Extremely Important Update: in April 2023 the World Bird Sanctuary had an orphaned eagle chick in need of care, so they decided to see if Murphy could live up to his parental ambitions.
He successfully raised the chick, which is now thriving with the other juvenile eaglets!
Congrats Murphy, you made it happen through sheer determination.
(Pictures are from the Facebook page of the World Bird Sanctuary; I can’t link them directly because I don’t have a FB account and the site is a nightmare to interact with if you’re not logged in, constantly resetting and kicking you to registration pages.)
She is the definition of courtly love, and as a Duke she has rank on basically anyone she would be courting. Therefore, she would be the one expected to take initiative.
She would find that extremely difficult.
She would mostly avoid the subject for the most part, attempt to remain unmarried for as long as possible, focusing her attention on the rest of her station.
But... it would catch up to her eventually. Pressures from her subordinates to either marry or give up her station. Pressures from the other great houses to tie together the fragile kingdom with economic bounds. And, of course, the ever-present pressure to either produce an heir to inherit her personal wealth, her responsibilities, and her cultural lineage -- of Emirale she is the last, and of the line of Ebura mages she is the last -- or face the threat of dying swiftly, on the battlefield or by an assassin's blade, with no one to carry her on into history.
So she would, eventually, find a suitable bachelor. One not too high in station that it would a high-profile marriage, but one not low enough that there would be no political or economic benefit to it, and thus a stain on her prestige. One with a good family that approved of her ancestry, one who was kind and personable and charming. One who could take over the social functions of the House that the Duke Arradre had never excelled at.
She would find him, and she would court him in the proper way. A letter to his family, first, expressing her interest and requesting an introduction. A brief, terse conversation at a party that would be as vapid as it was polite. A series of escalating encounters over the next year or so that would be, on their face, plainly romantic -- private dinners, a ride through the countryside near Amulta, a weekend sailing together on Lake Istales. They would all be empty.
Eventually they would be married, a beautiful ceremony on the lawn of the Library of Amulta, well-publicized as the marriage of the Duke Arradre -- a fascinating character, whose rise to power was much talked-about amongst the nobility -- but ultimately trite. They would spend a brief honeymoon in the north of the country as is tradition for the Dukes Arradre, and they would return diligently to their duties.
She would produce an heir. She would be remembered as a curious, foreign, but ultimately revered Duke.
"You're awful worldly, for someone who's never gone outside the city."
"I'm poor, it comes with the territory."
"No, it don't. It comes with doing well for yourself." She shrugged on her shirt and laid down beside me on the featherdown bed. "You should give yourself more credit."
"Whatever," I said lazily. Her fingers were linked into my arm, and I shivered slightly. "Would you close the shutters? It's drafty."
"No. I like it." She moved closer to me, pressing her soft body against mine, her glittering brown eyes fixed on my cheek. "You'll have to warm up some other way."
The journal was propped up in my lap, pages of familiar dwarvish script staring out into the room like jealous, inky eyes. I had nearly the whole thing memorized by now. Of course there was a lot more to do, codes upon codes, meanings upon meanings. But the words of her were burnt into the back of my head for all time. We were together.
Nollia was quiet. Then, she laid one finger on the cover of the journal. I tensed, but allowed her to close it, take it, set it on her bedside table.
"It'll be there in the morning, darling."
"I know."
"Æthel," she said, and I met her eyes, hazy. Her face was a warm gold in the candlelight. "You're not here, are you? You need to be here with me. Grounded. Aren't you happy?"
"I am, of course I am."
She sat up and put a hand on either one of my shoulders. I swallowed. Her hands moved to my neck, and she straddled my lap. I raised my knees in surprise, but that only succeeded in bringing her closer. She smiled. Her lip piercings moved a little when she smiled. Her hair fell over her shoulders in streams of liquid black, inky, jealous. Her shirt -- my shirt -- wasn't buttoned. Her chest was smooth, soft, slightly shimmering in that not-quite-magical way that half-elves had about them. She leaned in to kiss me, and -- cursing myself, but what else could I do? -- I put a hand on her sternum, stopping her.
"Not tonight," I said. "No more tonight. I'm tired."
She was disappointed, but she nodded and slipped off my lap and under the covers. The candle still flickered. I sat for a while, growing chillier for the breeze, and eventually laid next to her, one arm around her stomach. She sighed when I did, and shifted to get comfortable.
I couldn't make everyone happy, could I? Not myself, not Nollia, not her. The cake wouldn't be eaten nor had, it would be burnt, and the ashes would be woven into ropes to hold me to a world I hated. I kissed her back, and felt my cheeks grow hot. I would have to choose. I would have to choose.
a sketch of my OC Æthel (featured previously, im still figuring out her fking hair) for a d&d campaign i'm starting soon :) im so excited for her to meet echo
love women who dont think theyre good at anything. transcript under the cut
Æthel Kynesburg
23, human, light skin + hair, dark eyes. Hails from Caer Khelgan. Friendly, studious, cautious, jealous, worried. Most consider her a wizard. Speaks common, orcish, elvish, gnommish, deep speech, and celestial.
"To each their own, I guess," Carme said, through a mouthful. "But I've never really cared for it."
"It's weird, yeah. I think of it kind of like a fill-in for pasta. It needs a lot of toppings, though, it's kinda bland."
"Seconded." They were seated in the outdoor area of Taego Aduraz, a southern-style upscale restaurant with neat red and white decor. They had picked it for what the name meant in Ebura -- "Brave Escort for the Upper Class" -- which they had a childish giggle about in the square earlier that morning. It was strange, waking up in the morning and having nothing to do, going on a walk through the ruined, but slowly rebuilding city of Bastion, and casually swapping bites of each others meals to see which they liked more.
Nearly ten years of perpetual anxiety, bouncing from conflict to conflict, and now they had a ship booked to the mainland in two months and nothing to do until then. Unfair. Now so many things were rising up to fill the gap.
Carme was looking out across the street, towards the gap between buildings where the tips of masts could be seen, just peeking out above the hills and the throngs of busy people. Her hair caught the wind -- longer than it used to be, and still strange to see dipping just past her shoulders.
"Do you want a haircut?"
"What?" Carme turned back to her, absently, and Celia felt her cheeks flush. "Oh, uh, I guess? I haven't thought about it in a while. No galas or anything to go to, so I haven't had to bother."
It had come out too quickly, and Celia was uncomfortable now. "Well, you know, if you wanted, we could find a barber. Or, you know, a hairdresser. If you wanted."
"No offense, Celia, but we're not exactly flush with cash at the moment."
It was true. She had come to this island to make money, to build up her connections within the empire, and leverage both of those things against her occupiers. But now she had declared support for a rebellion, lost most of her money in a shipwreck caused by said rebellion, and was left almost entirely alone. Almost.
"I could cut it for you, if you wanted," Celia said, thinking as little as possible about the words coming out of her mouth. "I've cut your hair before."
"Oh! Uh, yeah. You have." Carme seemed to be surprised by that. It was true, she promised. "That was when we were kids, though."
"Did I not do a good job?"
"No, no, that's not it." Carme paused. "I just... you know, you're upper crust nobility, technically, even if our purses don't show it. Is it, like, appropriate?"
The Duke Celia Arradre, daughter of House Emirale, stared to her left and watched a ship lower sail and slip smoothly below the cobble-crusted streets.
"I feel less and less respect for propriety, lately. The empire did things properly, and we stabbed them in the throat and set their city aflame. Drebur did things properly, and it was betrayed by its own houses and conquered by men with no love for it. What will happen, now, if we do things properly? What will happen, if we are polite?" She turned back, eyes brown as ermine fur. "Will we burn again? I think we may have to accept reality, sooner or later."
Carme stared at her, and nodded gently, spoon laid to rest at the edge of her plate, just so. She was truly gentle, and graceful, when she wanted to be. A picture-perfect knight, minus the shining armor for the moment. Not the clumsy, naive fool that so many appraised her as. She was intelligent, and savvy, and focused, and driven. A perfect servant to many a master before her. Celia wishes she wasn't just using her.
"So... you do want to cut my hair?"
"Yes."
She smiled. Celia tried not to.
"Tonight, then. At the vinyard. That little seamstress girl must have a spare pair of scissors somewhere, right?"
"Ephemerid has many things."
-------------
The vinyard was not quiet these days, but tonight it was mostly empty; Ryll was gone, tracking down the few remaining imperial loyalists and giving them offers they couldn't refuse; Eleanor was putting together her new government, and hopefully getting tempered by Talgeron; Chai was off rebuilding the farms that had fallen into disrepair in the last few weeks.
Ephemerid was more than happy to lend a pair of scissors -- with eyes the size of dinner plates -- when Celia came knocking on her door in the early afternoon. A hushed question of "what are they for?" and a smug grin on her face as she passed over a pair in silver and mother-of-pearl. Celia left her at her bedroom door, though she could feel the press of her gaze on her back. She ignored it.
The bathroom was prepared with a chair and a thin sheet, which Celia draped across her knight wordlessly. Carme seemed apprehensive at her touch, muscles tensing. Discomfort, perhaps. Celia would touch her no more than she needed to.
The scissors she held in her left hand, and, with a mutter of Draconic under her breath and a flutter of her eyelids, conjured a pointed, foggy hand with which to hold the comb. She tucked the scissors into her belt for a moment.
"Do you want to keep a braid of it?" Celia asked softly, combing out her hair.
"U-uh, sure. Sure. Yeah. Why not."
"Alright," said Celia. The hair came through her fingers easily -- it was fine, much finer than her own, and tended towards slick and silky rather than voluminous and soft. It fell together quickly, Celia's own deft fingers tumbling together with conjured ones until a short braid fell down Carme's neck. She cut it, swiftly, and set it down on the bathroom counter.
Carme's hair fell around her chin -- blunt and a little ridiculous, but still somehow dashing in the mirror in front of her. She had a way about that. Celia did not make eye contact. She picked up the comb, and went to work.
The cut was familiar to her. It was the way soldiers had their hair cut during wartime, and the way men cut their hair year-round. Celia hadn't, for reasons she was given when she was young and had rarely thought about since then. But Carme had kept her hair this way at all times. She told Celia once that it was to keep it out of the way, because she hated the way that it felt on the back of her neck. But then that didn't explain the way that she always asked to wear suits instead of dresses at hastiludes and galas and midsummer parades, nor the way she walked broad and gallant, with none of the delicacy or grace that she and Celia were taught from the time they were young.
Scissors ran across the nape of her neck, quickly, loosely. Celia was not an expert hairdresser, but she had cut Carme's hair enough times when they were young to know well enough what she was doing. Scissor-over-comb in the back, close at the base and longer as it goes up. Keep the crown tied up until you need in, then cut it short and feather it so it doesn't fall all together. The sides have a starker gradation than the back, which fades evenly into the length on the top. It was easy to lose herself in it, since she could feel nothing of the hand that had its knuckles pressed into the skin of the back of her head, and only the soft snip, snip of the scissors as she moved up her neck.
Carme sighed, a few times, and sank back into her seat. She was bored. Celia would work more quickly.
She had been cavalier about this earlier, had downplayed the significance of such an intimate act for the sake of indifference. It was not insignificant, she found now, as she ran her non-fingers through Carme's hair, motioned wordlessly for her to tilt her head one way or another, felt a slight twinge of fear as she obeyed, equally wordlessly. She trusted her so.
Another few minutes went by, and it was more of the same. Snip, comb, snip. A few times, Celia's finger would brush against her scalp, or she would have to use her fingernails to separate out the hair. That was when she had to be most careful, impartial, professional, not too indifferent, but not too personal. And, of course, Carme leaned into her touch whenever those little slips happened, as if she had none of the same dedication. She was always such a fool.
Celia let the hair on the crown of Carme's head fall around her face. She glanced in the mirror for a second, and caught an eye -- piercing, brown, peering through locks of damp hair and smiling softly. Celia quickly turned away. She was irritatingly handsome, even only halfway through a haircut, in the way that turned the heads of men and women no matter how sound their desire.
Celia stared into her hair. Cut, comb, cut, comb. Blot out everything else.
"You look nice, by the way."
She said it in Ebura. Soft, with rounded vowels. Celia ignored her. Cut, comb, cut, comb.
"I should say it more, because I think you don't realize it. But you look nice like that, with your hair down, the tabard open." Carme was staring at her in the mirror. "You feel natural. You're usually so careful about everything. I like you better like this. When you aren't being careful."
Cut, comb, cut, comb. She grabbed Carme's chin and turned it sharply, somehow eliciting a giggle.
"Are you afraid of me? What do you think will happen?" Carme shut her eyes for a moment, letting out a long, slow breath. "You're doing a good job, by the way. It looks nice."
Celia scoffed. "I could do better if you'd be quiet."
"Right, right. As you wish, my lord."
Celia cut, and combed. She feathered the straight lines, kept them from sitting too flat and dull on her head. She would be lying if her own tastes weren't being reflected in it; she had any number of opinions on the kind of things that looked good on Carme. And, she liked when her hair was feathered and messy. It was not traditional, but she wore it handsomely.
Her stomach twisted, and quiet things began to burble up. She grimaced, and reminded herself that everyone makes mistakes once in a while. Her most of all.
"Yes," she said, after a while.
"Yes what?" Carme opened her eyes, and Celia saw her staring at her through the mirror curiously from her periphery.
"I am afraid of you," she said.
There was nothing more to do, the haircut was finished, but she was still combing, slowly, as an excuse not to look her in the eye.
"Oh." Carme was quiet for a while, staring into the middle distance. Celia had meant to shock her, but she wasn't lying. Guilt crept into her throat again. It was familiar to her now.
"Why is that?" Carme asked.
"I don't know," she responded. A lie. She knew why.
"You don't have to be. Or I wish you didn't have to be." Pause. "You and I could be close, and... I don't think that the country could have anything to do with it. Or if they do, then... You're Duke of one of the Great Houses. You have the favor of the Queen. Things could be different, if you wanted."
"You presume it's something I want. And you assume that I want to test my luck with her, which I don't. I've already murdered the previous Duke, and ruined our chances at prosperity in the future. We are impoverished, soon homeless, and I have nothing to show for my conquest." Celia placed the comb down on the countertop, more sharply than she intended to, and stepped towards the door. "It's done. I'm done. I'm going to go on a walk. Unaccompanied."
"No, I don't think you are." No hand grabbed her, but Celia froze as if one did. "I know you, Celia. There's something wrong, and I want you to deal with it for once, instead of going on and on about how you're horrible and irreparable and trapped by the system. Because you know what? You want to know what?"
Celia turned halfway, to look at Carme, bent forward on her chair, looking up at her. She narrowed her eyes. "What?"
"You are the system. You've beaten it; it's yours. Make it what you want it to be. There were never any rules, you should know that better than anyone. They do whatever they want, and call it tradition, and they call it 'right'. And you can do the same, but this time actually fucking be right. For once, do something good for someone. For you"
Celia stared for a minute, watched the muscles in Carme's jaw flex as she met her gaze, watched her hands clench and unclench in her lap. Strong, bruised hands, with scrapes and scares on her knuckles. She would know defeat yet.
"What do you think I want?"
"I think you want to be comfortable. And I think you want to be taken care of." Carme stood, and approached her, and the hair stood up on the back of her neck. Sweat beaded there, where she couldn't brush it off. "I think that you've spent a very long time doing what other people ask of you, and you don't know any other way to live. And I think you want something else."
A pause. Carme fidgeted with her fingers for a minute, working up the courage to say something. Celia begged for divine intervention, for anyone to save her from the fate that awaited her. Please let it not be what she wanted. There would be no going back.
"I swore an oath to you, to protect you, defend you, serve you. To do your bidding. But I haven't, not yet. You haven't once given me an order that would serve you. You want to serve the crown, and that is honorable, but..."
She took Celia's hand. Hers was warm, and calloused. Celia's was clammy.
"I want to be servant to your desires. Then I will have fulfilled my oath."
A beat. Another. Carme was so close now, and Celia could feel the warmth of her body radiating into her. She thought that Celia would not pay attention, so she came closer to make her point. Celia would be more attentive.
She shut her eyes, and let out a long, slow exhale. "You are an honorable woman, Carme Saenz."
It happened slowly, like a rockslide, with lots of dust and debris obscuring the truth of it. And Celia knew, in the moment, that it would be brief, impossible to remember, impractical to think about. But it was euphoric. A spout of exhausting clarity, true and simple, invoking such regret that she felt like sobbing. But she didn't, and she didn't have to struggle to maintain composure this time. It came, easy and free.
It lasted longer than Celia cared to elaborate on. There were no words shared afterwords, just stares and gentle touches and hands, gripping each other tightly, for a long while. Celia let go first, and Carme's hands dragged on her shoulders as she pulled away. Again, a wave of calm. She would be back.
-------------
Celia walked out into the cool halls that ringed the courtyard and began the walk up the stairs, but stopped, and turned, to face a girl in a starched white dress.
"Ephemerid. Your scissors." She offered them out.
Ephemerid smiled, and ran a finger along the banister, pretending to check for dust. "Sooooo... how are things?"
"Well." Her heart was racing. Her face was flat. "Here are your scissors."
"Well?! That's it?" Effie stared at her with an open mouth. "You had the experience of a lifetime, you MORON. You can't just say you're well and go on your dukey way. You're gonna tell me what happened."
Celia closed her eyes and took a breath. Well. The girl can read minds. She opened her eyes, narrow. "How much did you see?"
"Huh?" Effie tilted her head, and frowned. "What do you mean?" Her eyes went wide. "WAIT, WHAT HAPPENED?!"
Celia smiled. "You didn't see anything, did you?"
"NO! I SAW EVERYTHING!" Effie took a few steps up towards her, and pointed with a quivering finger. "YOU GAY KISSED HER, I SAW IT!"
Celia felt her cheeks warm, but stood her ground and only raised an eyebrow. "You have always had an overactive imagination. Take your scissors back."
"NO! ADMIT IT! OR I'LL KILL YOU!!"
Celia shrugged. "Fine. I'll keep them. Come get them when you can see reality."
She turned and walked back up the stairs, twirling the scissors on her finger. She felt light, somehow. Open. Fresh. Change seemed so close all of a sudden.
Half-past midnight, a prisoner's tent, as-yet-unnamed rebellion camp. Two people lie, half asleep, as far away from each other as possible. One in a bedroll, one on the hard ground, her tabard in a bundle beneath her head.
No one speaks for a long time. There is too much to talk about.
"Do you want to run away?" Barely a whisper. She doesn't want it to be heard.
"Hm..?"
"I don't know, we could magic our way out of this. Probably."
"We'd get caught."
"Maybe." She rolled over. "Maybe not. If we're quick and quiet."
"Or we could get caught. And executed." A pause. "Ryll seems like the type to do it."
A longer pause.
"Where would we go?"
"I don't know." She sighs. "The mainland somewhere. Coastal. I think I like the ocean."
"I don't. Or at least, I don't like boats."
"We'll stay on land, then. We'll pick up work where we can. Mercenary, bodyguard, wizarding work. It can't be harder than what we're doing, and I suspect we can make a living."
"Maybe."
That was what unsettled Celia the most. It would be easy, so easy, to slip away, to skip across the ocean, to abandon this little island to the whims of fate and circumstance. Someone would take care of it, she was sure. But she couldn't trust that. She couldn't trust Ryll Katalori, or Eleanor, or Ephemerid. The only person she did trust was Chai, and she was at the whims of her emotions, too idealistic, and...
"I don't think I can leave," she said finally, locking eyes across the darkened tent. "I think I have to stay here."
"Then I'll stay with you." Carme could have been smiling if not for the darkness.
"You don't have to. You can leave." It would be better. You might survive.
