Modern LCF AU where Lily and Bassen get tired of people trash talking their brother— specially because they know a lot of what they say is exaggerated or down right slander— so they create the first and only (for now) Cale Henituse Appreciation Account (the original one, of course).
The posts alternates between iconic Og!Cale quotes and wholesome annecdotes about him in no particular order and answers fighting hate posts about him.
Some people follow them because they're funny but almost no one believes them. So they decide to reclute Hans to their efforts.
Why? Because he's a good photographer. He has an account dedicated to cute photos of random cats.
Their next post is a short video of Og!Cale crunching down in front of a stray dog, both of them staring at each other and tilting their heads in synchronization. The video ends when the dog puts a muddy paw on his shoulder. He whispers "You're a good girl" and giggles.
When winter break is over, Og!Cale is widely confused. He went away for some weeks to deal with stuff and when he came back no one feared him anymore. No one avoids him, no one looks at him like they day couldn't get worse. Some people even greeted him. Genuinely, friendly greeted him. Not the fake two faced greet people do because they have to.
Rok Soo seats next to him and he's so relieved that he's the same as always— Until he asks him if he plans to adopt the dog.
What dog? What do you mean that "from the video"? What video? There's an account of what?!
He opens his phone and checks it quickly.
Og!Cale, immediately recognizing the pattern speech: Lily, what are you doing on twitter? You're too young.
It was a quiet, dewy morning; more mist than air filling his lungs as he crossed the familiar knoll. The light of the rising sun pleasantly diffused, casting a soft glow on everything not obscured by the thick fog in the distance. Though his countenance remained neutral, his pace held purpose, sage cloak flowing behind him as he strode. Running an unexpectedly nervous hand through his hair, Elrond sighed. Arriving at the gate, he stopped under the small stone archway holding his hands rather firmly behind his back, expectantly peering into the fog beyond the threshold. Though he could keenly feel the time passing, it was not long before a silhouette began to emerge in the distance.
Morinë trekked the scenic path through the forest to the gate; one she had become familiar with the past few weeks since meeting with Elrond, better acquainting herself with the Elves and their kingdom. She already met quite a few in her summation, but he assured that who she would meet today was of particular interest to her research. Admittedly, there was a cautious excitement as to who it could be, but Morinë didn’t bother to hazard a guess. Her mind was elsewhere, wrapping her hands firmly around a still-warm mug, attempting to ground herself. While reviewing some notes that morning, she found herself running a thumb across the image of a tree she rendered; the canopy of leaves almost as clear in her mind as the lines of Elrond’s profile gazing up at it. Taking longer strides, she hoped her haste and bustle would spare the hem of her freshly laundered robes from mud, both eager and anxious to reach her destination. A figure came into focus, raising a hand to wave at her as she approached.
“Good morning, Morinë,” He spoke easily with a slight bow, a pleasant smile upon his face.
“Good morning to you as well, Elrond,” she replied mirroring his gesture, meeting his eyes.
A beat of silence passed between them. Morinë was grateful to have her hands occupied, mindlessly sipping her tea before breaking the rather pointed eye contact. Elrond’s brow furrowed slightly as he registered the mug for the first time. Though larger than a teacup, it seemed too small to maintain the amount of heat wafting off it, his gaze ignoring the way her lips met the rim of the vessel. It was a deep blue, the fluted ridges around it uniform, dusted in an almost copper color with a proportionate handle. He wondered who had made it.
“Shall we?” Elrond offered, turning so she could pass through the gate.
“Let’s.” Morinë answered a touch quicker than she would have preferred but brushed past the feeling and him as she entered. They walked alongside each other for a time before reaching the grand collection of interconnected, ornate buildings she had come to know as the palace. Traversing the winding hallways, their footsteps the only sound, he interrupted the silence.
“Morinë,”
“Yes?”
“About whom you are to meet today…would you mind if I provided some context beforehand?”
“Why do you ask as though it would be foolish to say no?”
A smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth for a moment as he glanced at her from the corner of his eye, “His name is Gelindhil, the Atlas Master; one of the most skilled mappers in the whole of Middle Earth. As he is responsible for surveying the land and its inhabitants, I believe you both will have a significant overlap in your research. Collaborating with him may be of great help you in gathering the necessary information to bolster your findings, whatever they may be.”
“…That sounds perfect, though I cannot help but feel as though there is more you wish to add,” she commented, sipping from her cup as she waited for him to continue.
“Your wariness is nearly unmatched.”
“I prefer intuition, astuteness—but that is beside the point. What else would you like to tell me about this Gelindhil?” She could see him mulling over his next words and wondered how much time he dedicated in a day to picking the correct ones.
“Though his skill is without question, he has been known to have a rather playful nature.”
“Playful? I must beg you to elaborate.”
“It is not in an untoward or negative way, rather he is more, shall we say, eccentric; I simply do not wish for you to be put off by his manner. Gelindhil is kind at heart but can be rather unabashed in his speech.”
“Ah, so he speaks a bit more freely than you?”
“Than most.”
“That is quite alright.” She assured, a small smile on her face, “I enjoy plain speech; you needn’t be concerned.”
Whatever comment Elrond had in response, he kept to himself, simply nodding as they continued their walk. Morinë sipped from her still-steaming mug, the movement catching his eye.
“There is one more thing I must ask of you,” He began, slowing to a near-stop. Peering up at him, her subsequent breaths became shallower, noticing how narrow the hallway was beginning to feel. “How on Arda is your cup still that warm?”
Morinë was confused for a moment before remembering which mug she had been drinking from, letting out a small chuckle, “Oh, this—it was a gift from Coirëamár. It is made from her, so it retains heat as though it were still being warmed in her very hearth.” She explained as he listened with fascination,” Today I have a Niphredil tea. It helps in relaxing the mind.”
“Of course, the fragrance is as lovely as ever.” His tone was wistful, remembering how the flowers bloomed in his ancestor’s gardens long ago.
“That is half the reason why I grow them.” She smirked and Elrond found he quite enjoyed seeing it, now distracted by the fullness of her lips, “Would you care to have some?” she offered innocently, catching him off guard.
“I—I couldn’t,” he managed to get out, his eyes widening like a caught deer while collecting the rest of his response. “I would not want to impose or be improper.”
In moments Morinë realized her bumble. Though her work had been solitary, in her travels she had spent much time with the people of Middle Earth, but decorum between nobility had often escaped her concern. To drink after another among friends was a sign of camaraderie, though judging by his reaction, it meant something quite different to the High Elves of Lindon.
Fairly embarrassed, she quickly responded, “Oh yes, of course— my apologies, I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“There is no need to apologize, I—,” Elrond replied, chastising himself as he searched in vain for the correct words. Usually quick-witted, he was unsure of what he wished to say. He did, however, know he wished to become closer, and her response sounded like distance. “It is quite alright,” he finished lamely, turning away to roll his eyes at himself.
“I see,” she simply said, holding the mug closer to her middle with both hands as though it would shield her from the awkwardness brewing between them.
They continued their walk for a short time in silence, arriving at a door a measure larger than the others. Stepping forward to knock at the entrance, Elrond stopped to face her; the words caught in his throat clear on his face. Before he was able to speak, a voice came from behind the door.
“Please, come in. I have awaited your arrival all morning.”
Glancing between her and the door for a moment, he reluctantly turned to open it, entering the room with Morinë a respectable distance behind him. She noted the space was much larger than one would assume from the outside. Decorated but orderly, the only wall not lined with tomes and scrolls stood awash with sunlight from the towering windows. Illuminated by the morning rays stood an elf she presumed to be Gelindhil, leaning over a grand draft table, leafing through a collection of maps. He was taller, his long, white hair pin-straight and neat. The handsome features of his face were framed by dark brows and lashes, providing an intriguing contrast. Standing upright, he smoothed the embroidered fabric of his gray overcoat, beckoning them in.
“Elrond, welcome!” he greeted warmly. His smile was wide as Elrond stepped forward into the room to shake his hand.” So lovely to see yo—oh my, and who are you?”
Morinë had stepped from behind Elrond just past the threshold of the room though she now felt at its center. “Greetings, Sir Gelindhil, I am Morinë.”
Gelindhil smoothly moved past Elrond and towards her, releasing his friend’s hand without a second thought to grasp hers. “A fitting name for a such a vision. You are the Earthsmith, I presume?” he flattered and by the slight roll of Elrond’s eyes she knew this was the beginning of the eccentricity he was referring to.
“That is what some call me, but my friends call me Morinë.”
“Then Morinë it is,” he purred, lightly kissing her hand, ushering her further into his study. “I must confess milady, in none of the tales of your artistry had I heard mention of your own fairness. They were remiss indeed not to speak of it.”
“Oh, thank you. Though I’m rather glad the work speaks for itself. I should like to think one wouldn’t be inclined to share Elven knowledge simply because one was fair.” She replied lightly, sipping her tea.
A flash of surprise followed by a wry smile spread across Gelindhil’s face “Oh, I like her.” He said turning to Elrond who felt himself an unwitting, but obstinate audience to their banter. Shifting his gaze back to Morinë, he continued,” Let us cut to the meat of it then, milady. How would you like to review the records from my latest expedition to the East?”
“I would like that very much,” she replied, returning his smile sincerely, placing her satchel on one of the chairs to retrieve her journal and quill from it.
“I also have some records dating back to the First Age that may be of interest to you. Arda has had many faces through the ages, very little of it remaining wholly untouched,” he explained, searching one of the scroll-lined walls. Standing next to her, Gelindhil spread another map across the table, expounding upon its contents for a time before remembering Elrond was there. “Alas, I seemed to have gotten carried away again. I am sure you have much to attend to so I will take no offense if you must leave us, Elrond. Morinë and I may very well take hours.” He commented.
“No, thank you,” he began with a measured smile,” Remaining close to this work is my present priority; High King’s wishes.” He had made himself comfortable at a desk across from the draft table, already dipping his quill in the inkwell to write as he began his own tasks.
“Ah, as he wishes then.”
As it would turn out, Gelindhil’s estimation was accurate, with him and Morinë spending the better part of three hours pouring over the various records and research he had collected during his time as Atlas Master. While Elrond was grateful for the time to focus, it felt as though it had been given in vain, his thoughts and eyes beginning to wander. Small brass placards lined the walls beneath each of the scrolls, save for a dozen or so in a row. His expression fell slightly, a far but knowing look in his eyes. The exhale that followed was quiet though it came from deep in his core. Those scrolls did not need placards, as no Elf needed reminding of the time they recorded, Elrond especially. During that time, two kinslayings came to pass, he and his brother finding themselves in the care of the very Elves responsible. They travelled long and far, both captives and wards until the lot of them could no longer distinguish the two. He mindlessly rubbed his hands where long-healed scars used to live; it felt both ages and moments ago.
Morinë’s chuckle shook him from his reverie, noticing how her hand no longer shot to her side as she laughed. Instead, a fissure righted by golden thread adorning her waist drew his focus, her breaths causing it to catch the light as she stood across the room. Matching perfectly with the other embellishments of her cobalt robe, he couldn’t help but wonder which were embellishments and which were ledgers of injury; such was part of her charm. Resilience seemed to come easily, the smile on her face earnest and unguarded as though she had not cheated death a month earlier.
Morinë was listening intently to another of Gelindhil’s tales, when she felt eyes on her. Glancing over she saw Elrond sitting with a hand to his face, in a posture of deep thought. While he was looking at her, he seemed unaware that the perception had become mutual. Following his line of sight, she saw the tear that had been repaired on her robe after their encounter with the spiders. Though puzzled for a moment, he seemed to return from wherever his mind had taken him, meeting her gaze. Giving him a quizzical look, she raised a brow. He flashed a reassuring smile before returning to his work, Head in the clouds again, she supposed, brushing it off. Returning the gesture, she peered at him once more, relieved that their earlier gaffe seemed forgotten. On the other hand, Gelindhil believed he would not soon forget what he learned that day as he observed them.
I felt Wallace from the series was so different of what I expected when he interacted with Scott.
I know they annoy each other and that, but... Even with it Wallace still worry about Scott a lot, he supports him and loves him in his own way... I didn't see anything of that in the chapters.
When I saw the opening, I was excited because I thought they were gonna to have many interactions... So I was kinda dissapointed. Also, Wallace acted like Scott was just an inconvenience, but in a way that wasn't funny, so... Yeah.
I just wanted to write a bit of an interesting part...
Amateur history enthusiast Peyton gets sent back in time to Ancient Rome where she's taken into the household of a centurion, Alexandrius Luthorus.
Peyton believed she was being careful. Her knowledge of historical events wasn’t something she took for granted, and it wasn’t a responsibility she carried lightly. History as she knew it literally depended on her not messing everything up or interfering in any way until she could find a way back to the future.
But keeping track of time in the ancient present and in her own present were wildly different beasts. The Romans right now didn’t use the Gregorian calendar she was familiar with, and she had to try and recalculate just when everything was to try and keep tabs.
It was a small risk to keep a little journal for herself. A timeline, of sorts.
She wasn’t foolish with it. Peyton knew allowing dates and events to live anywhere but her head was a potential leak, but at the moment she didn’t feel like she had much of a choice. She couldn’t possibly keep track of everything mentally. And she was careful.
Anything she added to her notes, she wrote in code. The pages were a mashup of English words, abbreviations, and numbers. It felt safe. Despite sharing essentially an entire alphabet, the words didn't match and she’d never taught Lex any English.
And besides. It wasn’t like she was even going to let him know the book existed.
Which was all perfect until she walked into the room he let her stay in and found him sitting at her little desk, looking over the small, leather bound book.
Peyton froze in place, the hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and it was all she could do to keep her composure.
“What are you doing in here,” she asked. The words rolled off her tongue easily enough. Her Latin had only exponentially improved during her time in this era. Lex turned the page of her book and gave her a speculative look.
“I was curious,” he said. “I’ve noticed you with this a few times, but never openly. It made me wonder.”
“It’s personal,” Peyton defended.
“It’s already impressive that you can read and write,” he commented as he returned to the book, as if she hadn’t said anything. “I didn’t realize you were into ciphers as well.”
“It’s not a cipher.”
“It certainly looks like one.”
He met her eyes again in challenge this time, and Peyton pressed her lips together. She could salvage this. She had to salvage this.
“It just my native language,” she partially lied.
“It looks very Roman.”
“Doesn’t everything, when you feel like you rule the world?”
Lex laughed lightly, and Peyton itched to rip the book from his hands; to keep it far away from him. But she couldn’t let him see how important it was to her. How desperate she was to keep him from it. It’d only make him want it more. She forced the tension from her shoulders in a bid to seem casual. She hoped it hadn’t been obvious already.
“Alright,” he said, like he was permitting her statement to stand. “What have you written then?”
She didn’t have to fake the scoff that passed her lips.
“They’re my personal thoughts, I’m not sharing them with you.”
“Like I said, it looks very Roman. I may not know all your words, but you use our letters. The other peoples we’ve conquered never have.” He tapped the book with two fingers and raised his brows in question. “You write ‘JC’ often in your personal thoughts. Tell me, is that a name?”
The question nearly destroyed her entire act, it hit so close to home. He only could have had her book a matter of minutes and already he’d zeroed in on that? Peyton quirked a brow and twisted her lips in a mockery of a smile. Like his suggestion amused her instead of terrified her.
“I’m sure you’d like for it to be one,” she said. “We may have a similar alphabet, but that doesn’t mean the structure of our languages works the same way.”
He watched her then looked back at the page he was currently on.
“J-C, M-A-R,” he said. “And these lines clearly aren’t a letter. More like a designation for a middle.”
Oh, heaven help her. He’d found her notes on the Ides of March. Of all her notes, why did he have to focus on that one?
