no other man could hurt her. This, he did out of love, as he loved her and she loved him. So as she watched him have sex with his six royal saddles, she craved him to touch her like that, to love her, like he had in the past. As a victim of child trafficking, Auren needed Midas to keep her safe and protected. Giving her only Digby, a stern old guard who never participated in her drinking game, even Midas’s cage could not protector from the slurs other men and saddles shot her way. And why wouldn’t they? After all, she was Midas’s favorite, his golden touch girl. As Midas is known to turn the things he touched into gold, no one thought he could do things that were alive, until Auren showed up with him. All but the whites of her eyes, and color of her teeth, everything else about her was shiny, metallic gold. She was happy, until Midas sold her. One night with her, in exchange for their ally of the Fifth Kingdom to move their army to match Midas’s on the border on Forth. Despite her begging, claiming that she was his and his alone, Midas took their years of trust and tossed it out the window. With the hopes that Midas is not selling her to the wolves without a reason, Auren begins to realize that where her cage is golden, it is still the cage, and her life is still being controlled by men who claim to love her, but actions prove otherwise.

Thoughts:

Raven Kennedy started this book advising readers to be over the age of eighteen, and oh boy was they right! This story was wild in terms of sex, abuse, greed, and all things wrong within the patriarchy. The plot is addicting for its ugliest, as Kennedy went dark every single chance they got. Thus the trigger warning prior to the novel, which was placed there in for a very good reason and should be adhered to! For sexual scenes there were only three that really stood out - one that was just a lot, one kind of sweet, and one that will give me nightmares for years to come. Otherwise it is a lot of sexual banter, some kind, others not so nice, that leaves this novel with a very erotic taste. Moving past all of that, the plot was really strong and the characters quite vivid in their goals and aspirations. The story takes place from the point of view of Auren, a girl who is in love with a not so loving guy (Midas), who does not have many friends, yet always tries to see the bright side of things. Her bright optimism really made the story pop, as our girls had to go through some dark times, so her witty jokes and positive attitude made you really want to root for her. She is also clearly in love with someone that does not care about her, because the way Kennedy wrote Midas to see Auren as a possession and not someone who cares about her well being. Midas as a king is hard to figure out, where he is power hungry and loves the throne, he has some sort of twisted way of caring for Auren, as he built her an elaborate and luxury cage system, but still a cage. With some wild twists and turns throughout the novel, Kennedy does a great job at keeping the plot moving with a focus on Auren, while telling us about the history of Orea, the kingdoms, and her and Midas’s history. With this the first part of an epic series, and a cliffhanger to boot, this sexualized story will grab hold of you with its dark content, and not let you go until the very end, with a craving to continue on.

Read more reviews: Goodreads

Buy the book: Amazon

#Gild #The Plated Prisoner #raven kennedy #book reivew

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movierulztvus · 2 months

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yunessa · 10 months

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Chapter 10: Count Daeran Kael ’Myriad-Melliflous-Monikers’ Arendae

Summary:

A count with striking metallic hair and a fellow bard with a lead.

Some meetings are fated to be, others are engineered, some are earned,and others are just mysterious. As my grasp on time began to loosen it seemed right I’d met my companions. Fated to be or by chance I could feel them every time I hummed and touched my magic. Elves have a special word for those that spend time around mortals- Forlorn. We are sociable creatures and are known to make friends easily. The more time I spent with these companions, the more it felt like home. I could fall asleep to Seelah’s snores just assured she was nearby or listen to Lann prepare arrows as I meditated. Forlorn are those that become saddened, burdened by the sorrow those they love will age and leave them centuries before the elves will die. But with these companions I could see why Forlorn made those such choices. It filled something to have them near me, to hear them talk and speak and laugh or just simply exist. It was a subtle realisation in the never-ending day before the Queen’s army came. I had forgotten what it felt like to have a friend who would watch my back as I slept or who would bandage my wounds when I was weary. For these friends, I felt I could stay a bit longer. Slip away later. It was only fair repayment to these friends after all. Nobody else besides my mentor had cared for me so much, with no reward in return. -Yunessa

The mansion was far grander than anything else on the street and far more intact. The outside was designed in a manner that screamed rich with its imported bricks and heavy wooden doors.

“Here! Here, please!” The Squire looked at them fearfully. “The chute… the chute had bodies the demons tossed in there. I can’t go again! Please.” His slender hands grabbed at the door frame and pulled. The door did not so much as budge with the squire’s desperate pull.

“Bodies?” Yunessa asked. Woljif had produced keys that bore the same seal that was on the doors. As Yunessa eyed Woljif he smiled and moved to lean over the lock. Woljif gave Yunessa a angelic smile in response to their look.

“You should have tried using your keys.”

“I- wait! You stole from me! You-”

“Squire.”

“Oh, that-yes, their heads were gone and I think maybe some of their hands? Or was it the arms?” The squire shuddered as he recalled. He tugged at the door as Woljif open dit with a satisfying click.

“Who has a door that only locks from the outside?” As Woljif spoke Yunessa could smell liquor and rich food wafting from deeper inside. The lights in the hallway were warm and the carpets beneath their feet were so soft that Yunessa felt their feet sink into it.

“Let’s save the party folk and then move on. There probably aren’t much to worry about here besides one of those worm pod things.” Yunessa pulled their lute out, plucking at a few strings. Some bards relied on instruments or words but Yunessa used both. It held to greater effect, they reasoned.

“There’s so much food here!” Ember commented as they strode into the dining room. The dining room was massive, easily twice the size of the Defender’s Inn with elegant velvet curtains, silk couches and dining tables that could buy entire houses, laden with food and drink to the point they sagged. The gilding on the walls and beams was intricate, the chandeliers elegant, exuding as much an air of awe as the other furnishings that adorned the room.

A group of nobility had gathered at the other end of the room, laughing softly.

“I must be well and truly drunk. I’m seeing freaks with horns.”

“They aren’t freaks, they’re darling.”

“Cute little creatures!”

The group burst into amused laughter.

Courtesans danced in the nude, giggling and laughing as musicians played in the corner, a melody popular among worshippers of Desna. Among them danced nobility- for that’s what they clearly were in their over adorned garb of silk covered in jewellery and embroidery- drunk or engaged in various entertainments.

The only one among them not otherwise engaged in drunken entertainments sat at the table, his face set in a tense expression as an overweight fellow standing at his side tried to engage him in conversation.

“Count, this Numerian elixir is quite splendid! This occasion is quite something- I haven't had a party like this since I was on a boat with the finest songstress in Mendev on my arm forty years ago!”

“Count Arendae!” Yunessa pitched their voice to rise above the noise. The musicians slowed their playing and stopped. “Count Arendae, we came to rescue you and your guests!” Their group must have made quite a sight entering, but Yunessa’s voice had made the party cease with the music. The man at the table turned his head and Yunessa was struck by the color of his eyes. A bright vivid shade of green. The partygoers began to whisper in the silence the music’s absence left.

“Save us?”

“Save us from what? The freaks? Haha!” One of the group at the far end laughed and his hand hit something in front of himself with a loud smack.

“Beauty… hurt me!” Came a low gravelly voice. The noble that had struck out didn’t cry out before he was hit hard enough for his body to utter a sickening crack. The Abrikandu that had been hidden behind the group had lashed out and it tore at the noble’s body, tearing the meat from it. The other demons that had been watching with the Abrikandu, also began to lash out.

The Count stood up, pushing his chair- and the fellow next to him aside- as the party attendees reacted to the death. They screamed and reacted like cornered men.

“The demons really did attack us!

“Run, hurry- back to the mansion!

“Someone call the inquisitors! Hurry!

“They attacked Baron Mestik!”

“Demons! Demons!”

“Wonderful.” The Count spoke up. “Now brace yourselves for the smell of your own blood, you ghastly eyesore!” With a sharp gesture The Abrikandu exploded in a spray of blood, meat, and bone to the sound of a courtesan’s shrill scream.

The fight had been brief. Between the Count’s surprising help and Yunessa’s group, it had been far less bloody than it would have been. The hall was muted now. Party goers of all ranks watching Yunessa. The count strode up, putting a crossbow back to his belt as he wiped blood from his hands with a handkerchief.

“Greeting valiant stranger who has just burst into my life.” The aasimar’s voice was surprisingly cheerful and polite but his eyes flicked between Yuness and the group. “I am the master of this house, Count Daeran Kael’Myriad-Mellifluous-Monikers’ Arendae.” He held up a hand. “No need to introduce yourself. I find remembering insignificant details such as the names of passing acquaintances a bore.” He oozed charm. Yunessa had rarely interacted with aasimar but they were always a charming lot- the divine blood in their veins made them notable.

“Wow.” Lann’s voice was light but held the edge of sarcasm. “Real bone-fide above ground blue blood and unparalleled aristocracy!” He sniffed loudly. “It makes me want to do something really crass, like blow my nose on the curtains.”

“No, don’t blow your nose-”

The Count- Daeran- gestured to a nearby curtain. One was only lightly covered in gore. “What are you waiting for, my squamous Squire? The curtains in this room are velvet, but we have some excellent silk ones with gold thread in the house. Take your pick- my soft furnishings are yours to do with as you wish. I am quite sick of the place, truly. I shall either sell it, or burn it to the ground and build a new mansion in its place.” Lann’s brow furrowed but before he could speak Yunessa interrupted him.

“I’m Yunessa.” Daeran canted his head, pale green eyes moving to look them over. “If we’re going to have a conversation, I have a name I prefer to be called by rather than passing acquaintance. You can forget it after if you’d like.” A name was important. It was their name and it mattered.

Daeran nodded in agreement. “ Very well. Now that we’re finished with the niceties, tell me this..” Ember went over to the curtains and gently tugged at one.

“Can you help me get one down?” She asked and Woljif was there, a long handled dagger in hand. Ember clapped her hands in delight as he cut into the velvet. Soot, her familiar, watched Woljif from Ember’s shoulder, black eyes studying the tiefling.

The Count snorted softly as he watched. “How did all those thrice damned demons end up at my soiree?”

“The city was attacked by Deskari, demons, a balor- storm something- demons, cultists- you name it. The city’s got several large cuts running through it.” Yunessa gestured to the curtains.

There was no way that the Count was drunk enough to have missed out on the events. In comparison to his inebriated, high guests, the count’s eyes were far too focused, his lips twisting in thought. “I want to ask if you’re joking-” Woljif cut away the length of curtain for Ember with a flourish that had her cheering Woljif on. Lights from the fires spilled into the banquet hall, twisting into ugly shapes on the floor. “But your face tells me you are not. It seems as though Deskari’s occasion was altogether more of a crush than mine, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

“You don’t seem to be concerned about it.” Yunessa commented. The Count sounded as if he was discussing parties rather than the city’s fate. “Your doors won’t hold the demons off for long and we’ve no idea when the army is supposed to save the day-” Yunessa shrugged, their lips twitching. “If it does.”

He shrugged. “I’m not concerned about the city’s fate at all. I have no friends here I would care to mourn. The only alarming thing here is how easily this happened. I simply don’t care for the fact that demons could come calling into my home at any moment.” The lazy smile he put on was different than the emotions his eyes expressed - fatigue. “And to think everyone had so much faith that the Wardstones Iomedae’s herald would keep the demons away along with our tamed dragon. As if there had been no Drezen or a dozen other routs where the demons overcame every hurdle we threw at them…” The lay smile vanished as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“The Arendae family.” Camilla spoke behind Yunessa. “Are one of the most ancient and oble families in Mendeve, related by blood to Queen Galifrey herself.” Yunessa could smell perfume, the sweet and cloying smell of flowers. “The COunt is the last remaining member of the Arendae family. The rest all perished ten years ago, in the tragedy at Heaven’s edge.” Daeran had stopped pinching the bridge of his nose as Camilla spoke and Yunessa could see his eyes harden even as his lips tugged into a smile. “The demons got in and massacred everyone inside but him.” Camilla’s hand brushed against Yunessa’s elbow. “You said you were ignorant of most things. With the memory loss. I hope it was most helpful.”

“I thank you for providing your friend with that helpful summary my lady.” The Count’s voice oozed courtesy, somehow managing not to sound grateful at all. I wouldn’t care to relive such events in front of strangers either. Yunessa kept that thought to themself as Daeran continued to speak “I believe I’ve seen you before- with that hilarious buffoon Horgus Gwerm. I sincerely hope you aren’t engaged in a… sordid arrangement with him. The thought of something so splendid in the proximity to something so grotesque makes me feel quite ill. You deserve a better fate than that man, no doubt.”

Ah, the insults of nobility. Only nobles had such a skill to ooze politeness and sweet words that made it seem on the surface as if they cared. But the words either held thinly hidden insults or verbal daggers.

Camilla sneered at the Count. “Your civility knows no bounds, Count. I most assuredly do not have any ‘arrangment’ with Master Gwerm. “ Irritation filtered through Camilla’s voice, despite the effort Yunessa caught as she spoke. Before she could continue Yunessa broke in.

“What should I know about you then Count?” Ember wrapped the velvet curtain over her shoulders, draping it like a fine cloak and knotting it tightly before she skipped over. “Besides that you’re highborn and very rich? I’m sure you’d be able to inform me.”

The Count’s lips twitched. “As a child, I had my very own pony. But I always dreamed of having a dog. I was never allowed one- the dog I wanted was seen as a peasant animal, a mongrel, utterly unsuitable for the scion of a noble line. The trauma haunts me to this day. I think of it every time I see a dog pass me by.

“I’m sorry that happened to you. That’s such a sad story.” She looked ridiculous wrapped in the cloak-curtain and the oversized jacket.

Daeran blinked at her as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes. “I had not the slightest intention of upsetting such a lovely child.”

“I’m not lonely. Some people have even called me a scarecrow before.” She did look far too thin, even with her raven included.

“That’s patently absurd! Why, you can’t possibly be a scarecrow with a real crow following you around.” At the Count’s words Ember’s smile stretched into one even wider as if she’d heard the nicest compliment she’d receive that day. As Ember pet Soot Daeran’s gaze returned to Yunessa. “I’m sorry if I failed to sate your curiosity.” His eyes moved to Camilla who was ignoring them in favor of the crowd of nobility on the other side of the room. “I loathe talking about myself to people I don’t know, even more to those I do know.”

“Naturally.”

“Naturally.Are you simply saying it?”

“I understand.”

Seeming pleased with that Daeran continued: “The only thing worth knowing about me- aside from the fact I am highborn and filthy rich- is that I dislike puritans and demons in equal measure. Well…. Perhaps demons a tad more.”

Yunessa chuckled. “Only a tad? Let’s hope the puritans don’t decide being high born is an illegal sin next.”

“Do we get any gratitude for saving you?” Woljif asked abruptly. “Or is it just say, the curtains? Asking for a friend.”

“Of course, of course, where are my manners….” The Count inspected his hand, selecting the ring with the largest gemstone. Woljif’s face lit up until he tossed it to Yunessa after removing it. “There. You may also poke about the house and claim whatever takes your fancy. Though I imagine some of you already had that in mind.”

Woljif eyed Yunessa as they looked at the ring in their hand. “I’m feeling very attacked right now.”

“I’m sure you’re having a fun time, Yunessa.” Seelah came up, gesturing to the crowd of party-goers. “I just finished helping the people here- we should take them to the Defender’s heart.”

“I still need to find a priest- could you manage taking them back there with Camilla on your own? And Ember can go with you, if she wants.”

“I’m fine with you.” Ember smiled brightly. “You’ll need me more.”

“Alright. You can also go with Seelah Count. The Defender’s Heart is under the protection of Irabeth Tirabade and the Eagle Watch so you’ll be fine there.” Camilla sourely eyed Yunessa, but her disposition seemed to brighten as one of the young men addressed her in the crowd.

“I thank you for the invitation. But I’m not quite as desperate as I may seem. It is better, at times, to be surrounded by the repugnant mugs of demons than the sour and dour physiognomies of Iomedae’s righteous paladins.” He wagged a finger at Yunessa but he was side-eyeing Seelah, who raised her shield with a flourish, looking at the surface as though it were a mirror.

“What about mine? I see it now. Soon it’ll be sour enough for his Lordship- another few minutes with the dazzling Count and it’ll sour like week-old milk. Just wait for it.”

“What’s this? A paladin with a sense of humour to go with their beauty? You’re a veritable walking scandal.” He tapped his lips. “Regardless, my mansion is as safe as it’ll ever be. I have a pair of half-decent guards. I just need to grab them out of the storeroom and bring them to their senses.-” His face was bright but his eyes still held the edge of fatigue. “I had them drink a love potion you see, for reasons that were extremely witty at the time and in the state of inebriation I found myself in. They can go with your friends to escort the guests and help the valiant paladins at the inn by beating back the demons.” He turned to look at the light that spilled through his windows. The ugly fire light reaching hungrily over the floor as if desiring the mansion too. “They will, won’t they?”

“They’ll try, We will too.” But something in that made Yunesssa desire to expound on the answer. “There’s no way out. So the best thing we can do is to hold on until then or to wipe them out. As unlikely as it might seem. We’re doing quite well so far.”

The count was silent. “ For myself, I feel like stretching my legs.I know rudimentary divine spells, am an excellent healer and no friend to demons. I also elevate any society I deign to grace with my presence. I shall accompany you- only for a short time of course. I have no desire to remain at the vanguard for a protracted period of time.” The look he gave Yunessa had them briefly choke. “What do you say my ephemeral but highley diverting acquaintance? LordDeskri spoiled my party. I now want to spoil his and I am-” His eyes focused on Yunessa for too long. “Quite interested in spoiling his.” He was striking to look at, Yuness realised, like the sunset.

“I don’t like this guy. There’s something off about him. Not evil but dark.”

“He’s got all these friends here but he’s so lonely! We can take him with us, right? Maybe it’ll make him feel better?” Ember, smoothed down the velvet curtain she wore, looking thoughtful. “He likes us.”

“I guess thumping with him the next time he comes out with his fancy aristocratic weapons is not allowed? All the more reason he should stay with us- if the demons don’t get him then the paladins at the inn surely will.” Lann flashed a cocky smile, making a gesture that saw Woljif snickering.

“Aasimar are like going for night time strolls with a diamond tiara on their head. I don’t like that kind of attention.”

It took Yunessa a moment to realise they were waiting on their response.”Oh- yes.” The count cocked a brow and Yunessa felt their face start to flush. “It’s rare to see someone weaponize their appearance so well, Count. But yes, you can come with us.”

“Capital.” He smiled and the air around him seemed to brighten. “I will go retrieve my weapons- I’ve no idea why my squire is slacking off. “ As he breezed past Yunessa, they caught the smell of mountain herbs. “Acquaintances that begin and end at the right moment leave the most pleasant memories, wouldn't you say?”

“-The Defender’s Heart Inn, yes. Go with Seelah, Camilla, Larian, and Jertriv.” Yunessa gestured to the musician who still frowned.

“What good will it do me if these crusaders couldn’t keep the people safe in their own homes?”

“It’ll keep you alive at the least. Everyone else is going.” Seelah had taken charge at Yunessa’s agreement and the others were gathering up, “At any rate- harp mistress!” Yunessa strode over to the one woman who had yet to join the others. The harpist had reluctantly stayed on the stage as the party-goers began to assemble into a crowd at Seelah’s urging.

The harpist looked up. She had been working to repair the small harp she was holding. “I should thank you stranger.” Her harp had an intricate pattern of stars, moons, and butterflies- hallmarks of the Goddess Desna. “It’s hard to find others who share the faith so able to stand up.”

“Well, my lute isn’t so lovely as yours. But I am always happy to meet another bard of Desna. We’re more rare than it seems we should be.”

The harpist grinned. “Yours is lovely- I’m Aranka. I only just arrived in Kenabres recently. I was touring Mendev and beyond to perform for my devoted fans.

“You picked a good house to be in for the moment- everywhere else is in less intact of a condition right now. Has the Count been a good host?” Yunessa heard Ember before they realized she was there, resting their hand atop Ember’s head.

“The count?” Aranka’s eyes looked wary but when she spotted Yunessa’s marks of Desna on the box lute they had. “I’ve wanted to smash a jug over his head five times today.” She lowered her voice. “He brings that feeling out in people, it’s one of his many talents. Other than that… well you’ve probably heard all about the Arendae family already.”

Whoever the Count was, infamous was likely a polite word if Yunessa was being warned about it within minutes of meeting him. But Yunessa just smiled as Aranka continued.

“The count’s servants flee this place like rats from a sinking ship. No one ever stays here long, even though he pays them absurdly well. I heard one of the servants complains they were always feeling like they were being watched. Like there were unseen eyes staring at the back of his head.” She pursed her painted lips. “I don’t know if those are real or not, mind you- just what I've heard and want to share with a fellow worshipper of Desna.”

“People on the street say that too.” Woljif’s tail moved back and forth in its wary pattern. “This is the best bird in the whole city, but all the thieves are afraid to try and steal a feather!”

“I do love people talking as though I’m not on the premises.” Daeran spoke behind them. “Excellent- like any polite host I shall return the favour and act as if none of you are here either.”

“Are you a bard too? I love music. Can you play a song?” Ember gave Aranka wide eyes and the woman looked at Yunessa.

“I’m afraid now isn;t the time for a long sweeping epic.” She began apologetically.

“Something short while they're working to get the guests together, surely.” Yunessa’s hand came back covered in ashes despite Ember’s hair looking clean. “Demons aren’t the best audience and I’m sure the guests couldn’t fully appreciate your voice either.”

Aranka’s eyes lit up. “Performing for either can be unpleasant but today I was at my best.”

“You didn’t hear me sing when we fought?”

“I detect a challenge in your words.” Her fingers brushed against the string of her harp, not quite plucking at it but Yunessa’s ears caught the faint sound it produced.

“Well, I wouldn't normally but I feel I did quite well today and that should be acknowledged.” Yunessa murmured. “After all if we don’t acknowledge my skill then all I have are my looks- not much, I’ll admit.”

Aranka chuckled. “What else would two bard do meeting amid the ruins-”

“Ruins? My house was quite intact.”

“-in the aftermath of a demon attack? Of course they should find out who is more talented and whose songs are more inspiring!” She looked at her harp, picking it up and resting her fingers over the strings.

“I don’t see why not. It’s a matter of skill after all.” Yunessa didn’t reach for their lute, but their fingers stilled in the middle of smoothing down Ember’s hair. “Such things should be settled professionally among bards.”

“Yes! Let’s have a challenge then. Come on, join in!” Aranka began to pluck at her harp, letting the warm notes fill the air. She started to sing, a verse to a simple song often enjoyed by hard workers at an inn. “O day of hardship, your frigid embrace is warmed with song and lifted from this place!” The song was awkward without the right music but her voice gave it an undeniable lighthearted charm.

But Yunessa had learned from a master and when it was their turn they let their voice rise high, following the notes of Aranka’s harp. An intoxicating charm produced from the depths of their soul, the words of a love ballard came forth to charm those listening. “Oh, precious hear, you quiver, with hope and jubilation. From death itself I have delivered, this wonderful creation!”

Aranka paused during the song at Yunessa’s words, caught by the emotion and pulled from her song. Delighted, she clapped her hands. “Wonderful, you outmatched me! I’ll admit it. As an honest bard I owe you a reward for winning this contest! Hmm….”

“The lines about delivering the wonderful creation from death were about me, of course! Don;t deny it.” Daeran had given up on ignoring them, it seemed, to chime in. He’d returned with a crossbow and a pack on his back.

The squire, Yunessa belatedly realized, had yet to be seen since they had entered. The half elf had surely run off, if not hidden somewhere safe in the manse.

“I actually do need something. You were here long before I was. Would you happen to know where I can find a priest- any priest- the Defender’s Inn only had two and they were too weary for what I needed.”

Aranka paused at those words. “What did you need one for?” Her tone was carefully guarded.

“To help alleviate a condition I have. Without it I’ll soon get quite sick. But if they are willing to bless me then it will hold off for a time.” Yunessa answered honestly. “And right now I can’t afford to fall ill. Not when there is so much that needs to be done and so many that require aid.”

“You don’t look so ill.”

“It is a complicated illness to explain. But there’s very little that alleviates it and I’ve found very few who are willing- I don’t even know a priest of Desna in the city or I would have tried to seek them out.”

Aranka stared at Yunessa for a long moment before she nodded slowly. “If you weren’t a worshipper of Desna then you wouldn’t have done this or walked around so easily. I can take you to the temple of Desna if you’re able to keep the demons away from me.” She flashed Yunessa an apologetic half-smile. “I need to see if any of my brothers in the faith are still around as well.”

Yunessa felt the enchanted bracelet Anevia gave them, finding it cold and still. They weren’t needed just yet. Somehow that thought made Yunessa relax ever so slightly in relief.

“That, we can do. But you must stay close to the group. I’ve seen things reach from the cracks and shadows of alleys to snatch at passers-by.” Yunessa kept their face from revealing to many details but Aranka swallowed and nodded, hugging her harp close.

“I can do that.” She promised. “I’ll lead you to the temple and stay close- just don’t let anything get to me.”

“Will you really be fine Seelah?”

“We’ll be fine. There’s three of us t keep them safe and the rest of them all of them are listening and sober. Once we get the guests back to the inn-” The crowd of party-goers were wide-eyed and silent. The rain had lessened to let the fires crackle, casting sickly lights over the group.

“We can make it to a priest.” Lann’s expression was reassuring. “We’re in the inner-city now and everyone said the temples are all connected to the inner city.”

“We’ll come back when we’re done to find you.” Seelah turned her head, listening. “If we stick to the same streets we used to get here then it’ll be a quick trip to the Defender’s Heart. As long as you’re sure the Count won’t get you in trouble…”

“He seems prepared.” Yunessa assured Seelah. And that was true enough. Daeran had returned with weapons and potions to boot, looking more fatigued. He’d told them a cultist had thrown a fire bomb through the windows. It seemed to quiet to be trued but watching the flame’s reach from the windows to caress the stones of Daeran’s home, it seemed like he wasn’t wrong. A corpse, clad in the red robes of the cultists still lay on the lawn with a crossbow’s bolt still stuck deeply in his back. “And if he wasn’t he’d be clinging to one of us.”

“Probably to you.” Lann muttered. “He looks the type.”

“The type?”

“You know, the kind that pretend they’re big and then when they realise demons are scary they go back to their houses and hide.”

“Well Daeran will shortly have no houses.” Yunessa kept their voice dry. “So it’s a good thing he isn’t upset by the loss of material possessions.”

Aranka, despite her earlier whispers of warning, stayed close to Daeran and Woljif, her blue eyes nervously scanning the streets around them.

The streets were quiet for once, no screams to be heard. The only sounds were from the rain and the fire. Like Camilla had said, alchemist’s fire was unphased by the rain, continuing on as if the rain didn’t exist.

If it wasn’t for the bodies then it would have been a scenic sort of scene. A ruined cityscape was the backdrop of several songs. An old sensation itched from the base of Yunessa’s spine, leaving a numbness behind it. The curse reminded them it was there and wouldn’t ever leave. Not until Yunessa was long dead, their personality and memories shredded without mercy.

“Stay safe Seelah.” Yunessa said finally, giving her a crisp nod. “Come back safely- it’s gotten far too quiet.”

“What’s the time Chief?”

“I don;t know Woljif.” Yunessa had started to grow tired of the question already. Woljif had asked it often at random intervals to be certain. But he hadn’t stopped asking and that agitated Yunessa like nails on a chalkboard. “It can’t be past… four? Three? I can’t tell with the clouds.”

“It’s twenty minutes after three.” Daeran said firmly.

“Three twenty then Woljif.”

“That’s cheating Chief- it’s okay anytime you don’t get caught.” They moved more silently without Seelah there. But Daeran’s familiarity with the streets, combined with Woljif and Ember, made it easier to manoeuvre around it all.

“I’m cursed.” Yunessa saw the question in Daeran’s eyes before he spoke up. “My sense of time is the first to go before I really go downhill. There’s more to it, but we should discuss it later if you’re still with us.” Yunessa smiled at Daeran. “I’d hate to see such lovely gold hair damaged by being in the vanguard.” It was true, Yunessa had seen aasimar rarely. But true metallic hair was always mesmerising.

Leading from the front helped Yunessa have far less distractions than they would have otherwise.

“Let’s go. I have… six? Five? A little bit of time before we have to return to the inn.”

#pathfinder: wrath of the righteous #pathfinder #lann #seelah #woljif jefto #ember #camilla #daeran #mature #nonbinary main character #angst

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usergrantaire · 5 months

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phew that sure was an episode of the gilded age

- we’re finally getting ✨DRAMA✨ and it is delicious

- also i loved peggy milking a cow in her fancy day dress

- finally larry’s fling with mrs blane is coming to an end…… but i don’t think that’s the last of this storyline we’ll see

- him saying “i thought we were going to get married and be together forever” is peak “im in my twenties” levels of delusion

- ok i know there won’t be a lesbian maud beaton….. but let me dream 🥲

- bertha clown moment switching out her and turner’s place cards. her entire tug of war with turner over the duke is hilarious and i cannot wait to see more of it

- speaking of turner!! we finally got a first name after a season and four episodes!!! it’s enid 💀

- her and oscar recognising each other at the dinner was a treat

- man after the way she lorded her academy box over bertha just to have it snatched from her by mrs astor AND had the duke snatched from her as well i just know she’ll be out for blood next episode

- ada and the reverend. i think they’re cute together but omg that proposal was so rushed? like so rushed im beginning to suspect he has a wife in the attic situation iykwim. and ada immediately says yes?? girl we have like half a season left 😭

- frances very unsubtly trying to set her dad and marian up and marian wants OUT

- since this is a fellowes show i don’t have high hopes but what i would LIKE to see is the striking workers absolutely fucking george’s shit up

- gladys wasn’t in this episode but i know that bertha’s gonna try to sell her off to the duke. and she’ll probably strong arm george into agreeing to it by holding the whole “naked lady’s maid in his bed and lying about it by omission” thing over his head

- “i don’t WANT other dukes, i want THIS duke! WE found him, and he’s MINE” immaculate and hysterical line delivery. very veruca salt core. no notes

that’s all for the week folks see you next week

#kei watches the gilded age #the gilded age #gilded age hbo

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saracausey1 · 1 year

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Subtitled: "Elite Immunity" and the Abandonment of the Working Class

I recently watched "The Rise of the Global Super-Rich and the Fall of Everyone Else" on ENDEVR's YT channel. In this episode, I will discuss that documentary as well as Glenn Greenwald's book With Liberty and Justice for Some: How the Law is Used to Destroy Equality and Protect the Powerful.

Key topics:

✔️The neocons and neolibs work together as part of the same elite class? Say it ain't so! ✔️The elites break the law and then pardon themselves. How could we be surprised by that? At this point, it would be more shocking if they obeyed the laws they expect the rest of us to follow. ✔️"These guys are making up to $1 billion a day." ✔️Governments as instruments of the wealthy super elite.

#plutocracy #oligarchy #wealthyelites #superrich #politics #wealthinequality #corruption

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westerlyroleplay · 1 year

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NAME: Aspen Keller GENDER & PRONOUNS: Cis man / He/Him AGE & DATE OF BIRTH: 31 years old / May 21st HOMETOWN: Brooklyn, NY TIME IN WESTERLY: 6 years RESIDENCE: Watch Hill OCCUPATION: Novelist

MY LOVE SHOULD BE CELEBRATED, BUT YOU —— tolerate it.

Trigger Warnings: Domestic violence, age gap relationship and gaslighting.

When a twenty-six year old neighbor moved into Watch Hill, some families were weary of a new generation imposing on their unspoken morals. However, the family that came along with him fit perfectly. Two children and a renowned publisher as a mother to ensure the tight frame of the neighborhood's expectation dissipated all weariness. The boticcino tile and crown molding would hold the couple together, too. It made it easier to instill the facade that their love was built on more than a waning vow, false security, and a need to cover their mess because pastels stained with ease.

That twenty-six year old is often forgotten, though. Aspen Keller sits in the Rhode Island home on the balcony that faces the yard and pool, dressed in linen, with no more than the crackle of a lighter and a hidden cigarette alongside the clicking of keys. His haven has made him a recluse since the day he moved in under the guise that his wife would make a move devoted to creating a haven for his creative mind. It would take him six years to realize the doors were no more than the gilded gates of a cage.

Aspen came from the bustling pace of Brooklyn, New York with a twenty-seven minute subway ride to NYU's campus. There his work in literature and storytelling capture not just the interest but the heart of a professor. He was guided into the menagerie of a friend of his teacher's looking for new voices, and it was her who would carefully pave his path to success as a romance novelist. Hidden desires and sweet nothings inspired the tales he wished he could share with her but never said aloud, until his first book was sold his senior year of college and in turn an engagement ring bought. It was all heart and no thought, and both were captivated by the heavy hand of heart over mind. She took his hand and guided him to every right turn, steady and eager, to a career she wished she could have. Her pride was stronger than her pride until she believed he was getting lost in the glamour of it all. Her wisdom tasted like poison in his mouth as he had doubts of her guidance, leading to strain until his career took a fracture he needed her to fix. Upon it, she placed another crack to gain control. Their first child took his attention and his muse, but it would take more for him to part ways with the ideal concept of love in his head. Another babe didn't fix their relationship, but it did bind Aspen to their home while his wife went off with her career.

Aspen began to believe that they were devoted to their professions more than each other, and in the thought of divorce, his wife made a desperate move. She gave him every turn of her head and every spark in her eye in hopes of gaining his favor again. He felt not like her prodigy, but almost her muse as much as she used to be his. She placed him on a pedestal and relocated their family to Westerly in hopes of instilling an order she could knot the way she wanted. Her love began to wither in the name of her rule. The smiles she kissed on to his lips became pinched between her fingers. She slowly shackled him to the house in the name of giving him the power to write his novels, though it was no more than entrapment. Aspen lost all of his self fortune in her abandonment of his dreams and was completely reliant to her, and in her debt. He lives under her thumb, with the maroon hues to prove it, but he believes this is what must stay away from chapter books and loose lips.

It's only in the last year that he's found love outside of his marriage that is sweeter than anything he's had with her. He is weaving the faith that despite all the comfort and luxuries she's awarded him, could he be worth more? The guilt still stings at not thinking what she's given him is enough, but the love is empty and it burns in a way that leaves a scar. He's living for the hope that he can be saved by the perfect kiss, even if he has to make his being the right shape to fit hers.

Portrayed by DYLAN O’BRIEN, written by DANII.

#t.#m.#em.#dylan o'brien #aspen keller #danii #tolerate it

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feignedhues · 2 years

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ABOUT ASPEN | I regret you all the time.

CHARACTER BASICS

NAME: Aspen Jayne Keller

AGE: Thirty-One

GENDER & PRONOUNS: Cis man, He/Him

FACE CLAIM: Dylan O’Brien

EYE COLOR: Hazel

HAIR COLOR: Dark Brown

HEIGHT: 5′11″

DATE OF BIRTH: May 21st

ZODIAC SIGN: Taurus

LEVEL OF EDUCATION: Master’s in English

RELIGIOUS AFFILIATION: Jewish

OCCUPATION: Romance Novelist

HOMETOWN: Brooklyn, New York

NEIGHBORHOOD: Watch Hill

TIME IN WESTERLY: Six Years

FAMILY: Sara Keller (wife), Rylie Keller (son), Astrid Keller (daughter)

CHARACTER HISTORY [TRIGGER WARNING FOR DOMESTIC VIOLENCE, INTERPERSONAL VIOLENCE, AGE GAP RELATIONSHIP, GASLIGHTING]

PRESENT DAY [TRIGGER WARNING FOR INTERPERSONAL VIOLENCE, DOMESTIC ABUSE, GASLIGHTING]

HEADCANONS

Aspen can often get lost in "flowery" expression and often catches himself becoming easily infatuated with the world around him. He's a romantic, but not hopeless.

His wife holds the keys to the kingdom when it comes to his novels as she remains his publicist. She likes to try and get the editors below her to censor some of his writing to either make the love interest more like her, or strip the antagonist of anything that reminder her of herself. It was a scandal when they got to together, but when she opened her own publishing house, she was able to put her husband at the very top of its refined clientele. She needs him just as much as she believes he needs her.

His son is four years old, and his daughter is two years old.

Aspen’s first novel was called ‘To Be of Wisteria’ with a total of five books in its series. It was a dystopian period piece that followed one man whose memory was taken from him in an attempt to save his wife who he falls in love with all over again, and reveals at the end that she knew it was him the whole time but promised that she wouldn’t interfere with his way of coming back to her after fighting in a war.

His last few novels are single tales with its name being titled ‘Eulogies to My Lovers.’

WANTED CONNECTIONS

Neighbors

People who have read his novels with fans and those who absolutely hate them

Friends through his wife who is a publisher and part time professo

College friends from NYU for his undergrad and Colombia for his master’s program (from Greek life to people he did projects with to roommates to exes)

An ex-significant other he had in college that he eventually drifted apart from when he met his now wife

Those he has had affairs with in the midst of every fall out with his wife, from one night stands to varying secret casual relationships that have become his muses

Someone he entrusts in reading his in-progress work for confidence building or to be torn apart

Someone who babysits his kid, or nannies while he’s at home because he needs to focus and write

A pair that he goes on double dates with his wife

A close friend who manages to pry him off the keyboard and live life instead of writing it

A friend who is aware of his affairs and covers for him

A friend who is aware of his affairs and disapproves of them

Someone who is suspicious of the relationship between him and his wife

Someone who is suspicious of one of his affairs

Someone whose child is mutual friends with one of his children, or attend the same school

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