Director of the Turks

Independent Role-playing blog for Veld Dragoon. All timelines.  

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Return- About the Mun- Q&A?

Hello everyone!

I am making a real attempt to come back to this hellsite, so I thought I’d start off with a little introduction for people who follow me that I’ve not interacted with, people who follow me that I’ve not talked to in a long time, etc.

I’m Kas, Veld-Mun, Dad, take your pick. I’m 30 something; I honestly don’t remember nor do I care. I still get carded so age is just a number.

Fulltime under-paid, over-worked, and under-appreciated college custodian, full time pet parent to two cats, and a psycho dog. Plant parent to all the plants.

I also run @dirge-of-valentinex4, write occasional short stories and sequels/prequels to my novel, and a billion other things. 

If you wanna know, just ask!

In fact, feel free to ask me, or Veld, or both of us, anything. Ask box is open and empty and I’m feeling writerly this morning!

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🍽!

Their holidays had never been busy, after all, it was just the two of them and no need to make a big mess but Marie did like to do stuff for the occasion. This year however, Veld had given her some cash and sent her off down to the town for the day, telling her to take a spa day or shopping for something nice.

Anything to get her out of the house.

When she returned, he had the fruits of his labor laid out on the table, waiting. Most had been done the day or week before under guise of laying in food for winter, so it was more a matter of just putting everything together.

The center piece was a fat pheasant he'd trapped early that morning, stuffed with toasted barley, pine nuts, and spices and roasted over the fire, basted with oil and herbs. A pair of baked apples sat on either side of the bird, filled with nuts and oats and a sprinkle of expensive cinnamon.

Next a small dish of roasted root vegetables, carrots and turnips, seasoned with salt and butter.

For dessert, still sitting on the oven cooling, was a honey cake, waiting to be drizzled with dark pine syrup and chopped toasted nuts.

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marie-dufresne​:

Send 🍽 to see what my muse is cooking for yours this Holiday!

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marie-dufresne​:

At first, Marie didn’t register the thumping. On the last leg of her journey, she’d slept far more deeply than any other night, finally beginning to feel a safety in the distance put between her and her intended.

When the rooster joined in with the banging, the haze of sleep slipped from her mind for a moment, though she wasn’t quite ready to open her eyes, groaning slightly before drifting off again.

It may have only been a few seconds of sleep, but it felt like near an hour and she jolted awake, the heel of her hand rubbing furiously to rub evidence of her slumber from her face.

“Ah! Th-thank you! I’ll be—just there!”

Her stockinged feet thudded against the floor as she rushed to the door, accepting the water. She had to make haste. She couldn’t keep Mr. Dragoon waiting.

Breakfast was simple: tea, fresh oatcakes with a bit of butter and jam on the side, and a two eggs as promised.

Bobbie Larch was waiting for her outside, sipping a cup of tea while he waited for her, a shaggy pony in the traces, dozing with it’s muzzle on his cap and both looked around slowly when she finally came out.

“Tha thu a ’dol don àite Dragoon an uairsin?“ he asked, slowly, carefully, in a voice that was just above a whisper, wide set gray eyes settled on her face as one massive hand caressed between the pony’s ears.

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It was snowing in Midgar; silent and steady as fat flakes drifted lazily to the ground, veiling the bright lights of the city below and the towers above with an eerie greenish glow. It was early for snow, Veld reflected, but at least the howling winds that had proceeded the snow had ceased.

The building was quiet tonight as well; although it wasn’t quite quitting time many had headed home little early to escape the snow fall and the traffic that it inevitably caused. 

Moving from the window, Veld lifted his coffee to his lips and then grimaced upon finding it cold; a fresh pot was put on and he settled at his desk, placing labeled pens back into their labeled compartments. It was looking like a slow night, unless the President decided to go somewhere....perhaps he could get a nap in.

[mewssings]

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mewssings​:

tag urself: muse count version

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marie-dufresne​:

“Eggs and tea will suit me nicely tomorrow morning, thank you. Whatever time you think is best.” Marie enjoyed mornings, the promise of a new day and its untapped potential. Tomorrow morning in particular would be one of great potential and if she was liked and accepted, freedom.

Maybe she’d meet a nice country lad out here and have a family of her own. A simple, not in any way complicated or dangerous. Just a sweet little…

She took a look around the tavern, at the hulking ruggedness of the specimens surrounding her. Hmm…perhaps ‘sweet’ and ‘little’ wasn’t exactly what she’d find out here. Still, conniving, controlling, and murderous was her future back in London. Rugged and hulking was…something she could grow accustomed to.

It made her feel safe, in any case.

The tavern emptied out fairly quickly, all the working men needing to get home and to bed and silence settled over the little highland village. Sometime during the night, the fog drifted out and when the sun crested between two peaks, it crested golden and crisp, wisps of steam rolling up off the river.

About the same time that the sun rose, so did the little maid and she was banging on Marie’s door as the rooster in the back yard started crowing.

“Miss, mornin ha come. Ah’ve brought ye hot water for a wash and brekkie will be on ta table in a moment.”

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marie-dufresne​:

Posture rigid, more out of habit than her undergarments, Marie offered a warm smile.

“That will all be splendid, thank you.”

She’d grown accustomed to these sorts of places over her weeks of travel and was no longer as wary of them as she had been initially.

“I’ll just put my things away.”

She no longer opted to take suppers in her room, away from the hustle and bustle of the common folk, but dined in the taverns, where she could enjoy too much bread, a little bit of ale, and when a second bowl of stew was offered, no one was there to dare suggest her waistline was more important than her appetite.

She would admit, once she was settled into the Dragoon household (if they would have her), she would be letting out the seams on more than a few of her dresses.

A little girl showed her up to her room, a small but clean little room overlooking the square (when it wasn’t fog bound and dark), and once Marie came back down, a bowl of simple broth with a bit of chicken and kale, and hearty oatcakes on the side were provided for her.

“What time should ye like to be woken in ta mornin?” the girl asked, as she set the still warm oatcakes down beside the bowl and poured a bit of ale. “If you’re goin out to ta Dragoon croft, early will suit ye better and we can hae some nice eggs and tea ready for ye when ye get up.”

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marie-dufresne​:

It became increasingly difficult for Marie to understand the people she came into contact with and this coachman was no different. Still, she was practiced and polite and accepted his hand as she stepped down into the fog.

She was near a month’s travel from home and there was no sign of anyone following her trail. Not that she’d left much of one at all. Cattia had vanished alongside her, making her journey back to Italy, and the cab she’d hired out of London had been from a seedier part, where no one would suspect she dare enter.

Neither of her friends knew she’d left, but she wasn’t worried. Colin may not have cared for Feliks’ Romani blood, but Marie knew his distaste was out of fear an intimidation, not disgust. He wouldn’t be harmed.

Thanking the coachman, she entered the inn, and as the innkeep was adding her information to his book, she leaned forward. “Do you know where I might find one Veld Dragoon?” she asked, “I’m to interview for a governess position in his household.”

The tavern (which was part of the inn), had fallen silent on her arrival, solemn blue and gray eyed weather beaten men watching her over their ales; none of them had ever seen a highborn lady before, but they didn’t stare for long and they simply, philosophically went back to their drinks and quiet conversation.

 “Dragoon croft is nigh ten mile up ta Strathmore. Wee Bobbie Larch canna take ye up there in ta morn.” using his pen, he pointed to Wee Bobbie Larch sitting in the corner, a massive stone of a man but with a clear, gentle face.

“E’s a bit simple in ta head, is Bobbie, but nae harm will come ta ye. Will ye be wantin’ some supper, lassie?”

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marie-dufresne​:

Though she had sent her reply on a whim, Marie found the weeks waiting for a reply to be the most tedious of any wait she’d experienced before. Though the season was in full swing and she was in high demand at social gatherings (particularly now that she was betrothed to the heir to a dukedom), she found herself less and less interested as each fete passed.

And with each setting sun, her freedom was restricted by said heir.

Today, another one of his…requests.

“I don’t care for that Dobrescu fellow,” he mused over his paper, not actually gracing her with eye contact as she sat across, embroidering a handkerchief.

“Feliks?”

Colin took an exaggerated breath he hid behind a sigh. “I like even less that you address him with such familiarity.”

Marie adjusted her work in her hoop. “We’ve been friends since childhood. It would be odd to speak formally, I think.”

No, Colin Devereaux did not think that. “He’s Romani, isn’t he?” Then, under his breath, “…gyspy.”

There was no right answer for her to give, so she didn’t answer him directly.

“The Dobrescu family have been prominent members of society for generations,” she replied.

He set down the paper.

“Your friendship ends today.”

He left the room with her mouth agape and her heart racing. How could she just—Feliks and Victoria were her closest friends. Even if she were to be so rude as to snub Feliks, once they were married, he would be unavoidable. Should she reject Victoria as well?

She put away her embroidery, the enjoyment sucked from the day.

Colin remained at her house until well after supper, talking politics with her father. No one questioned Marie’s unusual silence and melancholy. No one cared.

As she readied herself to bed, her maid procured a small letter for her.

“I thought it best to wait until you were alone,” she said, passing the missive over, “given the postmark.”

Scotland.

With a little gasp, Marie dashed up from her vanity, her maid fumbling to catch the hairbrush that remained stuck in the curls, and as she breathed, taking the masculine hand word by word, she was only so slightly disheartened.

Disheartened, but not deterred. Having been robbed of her friends, nothing was keeping her in London any longer.

Mr. Dragoon,

Please do not concern yourself with wealth. My own has brought me no joy. I will be making the journey to your family with great haste. I may arrive before this letter reaches you.

All my best, Marie Dufresne

With the help of her maid, she packed her most practical clothing, a few pieces of jewelry, and any pocket money she had on hand, and with a word to absolutely no one else, snuck out of her house and into the city.

She hailed a cab willing to drive her through the night for the right price and began her journey to Scotland.

In fact, the letter and herself arrived on the same day, however, as the Dragoon croft was ten miles up the local stream and in the hills, the letter would not reach him until he came into town, or if someone brought it out.

So when the final coach arrived in the village, there was no one to meet her. It was a damp, foggy evening in early autumn, but the fog was clean and the air crisp, not like the soupy, dirty London fogs.

“Here ye’are lassie, end o’ta line. Ta Black Ram ‘as rooms and decent food.” the coachman said as he helped her out of the small carriage and handed off the mailbag to the waiting postman. “Dunnae wha yer troubles are but this is a good sort of folk up here. No many outsiders nae visitors.”

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marie-dufresne​:

Governess Wanted

The three young people sat in the parlor, for once at a loss for anything to say. The news Marie Dufresne had come to the house with hung heavy in the air.

I’m engaged.

It wasn’t the news of an engagement exactly that troubled them so (the two that sat opposite were quite happily engaged to each other), but it was her intended that caused the distress. One Colin Devereaux.

It was Feliks who spoke first.

“We could kill him,” he suggested.

To his right, his fianceé, Victoria, smacked his arm, “this is no time for levity, Feliks,” she scolded, worried hands folding beneath her chin.

In an attempt to stop her chin from trembling, Marie reached for her tea. “a bit of humor is exactly what I need, I think.”

Murder, though appealing, was not an option. Colin was far too powerful a man, and much more cunning than the three in the parlor that afternoon.

“A fall from grace?” Victoria suggested then, reaching for the day’s paper, “we could entangle you in a scandal or—“ she flashed the fine print in the back, “find you a job.”

Feliks let out a little snort of laughter running his hand through his thick chocolate curls, “Marie, a working woman.”

“Here,” Victoria offered, lifting her chin and casting her glance towards the blonde, “a governess in the Scottish Highlands. It even pays—ooh, fifty pounds a year.”

Though her two friends tittered with giggles at such a paltry lifestyle, Marie leaned forward, snatching up both the newspaper and the magnifying glass, slowing making her way through the advertisement.

“…what if…I do?”

Victoria his a sneeze behind her wrist, eyes wide. “Do what?”

“What if I answer this advertisement,” she pressed, “No one would ever suspect I’ve gone to work as a governess and even if they did, I don’t think anyone would dare challenge a widower Highlander just to drag me back home?”

The stares from her friends forced her to press on.

“A scandal and a job together. All in one.”

“That’s not—“

“Parchment and ink, please Feliks.”

Feliks looked to Victoria who in turn looked to Marie, but the blonde didn’t waver. Finally, he sighed, standing to cross the room and retrieved what she asked, sitting and the writing desk, quill poised.

“Alright, dictate.”

“No, no,” she said, shooing him up, “I’ll write it myself.”

Eyes narrowed in suspicion, he backed up, allowing her into the chair and muttered, “I’ll supervise.”

In answer to your advertisement,

I hope this letter finds you and yours well. I am interested in taking up the position as governess in your great household. While I will not pretend to be a great lover of literature, I am fluent in French, English, and Latin. I get by in Italy when the need arises.

I am proficient in mathematics and music. My preferred instrument is the harp, but am of course able to teach the pianoforte, should you prefer that for your boys.

I have a great love for children and despite what is expected of me, have acquired a skill for many facets of the culinary arts. I am adept at handicrafts, particularly embroidery. I do enjoy lawn games and picnics by the rivers and am ready to adventure wherever two little ones take me.

I am ever appreciative of your consideration,

Marie Dufresne

It took her four times to re-write it, corrections made by both of her friends over her shoulder, though neither of them seemed to think she sounded much like a governess. Still, she folded it, sealed it, and with her gloves on her dainty little hands, ran it down to the post master.

It took some time for the reply to make it up to the Highlands, and in the meantime Veld had received several good replies to his advertisement, from ladies around Scotland. Two of them he had been seriously considering for an interview...when this last one came in, postmarked from London.

The finely sealed paper rode all day in his pocket as he went about work, and it wasn’t until evening, when work was done, the boys fed and bathed, supper eaten and cleaned away, that he pulled it out and opened it. His hands, rough though they were, were able to appreciate the fineness of the paper, and the prettiness of the hand....

But the contents almost seemed mocking; it was much more than he needed in a governess and then he reread it and caught the line ‘in your great household’. She clearly thought he was some sort of laird in a castle and was probably picturing doing the Highland Reel on occasions.

He wasn’t sure if he should write and decline, not write at all, or write and explain and see if she was still interested... London was a long way for anyone to travel and her accomplishments hardly suited the pay he was able to offer. She would be helping to scrub the floors more than teaching music or Latin.

It took Veld a full day of mulling on the matter before he decided to write her back and explain her misunderstanding; perhaps she was a young woman seeking adventure, or just to be away from society for a time.

Miss Dufresne, he wrote,

I have received your response to my advertisement and have noticed some oversight, namely in the fact that you believe me to be someone of wealth and standing. This is not the case. However, if you still wish to take the journey north for a working interview, I would be happy to accommodate you.

Veld Dragoon

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So quick little update, in case anyone has prayers or good vibes they could spare... (I know I've not been active in forever...) but I just evacuated from my home with my kitties due to a massive wildfire that is currently doing like everywhere else and burning out of control. There is a chance that the fire will not come to where I am exactly but there's always the chance it will....

So that's where I am. Good times.

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Veld is over it, and I'm getting tan and extra freckled.

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marie-dufresne​:

Happy Birthday

Marie awoke to one of her favourite smells in the whole world, her radar for waffles cutting through even the wafting of bacon. Throwing on a pair of pajama pants, she responded to Vincent’s salutation with a promise to call him later. It was the weekend and she’d taken the day off of work.

Ever the morning person, she practically bounced into the kitchen, ready to greet her father with gooey thanks for the breakfast and a too-tight hug, but her feet froze in their place at the sight before her.

Veld was holding…a dog.

A puppy.

“…it’s so fluffy…”

The words left her throat in a whisper and the waffles were forgotten, if just for a few minutes.

“it’s…so fluffy!”

With a squeal that rivaled the tea kettle, she jumped forward, reaching for the dog.

“Ohmigod his little black nose and his little black eyes and his little black spot and his—can I cold him? Ohmigod can I hold him? How do I hold him?”

She didn’t wait for an answer, scooping the puppy into her arms and rubbing her nose on its muzzle, giggling when she was met with sharp teeth and thrashing paws. This was a fun game.

“Did you get him for me?” she asked, hope shining bright as the morning sun in her eyes. There was no doubt this dog was here to stay. Her father wouldn’t bring an animal home without reason for it, “is he gonna be my dog?!”

Veld heart warmed and he knew he’d done a good thing this time (just hopefully the excitement wouldn’t wear off and she’d become bored with it...), and he gave her a half smile, tapping the collar and leash on the table.

“He’s your dog. All your responsibility. I’ll buy dog food and whatnot but training and caring for it is all on you.”

He wasn’t sure how much of this she was actually hearing...no doubt he’d have to repeat it later on, once she was calmed down.

“They’re a very cuddly, intelligent breed, so I thought it would suit you, hair aside.”

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7. Do you project onto your muses at all, giving them similar issues or traits to your own? What is your opinion on people who do this?

Mmmm... unintentionally. I think most people do in some way, because whether we like it or know it, characters are an escape. Many people started with an imaginary friend which turned into Mary Sue in writing or self inserts which turned into well rounded characters, whether canon or not and they just...end up having some of ourselves in them. 

For a great part of my own life, writing and rping was the only way I could feel connected to people. I moved a lot (you don’t even know how much a lot is in this case), only child, homeschooled, I didn’t have any in person friends, so discovering rping at 16 was amazing. I was weird and shy and awkward but hey online I could be these incredible, confident but flawed characters.

And now here I am at 30+ working on the sequel to a novel and do I use my characters to cope with some of the childhood bs I went through? Yes. Yes I do.

That was a really long answer to a very simple question, but there you go!

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20. If you could tell your muse something, what would it be?

Live life a little. I know you’ve lost people you loved and that makes it hard but... take a day off. Go to the mountains, get away. Breathe, Veld. I know you’ve not sold all your soul to ShinRa, so stop acting like you have.

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Does your descriptive writing change with each muse, do they influence the way that you narrate and use language?

Considering how much we’ve written together, I’m curious to know if you’ve noticed.

*I* think that my writing does change between muses, at least in voice, maybe not so much between Vincent and Veld (although you’d think it would), but with my other characters, such as Demitri and Fricka, there’s a very different style and language, but I’m not a very good judge of my own writing.

@multifandommuseroulette what’s your thoughts on this? Can you tell a difference in my writing between characters?