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So I know I've fallen off the face of the earth, but that was because I was busy finishing the first draft of my novel: For the Next Killer Who Dies! It is 134,954 words long and 315 pages. I'm so happy although that means that now I have to go back, tear it apart, and rewrite the crappy parts (so almost all of it. Haha), but it's a step in the right direction.

You will also notice that I posted a few drawings. I am not the artist in the family, my sister :iconinprismed: is, but I wanted to work on my own comic Dangerously Delusional and I drew some architectural pieces for my world in an attempt to try and understand it better to be able to describe it better.

Anyway, sorry I was MIA, but it was for a good reason, I swear!
  • Mood: Euphoric
  • Watching: Cutthroat Kitchen
  • Drinking: green tea
This journal is just a random rant because I have too much time on my hands. It’s really to help me put my mind in order, so feel free to ignore it if you want. I won’t be offended.

I’ve been thinking about the writing process and the part that really stumps me is finding my genre/audience for my book.

The genre bit, in particular, bewilders me, especially since every genre can be broken down into smaller genres. It’s like splitting the atom-all of sudden all this crap comes out and there are so many things you don’t even know what to call them anymore (honestly who the hell came up with muon and gluon?!)  Let’s take the current book I am working on right: Hurrah for the Next Killer that Dies which is part of my larger series, the Nothing but Glory series.
Hurrah for the Next Killer that Dies is a fake memoir written by a fake revolutionary about a fake revolution in a fake country. The main character is an Ilkhatal, also known as a Killer (Killer being a slang word the race adopted out of spite), a humanoid reptile with a broad snout, short horns on the side of its head, and long, soft, furry ears. It’s basically what would happen if a cow, human, and iguana decided to have a mutated child. The Killers are the oppressed citizens of a country known as Shiva. The fake memoir chronicles their attempts to break free from the Shivians-artistic and snooty humans. Although I do not like comparing my creatures with any particular movement/race/country/event in history, the Killer Liberation Army (KLA) could be classified as a separatist movement similar to the IRA or the Irgun. I even have a prison break in the book (which seemed to have been one of Irgun’s favorite pastimes when they were not assassinating British officers and fighting amongst themselves).
The world is very similar to the Victorian Era, but not dependent on steam (thus making it hard to justify it as a steampunk novel-especially since there are no dirigibles, men with large muttonchops wearing monocles, or bionic limbs in my first book, although I will admit that one character will sport muttonchops later in the series and the tank, airplane, and flamethrower will become a popular weapon as the series progresses). The series could be labeled as a fantasy series because it has fantastical characters such as Minotaurs, Phoenixes, Demons, and Gargoyles, but the mythology is more Greco-Roman than Arthurian/Norse and the world is more akin to the twentieth century than the thirteenth or fourteenth century. And it’s not modern or contemporary fantasy because it is set in the past.
The series is also hard to catalog because it is not a fable or mythological study of right and wrong or good and evil, it is a socio-political and historical examination of a world in the midst of change. Hurrah for the Next Killer that Dies takes place between two world wars-the First and Second Shadow War-and is a microcosm study of a minority using the turmoil of one war to seize control of its own destinies while preparing for the coming of a second war. It has more in common with a political science book than an Arthurian fable.

So where does it belong? It is not fantasy, because fantasy is usually associated with knights, damsels in distress, petty squabbles over small kingdoms that haven’t quite reach nation state status, and usually has some connection with magic. Fantasy is also heavily entrenched in the Arthurian/Norse mythology and as I mentioned before my story is not. It follows the Greek mythology where the gods don’t give a fuck about humanity, they’re really just a set of squabbling family members,  when the gods do intercede it usually doesn’t work out for our hero because it’s just a petty fight between one god and two or three other gods, and man is his own worst enemy. It also does not start with the premise of a feudal system and there is no hidden king or prophesized hero to save the world. It is a world full of nation states and an international order similar to the Westphalia system found in today’s world and there are no destined heroes, only accidental ones. So, no, it’s not fantasy.

And it is not science fiction because science fiction is usually associated with futuristic societies, the evils of technology, the downfall of man, and some kind of alien or robotic intervention. While technology is an issue in my world, the series praises technology than it damns it. Actually, it damns man more for using technology to further greed and pride than it actually damns the technology itself, if that makes any sense. In many ways it is closer to the science fiction of Verne and Wells and the only reason they were considered science fiction was because they wrote about things that had not yet been created.  Obviously everyone is familiar with electricity and telegraph. Also, hate to disappoint any potential readers, but there will be no robots or aliens visiting my world. Sorry.
I thought about classifying it as science fantasy, but then grew annoyed with myself because that term makes as much sense as the term muon.

But, for argument’s sake, say I decide to label it as a science fantasy novel, who is my audience? It’s not squealing teenager boys and girls because there is an idiotic industry assumption that teenagers are only interested in books about teenagers, just as girls are only interested in books that are solely about girls and romance and boys are only interested in books solely about boys and action and adventure. Seeing as Hurrah for the Next Killer that Dies starts with Kingsley as 16 but ends with him in his forties, it would probably be hard to argue that this book is meant for young adults. I also doubt parents would want their teenagers reading about assassinations, prison breaks, and blowing up buildings. I do not think my target audiences are the fantasy or science fiction gurus for the same reasons the book is not a fantasy or science fiction book. I could potentially try and sell it steampunk lovers, but I feel that they would quickly sense that my book does not quite gel with their philosophy. It seems to be that they are in awe in the Victorian era and the world of steam, and while I am certainly a fan and consider myself a semi-steampunker myself, my series does not praise that world, it condemns it.

In many ways the series is a fantastical condemnation of the latter half of the 19th and most of the 20th century. It is my attempt to try and justify a century spent killing each other and forcing ideologues down people’s throats while praising the high ideals of democracy. But how to convince political scientists and historians to read a fictional account of two world wars and their aftermaths simply because I was too lazy to conduct the research necessary to write a series about the actual world wars?
  • Mood: Rant
  • Listening to: Sweet Thing by David Bowie
  • Drinking: green tea


Delta-13's Profile Picture
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
Hi I’m Sam and I’m a recent escapee from the Virginia Military Institute (VMI). I am a goof who pretends to be driven and organized. Currently my sister :iconinprismed: and I are working on seven major projects:

The first project is my nine book science fantasy series: Nothing but Glory:

“Everyone has a reason to die. It is history that determines if it was worth dying for.”-Kingsley Montivelo.
Everyone in my book has a reason to die and the Nothing but Glory series follows thirteen leaders and what they fight and die for. The series starts with the thirteen leaders rising to power, how they handle a world war that is catastrophic in scope, and watches as some are overtaken by their sins-both intentional and unintentional-and some rise to lead a stronger, but dying world into an uncertain future.

My second project is a companion book to the Nothing but Glory series: Hurrah for the Next Killer Who Dies: Selected memories of a Revolutionary:

Killers never forget, they never forgive, and they never apologize, but sometimes they explain.
This is Kingsley Montivelo's memoirs on his time as a member of the Killer Liberation Army (KLA). It starts with the moment he decides to be a KLA member and ends with Siegfried's Day, a tragic and history making day that no one in Terra ever forgets.

My third project is a collection of short stories that lay the groundwork for my series that has been published on Kindle. These stories follow the rise of Timothy Murphy (my world’s pope) and Ethan Hertz (a Druid king), David Farin (a Shadow Prince), Hugo Urbs (a fierce warrior), and Robert Phillips and Henry Banks, two humans struggling to find their place in a world dominated by fantastical creatures. These stories are published on Kindle and are support with historical information and illustrations drawn by my sister :iconinprismed:. They can found here: [link]

My fourth project is Heroes: a dystopian novel about Singularity gone wrong.

“We offer you Peace, Security, and Prosperity. We ask for your Privacy and your Obedience.”-Turing
Heroes is a world where there is no death, no war, no disease, and no crime. It is a perfect world as long as everyone follows the rules and does not mind being observed by the four guardians at all times. There is a small movement known as the Time Keepers who are desperately fighting the Guardians and bringing freedom back to the world.

My fifth project is Stairway to Heaven and is about a former druggie and asshole who decides to help struggling teens because he needs community service hours.

My sixth project is an angel and demon story which is about an angel and demon...yeah that one needs more work before I even know what it's about.

My seventh and final project is Dangerously Delusional. It is a comic about super heroes and super villains who have no idea what the hell they’re doing.

Current Projects (Starting July 17, 2014):
Shadow Country bio: 35% Completed
Rewrite Kingsley Story: 10% Completed
Charles Bio: 0% Completed
Rin Bio: 0% Completed
Zana Bio: 0% Completed
Galian Bio: 0% Completed
Enjorlas Bio: 0% Completed
plot for pre-book/"hobbit book": 0% Completed
Rewrite plot for the third book....again: 0% Completed

Word Count (Starting August 1st):

Nothing but Glory Website:
My pinterest:…
My sister introduced me to stamps:

Arbitrary Titles Stamp by WetWithRain Comments Stamp by WetWithRain The Ori-Chin Of Whisker by PsychoMonkeyShogun Fallopian tube by SirvanaRachana Ray Bradbury Stamp by justdacat Grafstein's Growth by SirvanaRachana Meissner's corpuscle by SirvanaRachana Natural Selection by draco-dragon84 Krause's end-bulbs by SirvanaRachana Being human stamp 1 by dawn-of-stamps Despicable Me by RuthlessDreams Go Go Godzilla Stamp by Aazari-Resources Fawlty Towers by Shantella Go Gadget GO by Shantella Monty Python + the Holy Grail 'I got better' Stamp by TwilightProwler MARVEL X-Men First Class Stamp by TwilightProwler Wolfsbane X-Force Stamp by dA--bogeyman Some Motivation Required by RuthlessDreams I know everything by postmortumm I wanna move things with my mind by prosaix Hufflepuffs don't give a shit by kittykat01 Stamp: Bananas! by TheSaltyMonster YGOTAS: Steves :Stamp: by Circe-Baka YGOTAS: Screwed Rules :Stamp: by Circe-Baka Kaiba Screwed Stamp by D-WTF Kaiba stamp by Yami-YugiohFangirl Stamp: Hans Landa: Inglorious by ASSKISSER gor-LAH-me by deerstalkerpress I'm the dude... by Kiyamasho I love Led Zeppelin by mep92 Bob Dylan stamp by 5-3-10-4 Animated Flogging Molly Stamp by Voltaireon Drunken Lullabies 001 by Dametora Drunken Lullabies 004 by Dametora Alice Cooper stamp by starchild-rocks Gargoyles Stamp - Puck by KatWithKnives Gargoyles Stamp - David Xanatos by KatWithKnives Fringe Stamp by KristalStittle Watchmen Stamp Comedian by IngwellRitter Rorschach Stamp by picklelova Vendetta Stamp by Dianitica Ideas are bulletproof - stamp by HtB-stamps Stamp V of Vendetta by Iluvendure With Love From Valerie by RavenGaleSpencer Seinfeld stamp by cool-slayer Stamp: seinquote 1 by imgoingtothemoon Arrested Development Stamp by minami Lord of the Rings stamp 4 by Chrysalislover Lord of the Rings stamp 3 by Chrysalislover Treebeard Stamp by Captain-Savvy Boromir stamp by purgatori Theoden Poem Stamp by Parabuteo78 LOTR - Wander by Jenna-Rose B.P.R.D. Stamp by AsliBayrak Hellboy stamp by AprilMcGuire Ectoplasmic fun stamp by Violette-Aner Guillermo del Toro Stamp by Violette-Aner Ron Perlman stamp by C-Puff Stamp Johann Kraus by theEyZmaster History by black-cat16-stamps i support villains by iago-rotten Deviant Stamp: Erik Lehnsherr by beekay84 Abe Stamp by eERIechan Les Miserables Stamp by sratt Elbonian Motivation by Stock7000 Pearls Before Swine Stamp by Zetas The Mummy stamp by BaB-Jane Jurassic Park Stamp by ZZsStamps Thee Stoopid One :Stamp: by Circe-Baka Freaky Fred by Cathines-Stamps Cheese stamp by GalacticSun Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends Stamp by shadowleigh Foster's Home: Potatoes by Galialay "Heroes" Bowie stamp by TheStampQueen David Bowie Labyrinth Stamp by RebelOreo Labyrinth by Songficcer Bad ideas look Good -stamp by Sysirauta Warrior Stamp by PhoenixKnght86 Cloud Atlas Stamp by Lady-AnnJoanne YGOTAS: SSA :Stamp: by Circe-Baka Dan Green Stamp by erikagrace303 Craig's Cat by Rodentruler Craig Ferguson Fan Stamp by SonKitty I'll pray for you, Satan-chan by Haters-Gonna-Hate-Me We love Phoenix by BlackRayser


JeffreyRebowlski Literature
65 deviations
For Country

Yes, we watched the goose steppers
And cheered the Beer Hall Putsch
And, yes, we knew neighbors
Who were taken and butchered

But our country was falling
Democracy was a sham
And the Communists were calling

When he appeared
Hope filled the land
And Germany was feared
And our pride returned

But then the fuhrer
Revealed his true nature
And the animals took over

Goebbels, Himmler, Heydrich
Corrupted and damned
Desperately trying to find their niche
In the midst of Hell’s inner circle

And so we united, Oster taking the lead
While Canaris hid in the shadows
And in the Abhewr revolution did bred
While the SS purged the land
The left hand not knowing what the right was doing

And we went to England
Once in ’38 and were told to wait
And again in ’40 if only they had listened
And in ’43 we all hanged together

By a trick of Fate, Stauffenberg failed
And we bade farewell to Olbricht, Rommel, and Beck.
And Tresckow passed through the veil.

It was all for country, you must understand
We realized too late,
But we tried reclaim our land
And prove we were not all like them

It was all for country.
Can you understand?
For Country
So this is the results of a budding (and probably unhealthy) obsession. I first became interested in the conspirators against Hitler when I saw Valkyrie (which is actually a pretty good movie). Then I read Gisevius’ account on Valkyrie, then a biography on Rommel, and just a few weeks ago I finished a biography on Canaris (the Oster book is waiting in the wings as soon as I’m down with Dawkin’s the Ancestor’s Tale). My obsession has only grown and now I really want to write a book on the conspirators (it’d most likely be historical fiction similar to Shaara’s Killer Angels). And I know I’m missing a number of conspirators in this poem (Goerdeler, Fellgiebel, Witzleben, etc.) but I tried, right? Also this poem is really crappy but, hopefully, they will forgive me for that as well.

I just…I’m trying to understand that era and Germany and the conspirator’s tale is tragic, but also very hard because they can’t be said to be a hundred percent good Germans, but they weren’t complete Nazis either. It just took a while for them to realize (although Canaris remained friends with Heydrich even after he found out what a psychopath he was, but that might have just been wise since the Abwehr and the SS worked together and Heydrich was always up Canaris’ ass). Also I’m just learning about this particularly group of men so there’s a lot that is unclear to me. I’m just trying to feel them out and learn what drove them. I think they’re a good study for how to deal with extremists.

I mean, look, the Nazis are a classic example of a group of crazies grabbing power over a large swath of land and if England had been willing to negotiate with Oster and his group in 1938, WWII could have been very different. The most important lesson I’ve learned from the conspirators (besides don’t trust the English) is that within a group of crazies there are moderates who are willing to negotiate either because they got what they wanted from the crazies or because the crazies are too crazy to control. I think that’s a very important lesson for modern times-or I’m just insane (which is a distinct possibility). *shrugs*

Anyway, hope you enjoy!

© me
A Royal Wedding

May 22nd 1845-Ophelia’s Gardens, Whitfield, Paradise

It was one of the few clear and sunny days in Paradise and the city was in euphoria. Bells and trumpets rang throughout the street as the citizens enjoyed party favors, music, dancing, and good food. The celebration lead to Ophelia’s Gardens, an expansive space full of exotic plants brought to Paradise from many adventurous Shadows who explored the seas and continent-some of these plants had come from the Ignis thanks to the Kant twins. The flowers were in full bloom and the trees shook in merriment as squirrels ran from branch to branch and the birds sang blissfully. In the center of this garden was the royal wedding party and every lord and lady of importance or who wanted to be noticed was here drenched in decadence and power. The scorpions of Paradise, Chief of Police Emmanuel Caine, the king’s personal assassin, and his wife, Lady Diana, sat at a circular table to the right of the king’s table. Emmanuel was enjoying his wine and eying the Kants who were sitting at the king’s table while his wife charmed the Lord and Lady Milhouse, Baron Chessland, and Lady Moore, her hand tightly clasping Emmanuel’s under the table. Diana was the epitome of desire and power. She was dressed in scarlet red and wore large emerald earrings and a three tiered necklace so that others would know that, even though she had married below her station and had taken her husband’s name, she was not to be trifled with. Despite being in her fifties-and twenty years her husband’s senior-she was coveted by all Shadow males, even the elusive Damon Glasgow although he liked to deny it. Her shoulder length, curly black hair was soft and stayed out of her dimension altering face. Her alluring blue eyes captured men’s soul and her long legs captured men’s hearts. Her dress complimented her best features-features that put younger Shadows to shame and her voice ensured men’s minds and never let go.
“Emmanuel was just telling me that you are grandparents now,” Diana grinned as the Milhouses flushed with pride.
“Oh, yes, a little girl. She born just three days ago,” fluttered Mrs. Milhouse.
“Congratulations, but you should have told us sooner,” she said playfully swiping at Lord Milhouse’s arm, causing Emmanuel to frown, “We would have thrown you a baby shower.”
“Oh, we would never imagine imposing on you,” sputtered Lord Milhouse, not missing the murderous glare Emmanuel shot his way.
“Nonsense. You know what, we’ll throw one anyway. An occasion like this should not be ignore, don’t you agree darling,” said Diana, looking at her husband as he squeezed her hand.
“Oh, yes, it would be an honor to host a party for your esteemed son and his divine wife.”
Diana’s face tightened and she dug her nails in his hand to remind him who he belonged too. Emmanuel was Diana’s ideal prey, tight and strong and devilishly handsome, and he was devoted to her mind, body, and soul. He wore the high fashions of Serpens such as their long embroidered coats and poofy white shirts and his black hair flopped as it pleased. Looking at him, one would have thought he was a reckless dandy, but Diana knew better. Underneath that carefree façade was a powerful monster, a dangerous scorpion who struck when everyone was least expecting it. She had never met her match before, but Emmanuel came close.
“Thank you, my lord and lady,” said Lord Milhouse, bowing his head and shaking at the prospect of owing the Caines anything.
There was a clinking of glass as Lord Abraham Hotchkiss unsteadily rose, leant on his cane with the Minotaur head as the handle, and raised in his glass. Abraham had aged drastically over the years. His once rich, black hair, was completely grey as was his moustache, his dimension altering face was fading in color, and his dark brown eyes were tired and worn.
“I propose a toast,” he said, a rare, but earned smile on his lips, “To my lucky ward, Geoffrey, and his lovely bride, Fiona. Never have I seen a couple more beneficial for each other. Geoffrey, I love you like a son and I am so happy you have fond a small piece of joy in these dark and tumultuous times. Fiona, you are a ray of sunshine in Geoffrey’s life and a blessing upon our family. May your marriage be a long and happy one and may you know and appreciate the strength that comes from knowing that one will always be by the other’s side.”
“When she not busy on her knees in Glasgow’s room,” Diana whispered to Emmanuel, causing the police chief to smirk.
There was a here here from some of the other lords and they drank their wine as Geoffrey blushed and Fiona smiled with arrogant expectation. Fiona was known for her beauty and her way with men. She was a wildflower, a climbing rose that could not be tamed or mastered. Her long, soft black hair was braid and arranged into a delicate bun, a lily slipped into her the bun, and her sharp blue eyes were highlighted by strict eyeliner and delicate blue eye shadow. She was thin, but strong and her wedding dress was surprisingly modest-most likely because Geoffrey had picked it out for her. She was elegant and held her head with pride, a true Kant, and a willing martyr, and above her husband in every way except bloodline, for while Fiona was a Kant, Geoffrey was a Farin, a direct descendant of Mordred and Death, a true line of kings and warriors-even though he didn’t look the part. Whereas his brother and king was ice and death, Geoffrey was warmth and life, his angelic face betrayed his innocence and his large blue doe eyes were fixated on Fiona, the only being in his life who mattered.
“Thank you, my lord,” she smiled, bowing her head to her father-in-law as her husband smiled and fawned over her, “You have a gentlemen’s charm and a scholar’s choice of words. I would like to thank you and our king for welcoming me into your family.”
She deeply bowed her head to King David, who was sitting by his brother’s side.
David was a true heir of Mordred and Death, his tall and thin form a specter amongst specters and his dimension altering face was carved from black onyx. His black hair was held back by his crown, a single band of gold, and his icy blue eyes glowed with a happiness never seen before as his thin lips curled into a half-smile.
“Ah, it is I who should be thanking you, Fiona, you and your brothers,” he said, his words rolled off the tongue like blood off the tip of a spear, “I have never seen my brother so happy except when he is in your presence, although I will admit that I do not look forward to fighting with you for his affection.”
Geoffrey blushed as David patted his hand and smiled a full smile.
“And, while we must thank Lord Hotchkiss for putting together this magnificent celebration, it is my family you are entering. He is but a guest and if he causes you any trouble, just send for me.”
He shared an icy glance with Lord Hotchkiss, who slowly sat down in his seat, determined to keep this day pleasant for Geoffrey.
“Must you always be so mean, my Lord?” laughed Geoffrey, before rising and turned to face Fiona’s brothers, the Kant twins, “While we should thank my brother and Lord Hotchkiss for this wonderful celebration, I must thank you for allowing me to marry your sister. There are none like her and I know I will fail often, but I will try to bring her the joy she deserves. I know I was not your first choice for her hand, but I am honored you allowed me to marry her anyway and I look forward to being able to call the both of you brother. Hopefully it will be easier to see the two of you than it is to see our king.”
There was a chuckle and even David smirked. Solomon, the older twin by a minute and the more dignified one, rose and bowed his head towards Geoffrey and David. Although Solomon was only in his thirties, he already looked like an old man and his dimension altering face was hard and beaten, a product of a hard childhood and an active life. His bushy, black hair was brushed out of his face and his eyebrows needed a slight trim, but did not obscure his dark and patient blue eyes. He was dressed to perfection and everyone appreciated how his polish shoes and medals shone. He was the perfect embodiment of the Kant honor and the patron saint of righteous causes and celebrated martyrs. He shared a loving glance with his sister before saying, “Geoffrey, if anyone needs to give thanks it is us to you, for making an honest woman out of her our wild sister.”
There was laughter as Fiona grinned with pride, the lords laughed nervously as their wives stared them down, and Prince Damon Glasgow took a sip of wine to hide his frown.
“I know her tales need no embellishment or repeating, and even though she had been through her fair share of suitors, I have never seen any of them make her as happy as you do. I know you will be a good husband and a loyal friend to her and to our family and it is an honor to call you brother.”
Geoffrey smiled, his eyes sparkling as he put his arm around his wife and held her close.
“And to our lord and king, words cannot express our gratitude and privilege to being welcomed into your family. I pray that my brother and I will be able to live up to our illustrious ancestors and bring what small honors we can to the already distinguished Farin name.”
“But not the Hotchkiss name?” whispered Diana, raising an eyebrow.
“No, it is Benedict who is Hotchkiss’ whore, not Solomon,” Emmanuel explained, “Although both are insufferable.”
She smiled as her husband ruffled with abhorrence.
“Ah, don’t let the twins to get to you,” she whispered, gently kissing the rim of his ear, “If they are true Kants they will sacrifice themselves by the end of the year.”
“If only we were so lucky,” he sighed.
There was a stirring of strings and Geoffrey led Fiona to the dance floor, her long trail dragging behind her. They watched as the married couple walked into the center of the party and gracefully spun around, Fiona having to confidently move Geoffrey’s hesitant hand to her waist, the innocent Shadow gulping as she did so.
“It’s all right,” she whispered, as she rested her hand on his arm, “We’re married now. You’re allowed to touch me.”
“I know,” he nervously chuckled, “I’m sorry. I’ll get better, I promise.”
She smiled, “I’m going to hold you to that promise tonight.”
Geoffrey blushed and Fiona laughed as they spun around and around, fully aware that all eyes were on them.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For agreeing to marry me. I know you didn’t want to. I know you would have preferred my brother or even my cousin.”
Fiona’s eyes flashed for a second before she gently kissed Geoffrey’s cheek.
“Geoffrey, I married you because I wanted to, not because you were my only option,” she said, nuzzling closer to his body, “I love you and you are a better Shadow than either your brother or Damon.”
Geoffrey’s eyes widened and he momentarily looked confusion, as if the idea that he was better than David or Damon was illogical.
“Don’t look so surprised. I married you after all. Do you really think I’m the type of whore who would marry someone simply out of spite or for power?”
“No, of course not!” he gasped, as they spun around once more, “It’s just…You are too nice to me, Fiona, and I know you didn’t marry me out of love, but I love you and I will do my best to make you happy. I swear it.”
Fiona’s face softened and as the song ended she pulled him into a kiss that was best reserved for the bedroom, causing the older Shadows to gasp and the younger lords to woop and holler.

“It seems that Geoffrey will have his hands full,” teased Ariel Gray, Solomon’s girlfriend.
She was half Druid, half Shadow and thus her skin was a light grey instead of black, like normal Shadows, but she had the posture of a Shadow queen. While her beauty paled in comparison to the likes of Diana and Fiona, she had a good heart and bright soul that drew Shadows of both genders to her. She was not a Kant or Farin, but she possessed a  nobility that may have come from the Druid kings of old. Her long and wavy black hair pulled into a cascading bun and framed her round face beautiful, while her sparkling brown eyes eyed her embarrassed boyfriend.
“Does she always have to make a spectacle of herself?” sighed Solomon.
“Ah, leave her alone, Solomon, it’s her wedding,” said Benedict, taking a large gulp of wine.
Benedict was more Lupus than Shadow and there was a hunger in his eyes that came from the desert and threatened to engulf himself and everything he held dear. His long black hair-that annoyed Solomon to no end-was pulled back into a ponytail although a few strands feel into his primordially handsome face. He had a distinctive nose and alluring dark eyes that glinted with the memories of his time in the Ignis Desert.
“She should still act with dignity and grace,” argued Solomon, knowing it was futile, “She is a Shadow princess now.”
Benedict pffted and finished his wine as Ariel placed a hand on Solomon’s arm.
“I am surprised she took his name,” she said, “I thought Fiona was more independent than that and I am sure Geoffrey would have agreed to change his name to Kant.”
“Abraham wouldn’t have,” said Benedict.
“Abraham?” asked Solomon, raising an eyebrow.
“You get pissy at me for respecting him and then you get pissy at me for disrespecting him. You can’t have it both ways, Solomon,” snapped Benedict.
Solomon rolled his eyes and watched as Fiona lead David to the dance floor and other lords and ladies slowly danced with them, including Diana and Emmanuel.
“I wish you could have convinced our king not to invite those two,” shivered Ariel, “Emmanuel makes me feel uncomfortable and his wife is vicious.”
“It’s because your young and pretty and Emmanuel fancies you,” said Benedict as a servant poured him more wine.
“No!” said Solomon quickly, his eyes flashing as if Benedict had just offended Ariel’s honor, “Diana only thinks Emmanuel fancies her. She is jealous of any female who even looks at that pig. He is disgustingly loyal to her.”
“You really think so?” asked Benedict incredulously, “I always thought it was a mutually beneficial marriage.”
“It is for the whore,” said Solomon, blushing as he realized Ariel was still sitting next to him, “But Emmanuel is devoted to her. He worships her. Death knows why.”
“I suppose she is quite attractive,” said Ariel, watching Diana and Emmanuel dance.
“She is disease ridden. It’s why Glasgow never bothered with her.”
“Is it true what they say about Fiona and Glasgow?” Solomon asked, his face softening.
“Depends on what you’ve heard.”
“One of the lords told me that Diana claims that Fiona is in love with Glasgow and is having an affair with him.”
Benedict shrugged.
“You can’t trust anything that Diana says. She’s a pathological liar, besides you know Glasgow is her go to Shadow whenever she feels the need to punish Caine. Fiona probably glanced at Glasgow one day and Diana felt the need to protect her property.”
Ariel frowned as Solomon shook his head.
“So Fiona hasn’t said anything to you?”
“No,” scoffed Benedict, taking another sip of wine.
“Do you think Diana was telling the truth?” asked Ariel.
“I don’t know. I just don’t want Fiona to do anything that would upset our lord and having an affair sounds like something she would do.”
Benedict shrugged, but his face lit up as soon as he saw Geoffrey walking towards them. He rose and pulled the Shadow prince into a back cracking hug. Ariel was bemused at the sudden burst of affection while Solomon rolled his eyes and also rose.
“Congratulations, Geoffrey,” said Benedict breaking the hug, but keeping a hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder, “Fiona is a lucky girl.”
“Oh, nonsense,” grinned Geoffrey, “I’m the lucky one.”
There was a cheer as Fiona dragged Abraham to the dance floor.
“She is perfect,” Geoffrey said as he watched his wife make Abraham feel young again.
“Far from it,” said Solomon, “But I hope she’ll make a good wife.”
“Don’t listen to this dark rain cloud,” pffted Benedict, waving Solomon away, “He’s just grumpy because he saw that the Caines were here.”
“Oh, yes,” said Geoffrey, his face falling, “I begged my brother not to invite them, but he wanted Emmanuel here for security reasons. They have been behaving themselves, haven’t they?”
“So far so good,” growled Benedict.
“David is far too reliant on Emmanuel,” sighed Geoffrey, “It is something Fiona and I plan to correct when we move into Mordred’s Castle.”
“You’re moving into the castle?” said Solomon, his eyes widening.
“Does Abraham think this is a good idea?” asked Benedict.
“No,” sighed Geoffrey, a conflicted frown falling across his lips, “But Fiona agrees with David. She thinks moving into the castle would enable me to help more as his domestic advisor and we could counteract Emmanuel’s influence.
“And you would be living closer to our lord and Glasgow,” said Solomon sharing a dark glance with Benedict.
“What?” asked Geoffrey confused.
“Don’t mind him,” frowned Benedict, a dark look crossing his wolflike face.
“Forgive my impertinence, my lord, but what would you like to do?” whispered Ariel, looking down as soon as she spoke.
Geoffrey stared at her mildly confused before Solomon realized he had not yet introduced his girlfriend.
“Oh, forgive me, Geoffrey, this is Ariel Gray. You met her a long time ago at one of Abraham’s parties. She is Lawrence Gray’s daughter.”
“Oh, yes, please forgive me,” said Geoffrey, his face lighting up, “I had not realized you and Solomon were dating.”
“It’s only been for a few months, my lord,” grinned Ariel as Solomon blushed.
“But their wedding will be soon, mark my words,” smirked Benedict.
“Really?” gasped Geoffrey, a large smile growing on his lips and his eyes widening.
“My brother exaggerates,” said Solomon, throwing Benedict a dark glare.
“Well I am sure you would be a wonderful bride and wife,” said Geoffrey.
“Thank you, my lord.”
“But, back to her question, what do you want to do, Geoffrey?” asked Benedict.
Geoffrey’s face fell and he rubbed the back of his neck.
“Honestly? I would like to stay with father, I mean Abraham. He still needs me and…I don’t think the castle atmosphere would be good for Fiona or our marriage. My parent’s marriage did not survive the castle and both my brother and my cousin are unmarried and childless. I do not want to do anything that would jeopardize my marriage with Fiona, but I am also afraid to refuse her. It is such a simple request and there is so little I bring to this marriage. And I would do anything to make her happy, you know that.”
Solomon and Benedict shared a dark glance as Ariel’s face softened and she gently grabbed Geoffrey’s hand.
“You should let Solomon and Benedict talk to your sister and Abraham. I am sure a compromise can be found.”
“Would you two do that for me?” asked Geoffrey looking at the twins hopefully.
“Of course,” said Benedict, patting Geoffrey’s shoulder, “We are brothers no. We have to look out for each other, especially since we’re no match for Fiona individually.”
“Thank you,” smiled Geoffrey, his eyes softening gratefully, “But what am I doing? We should be celebrating and you, Solomon, should be dancing with lovely Ariel. Today is a celebration of love after all.”  
Solomon, blushed as Ariel smiled, but they were all spared a response when they heard an oily voice that made both Solomon and Benedict faces flush with rage. They whirled around and Ariel and Geoffrey had to lay a hand on the brother’s shoulders to stop them from pouncing. Behind them stood a grinning Emmanuel, his hair swept from his face with effortless care, and a sinister glint in his eyes.
“Down boys, I just came to congratulation our prince on his uneven marriage.”
Solomon growled as Benedict made a motion towards Emmanuel but Geoffrey held him back.
“He’s not worth it,” Geoffrey whispered to Benedict.
“Your presence is not welcomed here, Emmanuel,” said Solomon, staring the police chief down.
“Our lord disagrees,” said Emmanuel sharply and succinctly, “Besides it would be rather rude of me to miss Prince Geoffrey’s wedding, even if he is marrying your whore of a sister.”
“Says the man married to the queen of whores herself,” spat Benedict as Ariel stepped between a fuming Solomon and a livid Emmanuel.
“Careful, Benny,” hissed Emmanuel, his eyes flashing, “Being the king’s brother-in-law won’t protect you forever.”
“Emmanuel, please,” pleaded Geoffrey, “I would hate to have to defend my brother-in-laws to my brother for murdering you.”
“You insult me, my prince. A drunk like Benny wouldn’t be able to shot up a barn and Sonny is too honorable to get his hands dirty.”
“Don’t underestimate me, Emmanuel,” said Solomon, slowly and evenly, “You’re already treading dangerous waters insulting a Shadow princes. Don’t make it worse.”
“The only insult is that she is allowed to call herself a princess while disgracing the Farin line. How many fathers do you think her child will have if she ever gives birth?”
“You have gone too far, Emmanuel,” snapped Geoffrey, practically throwing himself in front of the police chief as the Kant twins nearly lunged towards him, “I may not be able to ban you from my own wedding, but I can banish you from my presence.”
“I meant no offense, my prince,” said Emmanuel with an exaggerated bow, “And it grieves me that you find my presence so repulsive, even though I am the one keeping you and your wife safe during this joyous occasion.”
“Be gone, Emmanuel,” said Geoffrey, trying to impersonate his brother whenever David was angry, “You have insulted my brothers and my wife. You should consider yourself lucky that I do not bring your disrespect up to my brother.”
Emmanuel’s eyes flashed and a small grin flirted across his lips as he bowed his head and walked away.
“You should always be that strong, Geoffrey,” said Solomon, “It would make dealing with Fiona and Abraham easier.”
“You should have left me kill him,” growled Benedict returning to his wine.
“I wish I could be,” Geoffrey told Solomon, “But it’s just counter to my nature. It hurts whenever I have to be that mean. And, Benedict, murdering Emmanuel would not be an appropriate wedding gift-even though we all think about it now and then.”
“Well the next time you think about it, just let me know and I’ll see it done.”
Geoffrey let slip a guilty smile before putting on a straight face and shaking his head.
“You can’t talk like that. He still has my brother’s favor and, unfortunately, that protects him from everyone. Even father and Damon cannot get rid of him and they are some of the most powerful Shadows in Paradise.”
“I just wonder why Diana was not here to control him,” said Ariel.
“She’s probably on her knees behind one of the bushes,” growled Benedict finishing his wine.

“Ah, Damon, why do you look so sad?” asked Diana as she sat down next to him.
“Death and Mordred, Diana, not now. Not today,” groaned Damon.
Damon Glasgow was closer to Diana’s age than she usually liked her prey to be, but he was incredibly handsome. It was all in his eyes, those alluring emeralds that brought young Shadows to their knees and his silver tongue that could charm even Diana. He brimmed with power. Despite being the son of a nothing lord, he was majestic and domineering, not quite Death’s son, but Mordred’s obvious heir. He was not a king, he was the maker and breaker of kings, a powerful ally and a treacherous foe. Damon was the only reason young David ever ascended to the throne. Why he never took the crown from the youngest Farin, Diana never understood. He could have. He was Noelle’s son after all and, better yet, not a true Farin so there was the chance that he wasn’t completely cursed. Then again he had just lost his lover to an imbecile so maybe he wasn’t as lucky as he liked everyone to think.
“Do not mourn your lost. You can do so much better.”
Damon stared at her incredulously, his thin eyebrows delicately raised.
“Like you?” he scoffed before taking a sip of wine.
“Of course not, darling. I’m happily married.”
Damon shot her a knowing glance.
“I arranged this marriage, Diana. I’ve lost nothing.”
“Then why do you sit here and mope?”
Damon was spared a response by Fiona.
“My lord, would you do me a great honor and dance with me?” she asked, offering her hand.
Damon didn’t even hesitate in agreeing, scowling at the wide grin on Diana’s lips.
“I must admit, I didn’t think you would agree.”
“Anything to get away from her,” he snarled as he wrapped his arm around her waist.
“You know I’ve waited a long time for you to hold me like this,” she smiled, melting in his arms.
“Don’t force me to abandon you in the middle of the dance floor,” he frowned.
“You would not be so cruel, not with everyone watching,” she said, stepping in, so their noses were practically touching.
“You are a married woman now,” he frowned, the hairs on the back of his neck rising as he was aware his worse enemies were watching.
“And I’m a terrible flirt. I simply can’t help myself,” she replied as they spun around the dance floor.
“Don’t be an idiot otherwise you’ll get use both killed.”
“Nice to know you care.”
“Only about my own life. I could care less about what happens to you.”
“Then why did you beg me to keep my own name?”
“Why didn’t you listen to me?”
Fiona laughed.
“Because I’m not afraid of David or his bitch.”
“You should be.”
“Abraham will protect me. He’ll do anything to ensure his ward is happy.”
“Abraham cannot protect you from Caine.”
“Then you will protect me.”
Damon laughed and it cut Fiona to the core.
“I will not interfere with our lord’s commands.”
Fiona’s face fell.
“I told you before, Fiona, I don’t give a damn about you. You’re the one trying to live out some ridiculous fairytale and I won’t have any part in it.”
Fiona stepped back an inch and her eyes hardened.
“Well it doesn’t matter now. I’m a Farin and a Hotchkiss.”
“Now, you’re a target. You should have kept your name, Fiona. A female Kant is no threat, a female Farin-”
“That’s why I changed it. I wanted David to be scared. He is just like his father and he will ruin Paradise if we’re not careful. You should have made Geoffrey king when you had a chance. You and Abraham could have ruled from the background and we would never have had parasites like Caine to deal with.”
“And what makes you think I would ever want Abraham to have that kind of power? He’s just as dangerous as David, except I can control David.”
Fiona frowned.
“You’re a fool if you think so. You need me and Abraham, it’s why you haven’t cut us off. Hell, you’ll probably need Geoffrey, Benedict, and Solomon before this is over.”
“Yes, well you’re all useless to me if you’re dead, which is why I asked you keep your last name,” sighed Damon, “Now you’re lucky if you last a year.”
“I am stronger and smarter than you think, Damon. Just as your mother’s relationship with Philip kept you alive, Geoffrey’s relationship with David will keep me alive.”
Damon frowned and their dance came to a halt as the music stopped.
“David is not Philip. Get in his way and he will kill you.”
Fiona smiled bitter sweetly as she stepped away, Geoffrey coming up to them.
“Martyrdom runs in my veins, Damon. It would be a dishonor to die after a long, well lived life.”
Damon rolled his eyes and scoffed.
“And, since you will not protect me, can I ask you, at the very least, to avenge me?”
“There you are, darling,” smiled Geoffrey, wrapping an arm around Fiona, “Abraham wants to cut the cake. Oh, Damon, thank you for coming.”
“Of course,” said Damon bowing his head, “And congratulations. I wish you both long and happy lives together.”
“Careful, Damon, someone might confuse that for genuine sentimentality.”
“Don’t be mean, Fiona,” Geoffrey gently reprehended, “Being sincere may not come natural to my cousin, but he has his moments.”
He shot Damon a guilty grin before excusing himself and steering Fiona towards the cake. Damon, stayed behind, and frowned.
A Royal Wedding
So this is another (late) birthday present for my sister :iconinprismed: She wanted another shadow story that featured the Kant and Caine families and this is what I came up with. It is a rough, but interesting piece, and it was nice to play with Fiona Kant and to give Geoffrey a backbone. I still love the Caines even though they're bastards and the Kans are fabulous. I will admit I don't know what's going on with Damon and Fiona. Their relationship with kind of sprung on me and I'm not sure where it's going. It's definitely one of those 'it's complicated' relationships and it's a relationship where a lot more is going on underneath the surface instead of being obvious (which makes sense since this is Damon we're talking about here). At this point, Fiona is simply infatuated with Damon, but he has repeatedly hurt her and blown her off. The wedding was his idea and she agreed out of spite and is more than a little pissy that he doesn't really seem to care. To say that he doesn't have any feelings for here I think would be too simplistic, but she is definitely more fond of him than he is of her. I do feel bad that Geoffrey is being fucked off once again, but this is Paradise so it should be expected.

Anyway I hope you enjoy the read!

(c) me
The Goat Story

June 20th 1855-Greenville Market, Ruby Harbor, Ferdern

“What about this?” asked a young and tall piece of red haired spaghetti looking at an ornate dresser.
“You want to get Eric a dresser?” said Hermes looking at his youngest brother incredulously.
“I don’t know…maybe it’d help him stay organize,” James weakly argued.
Hermes started at his brother.
“Fine,” sighed James, walking down the busy street and through the large crowd of customers, “Let’s keep looking.”
James and Hermes were in Greenville Market-one of the biggest street markets in Ferdern, searching, rather vainly, for the ‘perfect’ gift for Eric. The vendors were lined on either side of the road, shouting and laughing as customers walked up and examined their wares. There was everything from furniture to fruit to freshly caught fish to the odd Gargoyle offering to read their future, and exotic jewelry and pottery from the Ignis. A lone Lupus was trying to sell his collection of poetry and Shivians were close to convincing a woman to buy a dress that resembled a towel more than anything any respectable woman would wear outside.
“A this point I think you should buy Eric a coconut and call it a day,” sighed Hermes eying the exotic fruit a Minotaur had brought from his home island.
“A coconut won’t last!” said James exasperated, “I want something that will last forever and be meaningful.”
Hermes resisted the urge to roll his hawklike eyes. Hermes and James were both incredibly tall and lanky although Hermes was half an inch taller than James-which he used to his advantage during the few fights they had. They both had frightening bright eyes, except Hermes’ eyes were brown and framed by wire glasses while James’ eyes were blue, but had both inherited their mother’s thin lips and their father’s thick eyebrows. James’ brilliant red hair had been successfully tamed by gel while Hermes had programed all but a single strand of golden brown hair to part to the side. They both had thin and delicate faces and the other two Banks boys often teased them about their feminine features, although it also attracted a surprising number of women of various ages.
“Do you think he’d like a parrot?” asked James as they passed an Indarium selling exotic animals.
“Oh, yeah, I’m sure he’d love it.”
James halted, put his hands on his hips, turned around and glared at Hermes, “You know, you could be a bit more helpful!”
“Don’t get snappy with me just because I didn’t like your parrot idea,” frowned Hermes.
“Well I don’t know what to get him,” snapped James, throwing his hands in the air, “He’s such a…spoot head!”
“Spoot head?” asked Hermes, raising an eyebrow as they resumed walking.
“Well, I’m trying not to curse and that’s what came to mind.”
“What is it supposed to mean?”
“Someone who is very hard to buy presents for and who is very grumpy,” grumbled James.
“I’m more worried about his reaction to your birthday party,” smirked Hermes.
“Oh, he’ll enjoy it besides it’s celebrating a multiple of things, you graduating from Olbricht University, Mercury going into GMA in a few months, and Sam and Eric’s birthday since they’re so close….but just in case he doesn’t like it, you will protect me right?”
“Sure,” shrugged Hermes, “I’ll just throw Mercury in the way.”
James laughed.
“I hope he survives today.”
“I hope Eric and Farmer Johnson survive the Mercury factor,” sighed Hermes, rolling his eyes at his brother’s ability to cause trouble wherever he went.
“That’s why we sent Alex with them,” chirped James looking at an elaborate chest of drawers, “To make sure Eric is distracted, but doesn’t end up in a hospital.”
“I still wish I had gone with them,” sighed Hermes, “And I don’t think furniture is what Eric wants for his birthday.”
James pouted and they moved on.
“It’s just, his clothes are all over the floor and it drives me crazy!”
Hermes chuckled.
“Then don’t look into his room.”
“Well I have to check to make sure he’s still a. breathing and b. hasn’t run away from home.”
“Well if we ever did, we’d know where to find him.”
James furrowed his eyebrows.
“With Strata. We both know he wants to sail with him.”
James’ blue eyes widened and he bit his lip as he thought about life without his older brother.
“And Strata would say yes if Eric ever asked,” sighed the youngest Banks boy.
“It could be good for Eric,” said Hermes, watching James, “Might help him calm down a little.”
“I know, but I’d miss him so much,” whimpered James, “And he would never take me with him. He’d worry that I’d cause the boat to sink or something.”
“No, he would think Mercury would cause the boat to sink,” corrected Hermes, secretly convinced that his brother would do just that, “But you should ask him.”
James laughed bitterly.
“Yeah, right. He’s still thinks I’m made out of glass.”
He glanced over a brightly colored shirt and couldn’t help but laugh at the idea of Eric wearing it.
“Oh, yes, he’d love that,” said Hermes, also glancing at the shirt.
“I should buy it and say it’s from Mercury,” grinned James.
“He would buy a shirt like that,” sighed Hermes.
James shrugged as they pushed their way through a large family of visiting Lupus.
“Do you really think sailing would make Eric happy?” asked James.
Hermes sighed and scratched the back of his head as he thought of the best way to phrase his statement.
“Eric has a wandering soul as does Father. They don’t like being stuck in one place for long, it’s partially why the army is perfect for Father. I don’t think Eric would ever leave us forever, but I think he would be happier if he could disappear for a couple months now and then.”
James looked down.
“Now, that doesn’t mean you wouldn’t be able to go with him, it just means you should pray that you don’t get seasick.”
James smiled faintly.
“Well in that case,” he said, trying to act strong, “Maybe I should buy him a boat.”
Hermes stared at his younger brother skeptically.
“I’m not sure if we can afford a boat.”
James growled.
“Why is everything so difficult?!”

“Be careful, Sara,” said Jessica checking on the chicken in the newly installed oven, “We don’t want that cake to be too dry.”
“Don’t worry,” beamed Sara covering in flour, chocolate, and vanilla, “I know what I’m doing.”
Jessica looked up and grinned at Sara’s milk covered strands of hair.
“And we don’t want any hair in the batter either,” she said, pulling Sara’s long, brunette hair back.
Sara was short and thin, but knew how to get her way. Her long eyelashes fluttered over green eyes and her cute button nose was designed for poking. She was the youngest Phillips child, but she ran the house.
“But that’s the secret ingredient!”
Jessica chuckled and kissed her daughter on top of the head before looking through the window at her son, Michael, and two friends setting up the decorations.
“I’m still not a hundred percent sure it was a good idea to make Michael in charge of the decorations,” she frowned as her son make a rather excited gesture that could only mean trouble.
“Yeah, but did you really want him in here?” asked Sara skeptically.
“No, not really,” admitted Jessica, “Maybe we should have sent him to Farmer Johnson’s as well.”
“Oh, that would have been terrible,” said Sara, her eyes widening at the potential disaster, “Can you imagine what Alex and Eric would have had to have put up with if the Mercury factor and the Michael factor combined?!”
“Oh, you’re right,” said Jessica, shaking at the mere thought, “Still…”
“Don’t worry,” grinned Sara, “Mr. Longstreet is out there helping.”
“That doesn’t comfort me in the slightest,” sighed Jessica, still staring out the window.
Sara rolled her eyes.
“I’m done with the batter!”
She hopped off her stool and Jessica leant over to looked and frowned.
“Sara, why are there egg shells mixed into the batter?”
“Because you say separate the yolks from the whites and pour them both into the batter.”
Jessica looked at her daughter with furrowed eyebrows.
“But what does that have to do with the eggshells.”
“Well, the eggshells are white and the yolk is yellow, so I figured whites meant eggshells,” shrugged Sara.
“Oh, god, no! The whites are the gunk around the eggshells!”
Sara’s eyes nearly popped out of her head.
“Oh no! Oh, no! What are we going to do!” she said, hopping on her tiptoes and pulling on her hair.
“It’s ok. This could be salvageable,” said Jessica, trying to pull the eggshells from the batter.
They both looked up as the backdoor slammed shut.
“Sorry,” grinned a nervous Terry, “There’s a really big bird outside.”
They stared at the dark haired boy and Jessica could not help but feel that Eric needed to be more selective with his friends.
“Mom!” moaned Sara, poking her mother in the side, “The eggshells!”
“Oh, right!”
Terry peered out the back window and pulled back when he saw the bird. It was huge! He didn’t know how Michael and Mr. Longstreet could ignore it like that. Terry was a tall boy and painfully thin and was overcoming a nasty cough. There was dirty underneath his fingernails and holes in the knees of his pants, but he would someday be a handsome boy if he ever cleaned up his appearance-something Sara had noticed, even though her heart belonged to the one and only Major Nathaniel McPherson. Still, sometimes the only way to get a male to notice you was to make him jealous.
“Oh, this is not working,” sighed Jessica, “We need to start over.”
“There’s not enough tiiiiiiiime!” over annunciated Sara, pulling on her hair again, “They’ll be here in a half hour.”
Jessica frowned before running into the foyer to grab her coat.
“I’ll have to rush, but I think I can still grab a cake from Margaret’s bakery. You two stay here and don’t do anything stupid. I’ll be right back.”
Before they could say anything in response, Jessica was out the door. Sara played with the batter dejectedly while Terry, momentarily confused, shrugged and went back to his bird patrol.
“What are you doing?” asked Sara, raising an eyebrow.
“Looking for that bird.”
“Because I want to know if it’s safe to go outside or not.”
“Birds aren’t dangerous,” laughed Sara.
“They can be. I’ve seen a bird peck at a dead man’s corpse one time.”
“Really?” asked Sara, scrunching up her nose.
“Yeah, part of the job,” shrugged Terry.
“What do you do?”
“I’m a mortician for the police department. We help take care of all the murder victims, which means the bodies are usually in terrible conditions.”
“That’s horrible!” gasped Sara, accidently smacking the dough too hard and sending pieces flying all over the place.
“It’s life,” shrugged Terry, flinching when he thought he saw the bird again.
Sara knitted her eyebrows as she tried to think of a counterargument and threw her spoon into the batter dejectedly (spraying more batter all over the place) when she couldn’t. She hopped off her stool and stood next to Terry by the window.
“What kind of bird was it?”
“A big, big bird.”
“That’s very specific.”
Terry glared at her.
“I’m don’t know! I ain’t no bird expert!”
“I’m not a bird expert.”
“What?” asked Terry, staring at her confounded.
“You said it wrong. It’s supposed to be I’m not a bird expert. Didn’t you go to school?” huffed Sara, her hands on her hips.
“No, in fact I didn’t. Too busy working.”
Sara frowned and her face fell despite herself.
“I’m sorry.”
Terry shrugged and looked outside the window once more.
“Shit happens.”
Sara wiggled her nose as she thought it over and leant against the windowsill to get a better look at Terry.
“How do you know Eric?”
“We met on the street a while back and he convinced his folks to take my family in for a winter. Celebrated Barismas with them too a few times. They’re nice…well his mom is, his dad…eh, just typical army.”
“His dad is rather mean,” acknowledged Sara, “I don’t really like him.”
“He’s not a bad guy, he’s just busy and he’s been through some stuff, ya know. I met a bunch of guys who returned from the Black Forest and they’re a lot worse off than General Banks.”
“But he hurts my friends,” said Sara, looking down, “especially Eric.”
Terry frowned and rubbed the back of his neck.
“I’m sure he don’t mean too.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“Ah, they’re tough. They’ll be ok,” said Terry, furrowing his eyebrows as Michael showed off a strange looking contraption, “Is that a good sign?”
Sara turned around and her eyes widened.
“No, definitely not!”
She was about to run outside, when Terry grabbed her arm and pointed towards the kitchen.
“Is that a good sign!”
Sara whirled around and her eyes nearly popped out of her head again when she saw the thick, black cloud of smoke, emitting from the stove.

“Michael, I don’t think this is a good idea,” said Mr. Longstreet as Michael pulled out the décor-a-matic, which amounted up to being a long stick with a pinching, hand like thing at the end of it and a pulley system that allowed the user to ‘control’ it.
“This is genius!” scoffed Michael, “I invented it. Now attach the banner to the mouth and I’ll have it up and on the poles in no time!”
“Why can’t we just use the ladder?” sighed Mr. Longstreet.
Michael stared at him as if he was an unknown creature dredged from the sea.
“Now why would we do that when we have this amazing tool?!”
Michael was tall and thin, not quite as spaeghetty as James, but close. His wild brunette hair gave him the look of a mad man and his large blue eyes, his brightly colored bowties, and decorative suspenders only added to that persona.
“Why would we use an amazing new tool when we have a sturdy dependable tool right there?” argued Mr. Longstreet, pointing at the ladder.
Mr. Longstreet was big, lumberjack big and just as sturdy. He had a long brown beard and the scars and burns of a man who had been through a lot of trouble and always came out on top. Even though he had successfully made the transition from wandering lumberjack for hire to the owner of a multi-million dollar train company, he still wore his plaid shirt and suspenders from his lumberjack days.
“Mr. Longstreet, you have no sense of adventure,” snapped Michael, “Now attach the banner to the mouth.”
Mr. Longstreet glared at the Phillips boy before rolling his eyes and muttering under his breath as he attached the banner to the device.
“Now watch and be amazed!” said Michael whirling his contraption around, towards the newly installed pole.
On the way to said pole, the banner caught a tree branch and became stuck. Michael frowned and jerked and pulled, but no luck.
“You know what? That was impressive,” said Mr. Longstreet, his words oozing with sarcasm.
Michael glared at him.
“All right, all right, so we’ve encounter a snag. Nothing that can’t be fixed. Here, hold this.”
Mr. Longstreet took the contraption skeptically as Michael ran into the toolshed.
“It’s like working with a god damn Koren,” muttered Mr. Longstreet, as he waited, “They’re always looking for some newfangled way to get you killed.”
He sighed and furrowed his eyebrows when he saw the bird that scared the other kid away. It was a simple sparrow, nothing to worry about at all. Kids these days, they were pansies. Back in his day that sparrow would have been dinner. Ah, everything was going to Hell.
“This will solve all our problems,” shouted Michael, running from the shed with another long stick and a tool attached to the end-except this time the tool was a knife.
“Michael!” snapped Mr. Longstreet whirling around and ripping some of the banner.
“Now look at what you did!” snapped Michael.
“What I did! That won’t have happened if you hadn’t been running with a knife!”
“Oh, it’s fine,” pffted Michael, “Now stand still and don’t rip the banner any more than you already have! I’m going to cut the branch it is attached to.”
“Why can’t we just use the ladder?” moaned Mr. Longstreet.
Michael stomped his foot and glared at him.
“Do you know how life gets easier?! By intelligent, but lazy, people findings ways to do things with less hassle! Now, using the ladder is the proven way of doing this, but imagine what it would be like to get things without having to climb up ladders?! Imagine the time we’ll save. Now stand still while I cut this branch.”
Mr. Longstreet rolled his eyes as Michael awkwardly tried to aim the knife towards the offending branch. It was obvious Michael had little control over the large stick. It weaved this way and that way and the few times he managed to touch the branch, it barely left a mark.
“What?!” snapped Michael, whirling around to face Mr. Longstreet and losing control of the contraption entirely.
They both flinched as they heard a heart stopping riiiiiiip!
“How bad is it?” squeaked Michael not daring to turn around.
“Well, you cut it in half,” sighed Mr. Longstreet.
I cut it in half?! Don’t you mean we cut it in half.”
“Oh, no, we stopped being a ‘we’ the moment you pulled out that contraption.”
Michael glared at him before turning around to look at the banner. One half said Happy birth and the other half said day Eric and Sam.
“Well…instead of calling it happy birthday we could all it Eric and Sam day,” said Michael.
“Except the words are out of order and day Eric and Sam don’t make sense.”
“We’ll just say it’s written in phoenix. They write things backwards don’t they?”
Mr. Longstreet stared at Michael.
“You don’t get out much do you?”
Michael glared at him before smacking his forehead and gasping.
“We can glue it together! I’m sure Sara has glue! Come on!”
“What do we tell your mother if she asks?” asked Mr. Longstreet chasing after Michael.
“Let’s pray Sara is distracting her with cookies or something!”
They ran across the green and grassy yard and into a smoke filled room.
“Sara *cough cough* what did you do?” gasped Michael, hardly able to see through the smoke.
“Michael?! Where’s *cough cough* Mr. Longstreet? I need his help!”
“I’m here,” barked Mr. Longstreet, fighting his way through the smoke, “Where’s your mother?”
“Gone to get *cough cough* cake!”
Mr. Longstreet lumbered towards the kitchen as Michael opened the backdoor to let the smoke out. He flinched as he heard a sharp crash.
“What *cough cough* did you do?!” shouted Sara.
“I broke the window to *cough cough* let the smoke out!” snapped Terry.
“Why didn’t you just open it!”
Terry stared at Sara as Mr. Longstreet pulled out the black chicken and turned off the stove.

After weeding out the strawberry patch, tilling a new plot of ground for next year’s corn, repairing the pig pens, and cleaning both the horses and the horse’s stables, Eric, Mercury, and Alex were sitting on Farmer Johnson’s rickety back porch and enjoying well-earned glasses of lemonade.
“Do you ever get the feeling that Farmer Johnson is trying to kill us?” gasped a sweating Mercury, lying on the porch, with his arm over his eyes.
Mercury was shorter than everyone except Eric, by an inch, and had wild, bright red hair and hawklike blue eyes that twinkled with disaster. He was very handsome and had mastered the charming smile, the gentle touch, and a series of pickup lines that ensured he never went to bed alone.
“Hard work builds character,” Eric impersonated.
“I don’t want character,” moaned Mercury, “I’ve got enough.”
“Just because you are a character doesn’t mean you have character,” smirked Alex.
Alex was taller than his two friends and had incredibly curly blonde hair and large ears. His sharp blue eyes were constantly glancing at Mercury as Alex tried to ensure that his friend did not set Farmer Johnson’s house on fire or send anyone to the hospital. He was going to kill Hermes for sticking him with the Mercury factor.
“Eh, go clean the horse stalls again,” grumbled Mercury.
Eric smirked and took a sip from his lemonade as Alex rolled his eyes. Eric was shorter than any of his brothers or friends, but was the most intimidating. He had the build of a professional boxer, the frown of a severe judge, and the bright blue eyes of a trained assassin. His wild golden brown hair did as it wanted and often fell into his face.
“All right, ladies, break’s over,” grinned a sunburnt Farmer Johnson.
“Not me. I’m dead,” said Mercury.
“Well, we’ll just use you for fertilizer than,” smirked Farmer Johnson.
Mercury looked up at the old farmer alarmed.
“You have problems, Farmer Johnson.”
“I never said I didn’t.”
Farmer Johnson was slightly hunched over but very spry, despite his old age. His limbs had managed to maintain some of their youth and vigor, while his callused hands were racked with arthritis and were beginning to curl on him. His wiry, brown hair was graying and was often covered by a cap. His wrinkled and weathered face hid behind by a short graying beard and his brown eyes twinkled with youth. He wore a red flannel shirt and pants held up by suspenders.
“What do you need us to do now, Farmer Johnson?” asked Eric, slowly rising from the porch, not wanting to admit how tired he was.
“Well I need two of you to separate the goats. The older ones are too aggressive for the younger males, they’re going to start hurting each other. I need another one of you to help me repair some of the grape trellises. That storm last week broke some of the rungs and we need to fix them before the grapes start maturing.”
“Why don’t you hire workers?” groaned Mercury.
“I do,” said Farmer Johnson, surprised.
“I think a better question is why don’t we get paid for this kind of work,” smiled Alex as he rose.
“Oh, no, I don’t believe in giving money to friends,” said Farmer Johnson, “It complicates the relationship.”
“But you believe in working friends to death?” asked Mercury skeptically.
“If they volunteer their services,” shrugged Farmer Johnson, “Now let’s get to work. Alex, you come with me and Eric and Mercury can separate the goats. You need to lead the younger goats into the smaller pen, but the older goats have already claimed the bigger pen as their own.”
“Oh, yeah, this is going to be fun,” grumbled Mercury slowly sitting up.
He and Eric walked across the vast farm until they came up to twelve separate pens. Six of the pens were full of bleating and fight goats and six of the pens were empty.
“I’ll take three and you’ll take three?” asked Eric.
“Sure,” said Mercury, “Although I have to say, this is a hell of a way to spend your birthday.”
Eric shrugged and walked towards his pen of goats while Mercury turned to face the first pen. The goats were cramped into the pen and were jumping over and onto each other and one older goat was butting heads with another goat.
“Hey, hey, hey!” snapped Mercury opening the gate and running in, “Stop that!”
He grabbed the older goat but the horns and a scuff of hair near the goat’s butt and pulled him away from the younger goat.
“Bad, bad goat!” said Mercury, bringing him to the other side of the pen, “Don’t fight with your younger brother.”
Mercury turned around and raised an eyebrow when he saw that the pen was empty.
“Hey, where are the other goats? Ow!”
He fell on his ass as the goat rammed into the back of his leg and ran out of the pen through the open gate-the gate he had left open.
“Crap, no! Come back here!” he snapped, wincing as he limped across the pen, “God damn it!”
He limped to the outside of the pen and watched as goats wandered throughout the farm, chewing on grass, and chasing after each other.
“Shit! Uh, Eric!”
He hobbled towards his brother-whose pen was at the end of the goat area of the farm-and grumbled as Eric effectively and efficiently led one goat out of the pen at a time. The goats were well behaved for him and almost seemed happy to go into the roomer pen.
“Oh, sure! They behave for you.”
Eric looked up as he closed the gate behind the young goat and furrowed his eyebrows.
“There’s no way you’re already done.”
“No, I uh….I have a problem.”
Eric sighed and rolled his eyes.
“I knew today had been going too well. What did the Mercury Factor do this time?”
Mercury frowned at the family term before rubbing the back of his neck.
“I may have lost a whole pen of goats.”
Eric’s eyes widened.
“A whole pen?! How do you lose a whole pen of goats?”
“Well….one goat was fighting with another goat and I ran in to stop them and I guess I left the gate open,” he mumbled, looking down sheepishly, “Ow!”
Eric smacked him across the back of the head, nearly sending him face first to the ground, before stomping towards Mercury’s pen.
“Hey! Where are you going?” called Mercury, rubbing the back of his head.
“To find your damn goats!”

“Come here, goatie, goatie,” pleaded Mercury as he and Eric slowly pinned the aggressive goat into a corner-between a barn and a number of blocks of hay. After chasing after a number of goats, bribing some of them with carrots and hay, wrestling with others, simply chasing/dragging the stubborn ones back to the pens, and enduring many sore backs and butts, they were done to the last goat-a rather big black goat with intimidating horns. The only good news they had was that one goat-a tubby goat Mercury had named Lucky-had taken a liking to Mercury and had followed him everywhere (Lucky was currently nibbling on the hay as Eric and Mercury dealt with his angrier older brother.
“You go left, I’ll go right,” Mercury whispered, tentatively taking a step forward.
Eric slid right, the black goat contemptuously watching every step they made, and Mercury whispered, “One three….one, two…THREE!”
Eric and Mercury attempted to jump the goat and clunked heads together instead while the black goat bounced over Mercury’s back and ran towards the house.
“Argh, god damn, Eric! Your head is like iron,” groaned Mercury, rubbing the top of his head.
“Oh and yours is soft like a pillow!” growled Eric, rising, “Now where the hell did that thing go?!”
Mercury, after being sniffed by a worried Lucky, rose and looked across the farm.
“I think he went towards the house. Probably smells Farmer Johnson’s dinner. Come on!”
The three goat hunters ran towards the house and saw the black goat chewing on Farmer Johnson’s daisys. Mercury threw himself on the goat and pinned it to the ground.
“I got it! Haha, I got the son of a bitch.”
They looked up as the backdoor opened and Alex started at them more than a little alarmed.
“Mercury let the goats escape,” Eric explained as Lucky hopped onto the porch.
“Ah,” said Alex, nodding his head, “Well, good luck finding all of them.”
“Thanks,” growled Mercury, still on the ground, wrestling with the black goat, who was trying to head butt him.
“Is Farmer Johnson still with the grapes?” asked Eric.
“Yeah, actually he sent me instead to get his trusty hammer,” said Alex, showing them the rusted and wobbly hammer, “This thing is only good for putting holes through bread. It’s going to be useless against those nails.”
“Listen this is fascinating, Eric, but can you help please!” snapped Mercury, eating dirt as the goat struggled in his arms.
Alex turned around to close the back door and Eric helped secure the black goat-no one noticed that Lucky was nowhere to be seen.

“All right, last one,” grunted Mercury as he and Eric threw the last goat into the pen, “I hope he makes a stew out of you, you pain in the ass.”
The goat threw Mercury a dirty look at Eric rolled his eyes.
“Now can I trust you with the other three pens or am I going to have to do your work for you.”
“I can do it,” snapped Mercury, making a face.
Eric stared at him skeptically before rolling eyes and walking towards his pens. Mercury was about to work on the next pen when he realized something.
“What now?!” moaned his younger brother.
“I’ve lost Lucky!”
“How do you keep losing these goats?!”
“I don’t know! He was right there and now he’s gone.”
Eric pinched the bridge of his nose and asked for patience from a god he didn’t believe in.
“Why, why didn’t our parents put you up for adoption when they had the chance?”
Mercury glared at him.
“Are you going to help me or not?!”
“All right, let’s think,” said Eric, “When did we last see Lucky?”
Mercury thought it over and shrugged.
“I’m not sure. He was just always there.”
“Helpful as always, Merc.”
“Oh, shut up! When did you last see Lucky?”
“The back porch.”
They ran back to the house, praying that Farmer Johnson didn’t notice, and sighed when they saw that Lucky wasn’t there.
“All right, let’s think,” said Mercury, sitting down on the porch and resting his head in his hands, “I was on the ground wrestling with the asshole goat and you were standing there, chatting with Alex, and Lucky was….”
“He was here,” said Eric, pointing at a spot on the porch.
“Then Alex left and you and I trapped the asshole goat and brought it back to the pen...but Lucky wasn’t with us, was he?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“God damn it! Where did he go?”
Eric sighed as he tried to figure out where a goat could go.
“Maybe he wandered off. He is a goat. Maybe we should check the rest of the farm.”
“No, Lucky was a good goat. He would have stayed close to me.”
Eric stared at Mercury.
“I got it!” said Mercury jumping off the porch and grabbing Eric’s shoulders, “He turned invisible!”
Eric stared at him-obviously torn between hitting him and just walking-and eventually deciding to smacking his older brother across the head and snapping, “Are you a fucking moron!”
Mercury glared at him while rubbing the back of his head.
“Listen, who knows this goat better, you or me?”
Eric looked up at the sky as if he was asking God why he had to be stuck with such an idiotic brother.
“Mercury, it’s a goat. There is nothing to know except that it likes to eat, sleep, and make little baby goats.”
“Oh, hey, Merc, Eric,” said Farmer Johnson as he and Alex walked towards the porch, “Are you guys done?”
Mercury and Eric shared glances.
“Suuuure,” said Mercury as Eric mentally argued with him.
“Good, well come inside and I’ll get you some more lemonade and then you can head home.”
They nervously followed Farmer Johnson into the old, one floor house that was currently leaning to the right. The inside was a disaster. There was a slouchy couch pushed against the dark walls, and a coffee table covered in chipped cups and plates. The warming sun pierced through the small windows, highlighting the mess.  There was a makeshift bed in the corner and a discarded bag was dumped on the floor. To the right was a small hole of a kitchen with one cabinet, a charred stove, and a mantelpiece full of odd knick knacks. Farmer Johnson had one black pot and one black pan. To the left was Farmer Johnson’s cramp and dirty room. While Farmer Johnson poured lemonade for the three boys, they sat down on the couch and smirked at the state of the living room.
“He should get James in here to clean,” muttered Alex.
“He would never be able to find anything if he did,” smirked Eric.
Mercury chuckled and slowly furrowed his eyebrows as he heard a strange bleating noise coming from Farmer Johnson’s bedroom. At first he thought he was imagining it, but there was no mistaking that sound. He elbowed Eric and his brother shared an alarmed look with him. Was that Lucky? How the hell had he gotten in?
“Alex, distract Farmer Johnson for a second, ok?”
“What? Why?”
“It’s a long story.”
Alex shared a concerned look with Mercury before nodding his head and walking into the kitchen.
“So, Farmer, Johnson, what goes into making lemonade?”
Eric and Mercury quietly snuck into Farmer Johnson’s room and saw lucky lying on his bed, lazily chewing on his pillow.
“Lucky!” hissed Mercury, “Get out of there.”
Lucky weakly looked at him and bleated. They crept around the bed and Mercury gasped when he saw blood all over Farmer Johnson’s sheets.
“Oh my god!” he shouted, “He’s dying!”
They heard a commotion as Farmer Johnson and Alex ran into the bedroom.
“Who’s dying?” thundered Farmer Johnson.
“Lucky!” cried Mercury, close to tears.
“Who?” asked Alex.
“The goat,” said Eric, rolling his eyes as he pulled back the sheets, “And Lucky’s not dying!”
“What are you talking about? Of course he is,” sniffed Mercury.
“No, she’s not,” said Eric, stepping aside and revealing six newly born goats.
Farmer Johnson lumbered around the bed and sighed.
“Lucky’s a girl!”
“Of course she’s a girl!” snapped Farmer Johnson, “Alex get a bucket of water. We need to clean these guys off.”
Alex nodded his head as Farmer Johnson bent down and looked at his new goats before craning his neck to face the two Banks boys.
“Now I just have one question for you two. How the hell did she get into my bed?”

“I hope this is what your mother wanted,” said Robert, as they rode a carriage towards Paralli, “I really don’t want to explain to her what happened to the list.”
“Especially since you don’t know what actually happened to it,” grinned his daughter, Samantha.
“Yes, that certainly doesn’t help my case in the slightest.”
Robert tall and thin, even though he was gaining a stomach because of Jessica’s cooking. He had lush brown hair that often fell into his thin and slightly scarred face and a strong nose and his kind, yet sharp, blue eyes were lovingly looking over his daughter.  
“Although if she can forgive Sara for telling me about the birthday party than I think she can forgive you for losing her list.”
“Not if this isn’t the pie she wanted,” said Robert, “If it isn’t, I’ll be sleeping in one of Farmer Johnson’s barns.”
Samantha laughed and shook her head. Samantha was short and stocky, like her brother Alex, and also had his wild, curly blonde hair-something they both inherited from their mother, however she had her father’s green eyes, identical in their kindness and in their sharpness.
“Well I like cherry pie and since I’m the birthday girl, that’s all that matters.”
“I’m sure your mother would agree,” chuckled Robert.
Samantha wrinkled her nose as she thought about her mother’s reaction.
“I’ll tell Eric to say it’s his favorite too that way she can’t be angry. Do you think he’ll appreciate the birthday party?”
“I think so, in his own way.”
Samantha frowned and nodded her head.
“What’s wrong?” asked Robert, catching the shadow in her eyes.
“I’m just worried about him.”
“I am too, but we have to have faith. He’ll come around. He’s just hurting, that’s all.”
“I know, but I don’t want him to hurt.”
“Me either, but we can’t force him to heal. We simply need to be patient.”
“I hate being patient,” muttered Samantha looking down.
Robert smiled and let out an ah ha as the carriage came to a halt in front of the Paralli.
“Dad, are you sure this is a good idea?” frowned Samantha as the Minotaur driver pulled open the door.
“Yes, this is Eric’s sixteenth birthday, his father should be there.”
They climbed out of the carriage and walked into the center of Ferdarian government, down the magnificent marble halls, towards the corner of the left wing, the office of General-in-Chief Henry Banks. Outside of his oak doors, stood his Chief of Staff, Nathaniel McPherson, chewing out a helpless aide.
“Now get it right otherwise I’m using your guts for bootlaces!”
Nathaniel was the epitome of the perfect soldier. He was stern but lenient, disciplined, but human, trim, but practical, scarred, but handsome. His uniform was tailored to perfectly fit his sculpted body, his tuck was pristine, his brass and shoes were spotless, and his short black hair was trained to stay out of his face. He carried a scar on his chin from his boxing class, the rest came from his time in the Black Forrest. The aide yelped and literally ran away as Nathaniel turned around, fuming at the aide’s gross incompetence. His demeanor changed, however, when he saw Robert and Samantha.
“Hello, Senator, Miss Phillips.”
Samantha blushed and hid behind her father as the dashing Nathaniel nodded towards her. He knew her name!
“Hello, Major, how are you?” asked Robert, shaking his hand.
“Contemplating homicide for the fifth time today,” he said, rolling his droopy blue eyes, “but, other than that, I can’t complain. I hope all is well with you.”
“Yes, actually we’re on our way to Eric’s and Sam’s birthday party. Sara and James pulled it together.”
“Ah, well happy birthday then, Miss Phillips,” Nathaniel grinned, “How old are you now?”
Samantha gulped and ducked behind her confused father.
“She’s usually not this quiet,” said Robert, “Sam, what are you doing? Come out here.”
Samantha slowly emerged from behind Robert, her cheeks a flaming red,
“Now answer his question.”
“I promise I won’t bite,” said Nathaniel, feeling bad for the nervous young girl.
Samantha’s blushed grew as she caught Nathaniel’s gaze and she looked down and muttered, “Thirteen, sir.”
“That’s a good age,” said Nathaniel, “My favorite age anyway.”
Samantha’s eyes widened and looked up at her crush.
“Oh, yeah, you’re finally old enough so that adults trust and give you more freedom to do what you want, which basically means you can cause more trouble with les chances of getting caught.”
“Oh, please, Major, don’t give her any ideas. It’s bad enough she has Mercury as a teacher, she doesn’t need more encouragement to cause trouble,” chuckled Robert, vaguely troubled by what a Samantha even more determined to instigate trouble would be like.
“I am sorry, Senator,” said Nathaniel, giving Samantha a wink, “Now, how may I help you?”
“Well, I was hoping Henry would be able to attend the party, only for an hour or so. I know it would mean a lot to Eric.”
Nathaniel’s face fell and he looked down.
“I tried, Senator, but General Banks…I am afraid he is indisposed at the moment and will not be free until later tonight.”
Robert frowned and Samantha couldn’t help but hate General Banks a little more.
“However, he asked that this be delivered to Eric,” said Nathaniel, grabbing a wrapped present off the desk and handing it to Robert, “Oh! And Rosemary baked a pie.”
“Oh, she didn’t have to.”
“I know, but we both felt bad, besides she’s in a baking fit right now,” sighed Nathaniel, handing the pie to Samantha since Robert was already holding a pie, “If I don’t start sharing these things with other people my uniform is going to burst at the seams.”
Samantha held her breath as he bent down to hand her the pie and their fingers touched for a split second. A warmth emit from their brief moment of contact and she felt like she was flying. Oh, she couldn’t wait to brag to Sara.
“I think it’s peach pie.”
“Oh, that’s what Jessica wanted, not cherry,” said Robert, blinking as he suddenly remembered.
Nathaniel furrowed his eyebrows for a split second before chalking it up to be another Senator Phillips’ moment-the frequent bouts of absentmindedness which made Senator Phillips an agreeable fellow, but drove General Banks crazy.
“You know, Major, you should attend the party.”
Nathaniel’s eyes widened and Samantha squeaked. Major McPherson, her wonderful Nate, was coming to her birthday party?! She must have been dreaming.
“Oh, I don’t know, Senator.”
“The boys would appreciate it, especially Eric, and it would be nice if something related to Henry was there.”
“I do not know if it is my place to be General Banks’ stand in.”
“Then attend as their friend, something they desperately need right now, especially Eric.”
Nathaniel frowned and thought if over before nodding his head.
Robert lead Nathaniel, who was trying to engage a stunned Samantha in conversation, to their carriage and rode it home.

“Are you excited for your party?” Nathaniel asked as the carriage bounced its way towards the Meadowlane.
She nodded her head, her eyes the size of saucers and her hands tumbling in her lap.
“I swear she’s normally not this quiet,” said Robert, bewildered by his daughter’s extreme behavior.
“I know I have a bad reputation, but I swear I’m nicer than people think,” he told a shaking Samantha.
Robert shook his head as they pulled into the driveway and the Minotaur driver opened the door. Nathaniel climbed out first and helped Robert down before offering his hand to Samantha-who almost fainted at the prospect of holding his hand, even for a second. She hid a grin as she felt a rush of boldness and grabbed his hand. Nathaniel helped her down and quickly discovered that she was not going to let go anytime soon. Instead, she gave his hand a gentle squeeze and looked up at him with a dreamy grin, nearly walking into a rosebush as they walked towards the front porch.
“Be careful,” he told her as he tried to steer her from all obstacles.
When they opened the door they were hit in the face with the smell of smoke and shouting.
“What the hell did you do to my chicken!” shouted Jessica from the kitchen.
“It wasn’t my fault! Terry distracted me with the bird!” Sara retorted.
“I did no such thing. Nobody told you to come over!”
“What the hell am I supposed to feed everyone now?!”
Robert and Nathaniel shared bewildered glances and slowly mad their way to the kitchen, Samantha still clasping Nathaniel’s hand.
“Uh, honey, is everything all right?”
Jessica, her hair all over the place, covering in soot and flour, whirled around and nearly stabbed her hand with a knife.
“No, not everything is all right! Your son and daughter burnt the chicken! Dinner is ruined!”
“But the banner and all the outside decorations are ok,” said Michael as Mr. Longstreet rolled his eyes, “I did not mess up, it was Sara’s.”
“No! It was Terry’s fault!”
Robert furrowed his eyebrows as he stared at the dark haired boy.
“Who are you?”
“Not the one who burnt the chicken.”
“When did we adopt this one?” asked Robert as Nathaniel wondered if he had made the right decision in coming over.
“That is not important right now! We need another bird and fast. Eric and the others should be here any minute.”
“Well…we have pie,” Robert offered, “Peach and cherry.”
Jessica glared at him. As Robert, Nathaniel, and Mr. Longstreet tried to calm Jessica down, Sara huffed and puffed over the fact that Samantha was holding Nathaniel’s hand.
“Oh, how dare she?!” stomped Sara.
“What?” asked Terry bewildered.
“Quick, kiss me!”
“Well I can’t kiss Michael, he’s my brother, that would just be weird.”
“Why do you need to kiss anyone at all?”
“Just kissed me and I’ll give you twenty derrryls for it.”
Terry thought about it for a split second before shrugging.
“All right.”
Sara wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him into an awkward kiss before breaking away and scowling.
“Oh, he didn’t even notice! You are useless!”
“But I still get twenty derryls, right?”
“Ok, ok, we’re homing,” called James from the front, dragging something that was heavy into the house, “And we found the perfect present.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” grunted Hermes.
Everyone ran into the living room and their eyes widened as they watched James and Hermes carry what appeared to be a mini sailing ship with drawers.
“James, darling, what is that?” asked Jessica, almost afraid to find out.
“It’s a sailing desk of drawers,” grinned James as he and Hermes gently placed it down, “Isn’t it just perfect?”
“Yeah, for someone who belongs in the nuthouse,” said Michael.
James glared at him.
“That’s not for Eric, is it?” asked Robert.
“Well they’re not for you,” chuckled James.
“Thank God,” muttered Sara.
“Attention everyone!” shouted Mercury as he burst through the front door and charged into the kitchen, “Farmer Johnson is officially a father.”
The fighting came to an abrupt stop as everyone turned around to face Mercury.
“Wh-Wh-What?” sputtered Robert.
“Who was he seeing, one of his horses?” asked Mr. Longstreet.
“One of his goats had babies,” explained Eric rolling his eyes.
“And he’s naming one after me,” grinned Mercury, like a proud father.
“Oh,” said everyone dismissively, before returning to arguing.
“Wait, weren’t we waiting for Eric?” said Terry.
“Yes,” said Sara, still huffy over the failed kiss.
“Well…he’s here. Shouldn’t we start the party?”
“What? Oh! Oh! OH!” she shouted, hopping up and down and pointing at Eric.
Eventually everyone caught on and whirled around.
“Happy birthday!”
“And look, Eric, look at this awesome dresser!” beamed James.
Eric’s eyes widened as he saw what James had bought him and he slowly looked at him, begging him for help.
“Don’t look at me. I already got my crazy, he’s your crazy.”
The Goat Story
So I wrote this for my sister's :iconimprismed: birthday. I know it's not my craziest story, but I hope you enjoy it! ^_^

(c) me
The Making of a Statesman

June 15th 1834-Glasgow Manor, Whitfield, Paradise

“Damon, darling, sit up straight. Princes don’t slouch,” tutted Noelle Glasgow, gently dabbing her delicate, coral lips with a dark napkin.
A young Damon rolled his entrancing emerald eyes and sat up in his ornate chair, his lithesome frame straightening like a willow tree as his delicate fingers pried apart a roll.
“Yes, Mother.”
The Glasgows were sitting at their expansive and florid marble table in their deep and pretentious dining hall eating a scrumptious meal. Noelle, a thin and nimble creature of power, a true descendant of Death herself, was dressed to the nines; her long silk dress revealing a still attractive body, her diamond necklace and earrings a mark of her royal bloodline, and her sharp and calculating eyes that had been passed down to her son, overlooked her beloved child with the loving critique of a tiger mom.
“Are you sure you do not want to accompany us to the opera, Damon?” she asked, pursing her lips in mild disappointment, “Who am I going to make disparaging remarks to when that god awful tenor goes flat?”
“I am attending,” scoffed Damon’s father, a crumpled and tired tuxedo hovering at the end of the table, his greying hair falling into his lined and worn dimension altering face.
“Yes, but you do not have an ear for music,” sighed Noelle, “Besides we both know you’ll be asleep after the first note. Now, Damon, darling, is there nothing I can say that will change your mind?”
She reached out to Damon and pouted, causing her handsome son to smile.
“Sorry, Mother, but I cannot stand another night of LeMons. His overbearing music gives me such migraines.”
“Why do I have to go if Damon’s not going?” scowled his father, “I get migraines too.”
“Oh, yes, that would be proper. Noelle Glasgow, Princess of Paradise, abandoned by her family and forced to see LeMons alone! What would my brother say?!”
Aaron rolled his eyes at her hysterics and sipped a spoonful of soup.
“We should go to the ballet. The ballet is far more entertaining,” he grumbled
“Yes, I agree with Father,” said Damon, buttering his roll, “The ballet is far superior.”
Noelle rolled her eyes and muttered a prayer for her uncultured males.
“Ballet is the poor man’s form of entertainment. The fates of millions have been decided during the course of an opera. Your father proposed to me in an opera box,” she smiled, sharing a surprisingly loving glance with her amused husband, “And it may be where you will meet your future spouse.”
Damon choked on his roll and Aaron chuckled.
“I don’t think that’s where Damon looks for girls.”
“Dad!” snapped a blushing Damon while his mother’s face tightened.
“Where have you been taking him, Aaron?” she snapped, her nostrils twitching with annoyance.
“Where he can learn his trade,” smirked Aaron.
Noelle rolled her eyes.
“Lovely,” she sniffed, “But surely you are not encouraging him to find a wife in all of that rift raft and prostitution.”
“I’m not sure I would encourage him to get married at all.”
Noelle shot her husband a far from pleased look as Damon fervently wished he could just disappear.
“A marriage is vital for someone of Damon’s position,” said Noelle, absentmindedly playing with her peas, “Oh, how I wish Ethan had had a daughter. Imagine if I could tell my brother that my son had married a Druid princess, effectively returning Gargain to our empire. Oh, he would huff and puff in jealous.”
Her cold laugh echoed throughout the dining hall and it sent a shiver down even Damon’s spine.
“Aye, that’s one way of getting your son killed,” snapped Aaron, sharing a dark glance with his wife, “Especially if he was to marry before Philip’s own sons.”
Noelle scoffed.
“Philip would not come after my son-”
“He would if Damon threatened David’s claims to the throne, and our son, married with a child or two, would be more appealing to the lords than Philip’s youngest bachelor and childless son,” said Aaron as Damon made a face at the idea of children, “Besides Damon is not cursed with the Farin name, another fact that will please the lords, especially Lord Hotchkiss.”
Noelle stiffened in her chair, a dark frowned cutting across her face.
“You rely too much on your relationship with him,” said Aaron, taking a sip of wine, “It will not protect Damon.”
Noelle delicately dabbed her lips as she tried to process her husband’s words.
“That’s why we ensure Damon is indispensable to Philip. It is how we survived all these years,” she said, her eyes sharpening.
Aaron shrugged and sat back in his chair.
“Come, Aaron,” said Noelle abruptly rising, “We’ll be late. Damon, are you sure you want to stay?”
“I’m positive,” said Damon, rising.
His mother stared at him with a mildly disappointment glance before sighing.
“You can be such a stubborn pain in the ass sometimes.”
She kissed him on the cheek before leading Aaron towards the front, Damon following.
“Now behave and try not to get into trouble,” said Noelle as one of their servants helped her slip on her coat.
“And use the backdoor for any of your girlfriends you want to have over,” winked Aaron.
Noelle hit his father with her purse causing him to laugh.
“Good bye, dear,” she said, kissing Damon one more time before bustling through the front door.
“Try not to snore this time,” Damon told his father as he left.
His father shared a knowing glance with his son, before Damon closed the door and shook his head with an amused smile.

June 20th 1834-Glasgow Manor, Whitfield, Paradise

“My lord, Lord Hotchkiss and Prince Geoffrey are here to see you,” said one of his Minotaur servants.
“Show them in,” said Damon, sitting on his hard couch, draped in mourning, and disappearing into his cup of tea.
The fire danced in the fireplace, but provided no warmth, the shadows playing across the family portrait that hung on the wall. He had to pull himself together. Hotchkiss could not sense weakness, not now that he was no longer protected by his mother.
“Oh, Damon, I’m so sorry,” exclaimed Geoffrey, bursting into the parlor.
Damon rose to greet to his cousin and was unexpectedly pulled into an awkward hug. Geoffrey and Damon were of the same age, although Damon was a few inches taller. His cousin had an angelic dimension altering face and large blue doe eyes. His hair was rebelling against his attempts to tame it and his clothes-despite being handpicked by Lord Hotchkiss-were slightly disjointed and disheveled.
“I wanted to come the moment we heard, but Abraham made me wait.”
Damon shared an astonished glance with the old lord as he uncomfortably patted Geoffrey’s back.
“It’s fine,” he said, “I was in no position to entertain guests anyway.”
Geoffrey broke the hug and stared at his cousin in exasperation.
“Oh, no, we’re not guests, we’re here to help.”
“Help?” said Damon weakly.
“Yes, we know how hard it must be now that they’re…You know,” said Geoffrey looking down, “And I couldn’t bear thinking about you here all alone and it’s not right. You should be with family.”
“Family?” said Damon, raising a partially invisible eyebrow as he stared at Lord Hotchkiss who was handing his coat and hat to one of the Minotaur servants.
Lord Hotchkiss was old and slightly hunched over his cane with the silver Minotaur head. His black skin was smooth but was losing its luster as his slick greying hair feel into his thin dimension altering face. His moustache was starting to grey and his dark brown eyes twinkled with a strange light as they landed on Damon.
“We are cousins, remember?” laughed Geoffrey resting his hands on Damon’s arms and looking him over, “Oh, you look terrible. When was the last time you ate?”
Damon blinked in mild confusion and Geoffrey let out an impatient sigh.
“Well, that will not do at all. You need to eat. Surely your servants know that!”
“Give him a second to breath, Geoffrey,” said Lord Hotchkiss slowly sitting down in one of the armchairs, “He is still overcoming his shock.”
Geoffrey frowned and pulled away.
“Of course. I’m so sorry. How foolish of me, I’ve just been so worried.”
“It’s fine,” said Damon, stiffly, uncomfortably away of how Lord Hotchkiss was sizing him up.
“You should sit down,” said Geoffrey gently leading Damon back to the couch, “And your tea looks cold. Let me get you another one.”
Before Damon could even protest, Geoffrey had grabbed the cup and disappeared.
“It’s best to just let him help you,” answered Lord Hotchkiss.
Damon nodded his head and held the lord’s gaze, unsure how to proceed.
“Can I get you anything, my Lord?”
“I already asked one of your servants for some tea and I’m sure Geoffrey will make them bring out cucumber sandwiches as well.”
Damon flinched a smile before staring the lord down. Lord Hotchkiss had never paid them a social call before and he did not see why the good lord would start now-even with Geoffrey determined to help him.
“Forgive my bluntness, my Lord, but why are you here?”
“Geoffrey wanted to come and see you. He was very worried. We all are.”
Damon frowned.
“I know why Geoffrey is here, why are you here?”
Lord Hotchkiss smiled.
“Noelle would be proud.”
Damon stiffened and suppressed the urge to think about his mother.
“But, there is nothing to fear,” said Lord Hotchkiss, folding one leg over the other, “I simply came to see how you were doing. It is quite a shock to lose one’s parents, no matter your age and to lose them like that…their deaths were a tragedy. I trust the police know who did it.”
“The Centralists,” replied Damon as Geoffrey brought him his tea, “They’re a group of fanatics who, apparently, want our king to step down. They thought my parent’s carriage was our Lord’s.”
Geoffrey’s face fell and he slowly sat down next to Lord Hotchkiss.
“Your parents died because of my father?” gasped Geoffrey, “Oh, Damon, I am so sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” said Lord Hotchkiss, eying his ward with great concern.
“Still I feel partially responsible,” said Geoffrey, “It was my father’s actions that led to their deaths, something all us Farins will have to answer for.”
Damon furrowed his eyeridges, wondering how Geoffrey could ever be related to the likes of Philip and David.
“Are they close to catching these criminals?” Geoffrey asked.
“I don’t know,” said Damon, looking down at his tea, “I don’t think so.”
“We will pray to Death that they be brought to justice,” said Geoffrey as Abraham thanked a servant for bringing him his tea, “In the meantime, you should move in with us. It has to be so lonely here and it is hard to mourn alone. I know that when my mother died…your presence was most welcomed.”
Damon stared at Geoffrey, surprised that his cousin would remember that random act of kindness-a kindness that had been insisted upon by his mother.
“I would not want to intrude on you and Lord Hotchkiss,” said Damon, eying the old Shadow Lord, “Besides, my place is here. This is my house now.”
Geoffrey’s face softened and he bit his lip.
“Yes, and the property in Saxonville, if I remember correctly,” said Lord Hotchkiss, enjoying his tea, “As well as your father’s title and position?”
Damon’s eyes sharpened and even Geoffrey sensed the tension.
“Abraham, it is too early to talk of such things,” he mildly reprehended.
“I was just curious. Your father will need a trustworthy advisor now that Aaron is gone. It only makes natural sense that the position should be taken up by Aaron’s capable son.”
“I am surprised you have not named your own candidate, my lord,” said Damon, his mother’s ice returning, “I know you were never fond of my father.”
“Ah, no, it was your mother and I who never saw eye to eye, but your father…he helped me…advise our good king many times,” said Lord Hotchkiss, his eyes never leaving Damon’s gaze, “We had a mutually beneficial understanding.”
“Well, I think it would be best for the kingdom if, whoever becomes the king’s advisor, continues all of my father’s best practices, don’t you agree?” replied Damon taking a sip of tea.
“Oh, yes, but only his best practices,” stressed Lord Hotchkiss, “Even your father was not above a mistake or two.”
“You are horrible,” snapped Geoffrey, “Already trying to make deals and Uncle Aaron hasn’t even been dead a week! I am sorry, Damon, that’s not why I came here.”
“This is Paradise, Geoffrey, it is to be expected,” smirked Damon.
Lord Hotchkiss’ face darkened for a second before sighing.
“You are right, Geoffrey, and, Damon, I am sorry. Your parents were vital to the security and stability of Paradise and I am worried of what will happen now that they are gone. They were a model for us all and I am striving to keep their legacy alive.”
“Those are admirable sentiments, my Lord,” said Damon, “Something my mother would have been surprised to hear coming from you.”
“Damon, you don’t have to act strong with us,” said Geoffrey, reaching out towards his cousin, “How are you?”
“I told you, I’m fine.”
The young Glasgow was surprised to hear a father’s warmth in Lord Hotchkiss’ voice and was stunned by the concerned glint in the old Lord’s eyes.
“We are not here to fight. We are truly concerned about you.”
Damon pulled back and shrugged, uncertain and alarmed by this sinister attack.
“It has been hard,” he said slowly, wondering how truthful he could be and how much he still had to hide, “but I will survive. I am a Shadow prince. I have no other option.”
Geoffrey frowned, rose, and sat down next to an alarmed Damon.
“It’s ok,” his cousin said, resting a hand on his arm, “You can trust us.”
Damon swallowed and slowly rose.
“I am sorry, I-”
“It’s ok, Damon,” said Geoffrey, rising and gently bringing Damon back to the couch, “We’re here.”
Damon gave Geoffrey a small smile before turning to face Lord Hotchkiss, who was watching his every move.
“They were my parents,” he forced himself to say while fighting the lump in his throat, “I trust I do not need to say anything else.”
“No,” Lord Hotchkiss sighed deeply, “And I think Geoffrey should stay the night.”
“Really?” grinned Damon’s cousin, “Will you be all right home alone?”
“I may be old, but I’m not useless.”
Damon narrowed his eyes.
“You will stay for dinner of course,” said Geoffrey, “Damon, you wouldn’t mind would you?”
“No, of course not.”
“I will go and tell the servants.”
Damon waited until Geoffrey was gone before turning on the Lord Shadow.
“Why?” he almost thundered, “What do you want from me?”
Lord Hotchkiss unfolded his legs and smoothed out his pants.
“You were kind to Geoffrey when his mother died. I want to give him the chance to return the favor.”
“In exchange for what? I have nothing to offer you. I have no future,” he accidently admitted, his eyes widening once he realized his mistake.
“Yet,” corrected Lord Hotchkiss, “But you will. You are Noelle’s son. Philip will not forget that, you are to make sure he doesn’t forget it-for your sake and mine.”
Damon’s face softened and he stared at the old lord uncertainly.
“I cannot control the lords and our king alone. Your father understood that and made himself useful and in exchange I kept him alive and well off. I trust we can make a similar arrangement.”
“And what if our king turns me away?”
“Then you are not truly Noelle’s son.”
Damon’s face darkened.
“You will go to Philip tomorrow, bearing the family crest, and convince him you are ready and able to take Aaron’s place and you will help me control him. That is the only option for you now, if you wish to survive.”
Damon’s face tightened and he sneered, “I am my own man, my lord, as were my parents. I answer to no one.”
“Then you will die,” said Lord Hotchkiss.
It wasn’t a threat, but an undeniable fact.
“There is no place for an independent man in Paradise.”
“I am a direct descendant of Death and Mordred. I am Paradise.”

Dinner was less than pleasant after that bitter exchange with Lord Hotchkiss. Geoffrey had bid him farewell while Damon simply went upstairs, complaining of a headache. He laid in his bed until he was sure Geoffrey was asleep before creeping into his parent’s room. It was dark, must have been one or two in the morning, but he knew this room by heart. Their disheveled bed was on his left and their closet with the clothes that still smelt like them was on his right. He ran his hands throw his mother’s dresses, the sweet, delicate smell of lilies floating into his nostril before turning to running his fingers through his father’s suits-his cologne overwhelming Damon. He smiled faintly as he heard his mother complaining about the smell. His eyes fell on the black crest that was pin on the lapel of one of his father’s suits-the family crest, the black heron. He frowned as his fingers gently traced the pattern, thinking about Lord Hotchkiss’ words. He was a fool, an old fool who was scared of losing his power. Damon sneered as he thought about Hotchkiss belittling his father-his father had kept both Hotchkiss and Philip in power and now he was gone…and his mother was gone. Damon took the crest off of the suit jacket and slowly stumbled towards his parent’s bed and sat down. He had not cried when they told him of the assassination nor had he cried at the funeral and he couldn’t cry now. It simply didn’t feel right. His parents would have told him to toughen up and that princes didn’t shed tears, but they were gone now…and he was alone. Maybe he should have taken Hotchkiss up on his offer. He looked at the crest in his hands and frowned. No, he was a Glasgow and they didn’t beg for scraps or favors and Hotchkiss was almost finished. How much longer did he honestly have? And Philip didn’t have long either and then…there would be war between Luke and David and what would happen to poor Damon, the unwanted and overlooked prince? Killed in his sleep by a paranoid David or blown to bits by an abusive Luke? Hmph, hardly a fitting end for the last of the Glasgow line. He sighed as he thought about his mother and shook his head. She was right that he had to become indispensable, but it wasn’t to Philip. Philip was a ghost of the past, a grim reminder of the weakness and failure of Paradise. The past was dead, it was time to look towards the future. Damon rose, slipped the crest into his pocket, pulled out a key, and walked out of the room. He would see Philip tomorrow, but it would be to tell the Shadow king about Hotchkiss, then he would convince the king to spare Hotchkiss’ life, run to the old Shadow lord and act like he did what he suggest-winning the respect and loyalty of both men-and then figure out which son needed him most and make him king. The throne was for the suicidal, but to be the power behind the throne, the maker and break of kings…that was worth his very life. His mother would have been so proud. He faintly smirked before closing the door and hesitating. They were dead and gone, part of the past. He had no further used for them. Damon leant his head against the door, closed his eyes, and sighed. If he had gone he would have died and yet a part of him still felt that he should have been there, that if he had been there things would have been different. They would still be alive. He could hear his mother’s laughter. What a silly boy he was. He was a Glasgow damn it and they did not shed tears for the dead. Move on, dear Damon, move on. Survival was what mattered.  Damon pulled away, his eyes moist, but still no tears, and locked the door.
The Making of a Statesman
So not a hundred percent happy with this, but bleh. It was a random story anyway so it needs a lot of work and I'm going to have to go back and develop it big time, but here it is. I was trying to figure out what kind of people Damon's parents had to be to make him the man he becomes and I realized it wasn't the type of parents he had, but the fact that he lost his parents that turned him into the wonderful S.O.B. we all know and love. I have to work it out a little more for the full impact to be felt, but that's where this story is going anyway. Haha

This was a little hard to write because I'm not used to a feeling, human Damon and handling his reaction to his parent's deaths was hard because I honestly wasn't sure how young Damon would react. I'm still not sure. Haha

Anyway, I know it needs work, but enjoy!

(c) me   

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xXI-Feel-InfiniteXx Featured By Owner Sep 22, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for the fave :heart:
Tigurus Featured By Owner Sep 19, 2014
I forgot your birthday! D: 
Happy belated birthday! *gives cake*
Delta-13 Featured By Owner Sep 20, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Haha, thank you! *gobbles up the cake* Mmmmm delicious. ^_^
Halfloner Featured By Owner Sep 17, 2014  Student Writer
Thank you for your contribution to the Authors-Club contest.

And I wish you a very happy unbirthday tonight !Confettication 
Delta-13 Featured By Owner Sep 20, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Aw thank you. It was great to read some many wonderful pieces.

Haha, thank you. ^_^
JawaBoxerEOD Featured By Owner Sep 16, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
:iconrainbowbummiecakeplz::party: Happy Birthday!! :party::iconrainbowbummiecakeplz:
Delta-13 Featured By Owner Sep 17, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Aw, thank you! :)
JawaBoxerEOD Featured By Owner Sep 17, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome :)
Kobanaa Featured By Owner Aug 25, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thank you for the fave. :)
Delta-13 Featured By Owner Aug 27, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
No problem. It was an awesome piece!
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