Moki-Mori's Random Writings

My creative goals for this year are to continue a year of writing by trying to write for at least 5 minutes a day and to also try and create 1 full art piece a week.

“Lady Vaevelia.” Johannes offers his hand to the young woman waiting on the edge of the dancefloor. 

“Lord Johannes.” She courts us in that perfect way that speaks both of practice and natural grace. “I'm afraid it's just ‘Miss’ now…”

“My apologies.” Johannes' green eyes flick between her face and his still raised hand, “Regardless, if I may?” he raises it slightly higher, fingers twitching. 

“If you wish.” She smiles, and it's such an easy, delicate smile that he can't help but feel himself fall deep into the hole he is starting to dig himself. 

She takes his hand, letting him grip it tighter than he should be, letting him pull her to the dance floor with perhaps more enthusiasm than he should have for a dance. 

He’s never been one for dances, really, has always despised the balls and galas

S attended for his uncles and has always shared those lessons. 

But for the moment, he is incredibly grateful that his father was a man of performance and that his mother was a woman, for instance, because he was now going to dance with her. 

As the music for the next round began, everyone took their places and started in unison. He used to think it was eerie, the way tens to hundreds of people would suddenly begin doing the exact same thing in perfect sync all together, but watching her, he thought it was beautiful. 

He took her hand in one of his and ever so carefully placed his other on her waist. It nearly stole his breath when she stepped closer, when they began their waltz. 

He hadn't been expecting such a thing tonight. In fact, when he was all but forced to join the King’s school yearly meeting with the Queen’s academy, when he was pressed and polished and preened within an inch of his life for tonight, he had had every intention of leaving as soon as politely possible. 

There were strategies to plan, crusades to prepare for, and men to allocate. He was young certainly, but already he had risen to the rank of Lord Commander of the Second legion of knights within his four years of the regiment -the field training that every boy in the knights school prior to graduating. He had responsibilities, ones that couldn't be delayed by something as frivolous as a ball, as counseling. 

In fact, he had been rearing to slip away, had already pulled one of his men aside to belay some excuse to the hosts of the evening on his behalf when she arrived. 

Later, because apparently one of her friends had needed help fixing her dress or her hair or whatever it was, women prepared for balls, entering from the top of the long, curved staircase with a shy smile, a delicate wave, and an ethereal beauty that cast the entire room into silence.

Johannes swore for a moment she had a halo and wings, as she carefully descended the staircase and joined a gaggle of younger girls at the foot of it. Smiling and speaking in such gentle tones that it sounded like music, like a hymn, like angels singing. 

She was ethereal. 

So utterly ethereal that any plans to leave died in his throat right then and there. 

He had new plans now; to steal a dance to list his name on every slot of her card for the night, to be her escort and partner for the rest of the week’s events, to arrange courtship, perhaps engagement even. 

He was getting ahead of himself, certainly so considering that throughout the whole night she seemed to be able to avoid every single advance that every man in the room made towards her. 

Instead, gently pushing her friends and classmates towards prospective natchez of good value, holding simple conversation with nervous young infantrymen, helping a young girl when wine spilled down the front of her dress. 

It was the last dance of the night, and Johannes wanted -no, NEEDED- to have her hand for it.

A few scare tactics against the other men vying for her attention, a small slip-up in the use of her former title, and they were here. 

His hand on her waist, her waist!, as they danced as if they were born partners for the floor. 

He could feel a flush rising up his neck and to his cheeks, which is ridiculous because he was Johannes, Lord Johannes first of his name and heir to the throne and Lord Commander of the Second Legion, and he did not blush. 

But she was smiling, and it was as if all the light in the world was before him; she was pressed against his chest, twirling with perfect elegance, her hand never leaving his. 

He had to have her; he simply had to be with her for the rest of time itself. Nothing, not a single moment, nor person, nor action, nor word had ever felt so right, so perfect in his entire life. 

And she had to feel the same way; surely, he must. For he was the only one she had danced with tonight. For her eyes shone with this raw, beautiful, fragile emotion that surely meant she felt the same as him. 

If he had a mirror before him, he knew his eyes would look the same as her heavenly brown ones did now, staring up at him like that. 

They were meant for each other. 

So why was she denying him? 

It was the second day of the week-long event between the two schools, and Johannes was already a paper’s width away from tearing his mind out of his head with anguish. 

He had attempted to speak with Lady Miss Vaevelia after their dance, but she had been suddenly pulled away by some fiasco with her cousin Alice. She had left him with a quick smile and barely a word of ‘tomorrow!’ in response to the start of his question. 

Tomorrow was today, yet she was apparently unavailable. Busy with something or other, some problem that some girl was having, surely because she seemed to be the one they all went to whenever there was any minor inconvenience, and it was going to drive him insane because he needed, NEEDED, to see her again. 

To be by her side, to have her hand on his arm whilst he escorted her on a walk through the lovely gardens. 

But she was nowhere to be found. 

“What's wrong with Ser Johannes now?” one of his underclassmen and knights of the Second legion asks carefully to another. 

“The lady he danced with last night is avoiding him.” 

“She is not!” Johannes moans into the wood of the desk he is currently face-first on. 

“She is…” Finnian, who was older by a week and held it over his head like it meant something, sighed with pity. “You poor thing. Who would have thought that being so highly ranked would ever be a problem?”

“Why is she avoiding him?” Petre asks, he was older than all of them by a year, and by all standing, shouldn't be here since he had graduated. But he was one of Johannes’ knights, so he had come along with the rest of them. “She seemed rather fond of him last night.” 

So very long ago, when time itself was still young, Witches were referred to as ‘Daughters of the Moon’, often going by Lunaires due to this reference and their ethereal beauty. 

Lunaires, Daughters of the Moon, Witches, by whichever name they were called, were always protected by Knights. Men in dark cloaks and bright shining armor, whose sole purpose in life was to protect the magic users. 

Knights of high enough standing, or those who protected a Lunaire exceptionally, were often rewarded with magical blessings, enchanted weapons, and, in the highest cases, marriage to the Lunaire of their choosing. 

Beautiful stories of the maidens of the night and their handsome swordsmen took over the world, embedding themselves into poetry, songs, and fables to be remembered for all time. 

Lunaires were the center of many societies, able to heal, protect, purify, and bring peace with their magic. They were seen as the heavenly body of the moon made flesh, to bring happiness and prosperity to the earth. 

Then things changed. Societies became more patriarchal, religion shifted, and suddenly, women with magic were no longer things of beauty and otherworldly goodness but witches of the most vile breed. 

They were hunted, killed, hanged, and burned alive. Their numbers went from hundreds to barely a hundred.

Their once noble protectors, who would risk life and limb for the Lunaires, became weapons of the churches and kings who demanded their extinction. 

Knights became something that every Lunarie feared with their lives, something that they prayed to the moon and stars they would never come across. 

And many never would, Knights and Lunaires had barely crossed paths in the past few decades. 

The Lunaires now hid in the oldest school of witchcraft, the Luminary. It was within this old castle, crumbling but still regal, that the last surviving witches lived. Any girls born with magical abilities were found and whisked away to the school as soon as they showed signs of the talent. They were raised here, from infancy to old age, taking classes in magic and etiquette, striving to become young ladies worthy of the title Lunaire. 

They would remain there for their whole lives, only a few ever leaving the school to get supplies to bring in new girls. Most would never know of the outside world; it was safest this way. 

It was within these walls, which were so carefully hidden with an ancient, powerful magic, that the girls would be taught everything they could ever need to know. Their history, their magic, their manners, and how to flee from the knights. 

Still, there were some girls who became full Lunaires who would leave the school permanently. It was very rare, and it usually only happened under extenuating circumstances, with spells benignly cast to prevent the girl from ever speaking of or leading anyone to the school in any way. 

Vaevelia was one of these girls, or perhaps young women. She was the only child of a powerful marquis knight, one of the men who closely served the king in the hunting down of witches. She had been born magically gifted, and in a twist of fate, her father hadn't killed her on the spot when her magic developed. He instead allowed the Luminary’s teachers to take his child away, to teach her how to control her magic. 

By the time she was old enough to be sent to finishing school, he summoned her back to the house. She had finished her magic training, graduated from student to Lunaire, and was sent home for a brief period before being sent away to finishing school. 

It was during this time that she was told of her long-standing engagement with a Lord named Pel. 

Pel was a young lord of similar ranking to her father, a Knight in the order of the brotherhood, a knight who hunted witches -though he had never found nor killed any-. 

Lady Vaevelia was neither against nor for this arrangement, having learned that speaking out against such things brought more attention than she should ever have on her as a Lunaire. 

So it was neither to her relief nor great grief when the engagement was shifted over to her cousin, Alice. 

Alice, who was not a Lunaire, Alice who had no magic, Alice who had gone from Miss Alice, daughter of a lesser Lord, to Lady Alice after the death of Vaevelia’s father, which allowed her own father to take his place in society. 

Vaevelia was more than happy to step aside, congratulating her cousin, and planning to leave for a convent where she would live out her days in service to charity. 

For she could not return to the Luminary, she no longer had a home to go to, and she was soon set to graduate from the finishing school she had formed. 

But before any of that could happen, there was a grand ball. The graduating ball, which brought young ladies of the Queen’s finishing school together with young men from the King’s knight school in celebration of their graduation from their respective academies. 

It was this ball that Vaevelia was made to attend, mostly by her friends who wished to have one ball with her before she went off to the convent, and partly by her teachers who hoped that such a beautiful young lady of good standing would find a dashing young knight to marry there. 

And they were right, in some ways. For it was at this ball that Vaevelia caught the eye of many knights. This was no surprise, for like many Lunaires Vaevelia was one of ethereal beauty. She walked as if she were floating on air; there seemed to be a halo of shining moonlight around her; her very smile could bring tears to the eyes of a priest. 

Vaevelia, being a Lunaire, had no interest in marrying a knight nor accepting their advances. Because this King’s Knights school was in fact the very same academy that produced Knights of the Brotherhood, the very same school that was responsible for hunting down her people. 

It was from this school and at this ball that a young Lord named Johannes became…. Let us say we are infatuated with Miss Vaevelia. 

Johannes was one of the King’s nephews and was Lord Commander of the knights. The same knights who were hell-bent on hunting every Lunaire down. 

The same Lord Commander who had killed twelve Lunaires during his four-year tenure in the brotherhood, which he had officially joined early after graduating years in advance. 

Johannes was not a man of religion, nor a man of duty, nor a man of honor. He was a man of strict codes and harsh conduct who followed every rule he ever set for himself and forced those rules onto others. 

He had risen the ranks of the brotherhood with this attitude of his, and was getting ever closer to his Uncle’s throne with it. Though he cared not for the throne, nor the power. 

No, in recent times, the only thing he seemed to care about was securing a wife. Specifically, Miss Vaevelia, who had caused him to become obsessed with the idea of securing a proper wife. 

And she was the only woman around who fit his idea of a proper wife. 

“What do you think of it, Lais Corin?” The small sprite hovers by my shoulder, as it had been for the past few hours. 

“It's fine.” 

“Just fine?” the sprite’s brow furrows as it flits around me to hover over my other shoulder, peering down at the desk and the stack of paper I had been working on. 

The fae were, obviously, a fairly literal species, I was coming to realize. 

“Lady Saki said you were working on a fantasy novel…” It murmurs, almost to itself, though with how close it was to my ear, I don't know why I was surprised that I heard it. 

“I am.” 

“But this… these are…”

“Notes.” I nod, brushing back my bangs and bumping into their small body while doing, “oop! Sorry, I didn't mean to bump you.” 

“That's alright, you're not used to sprites yet. We’re much stronger than we look!” 

“I can tell.” The sprite was all puffed up now, sticking out its chest and smoothing back its hair, nearly striking a pose, really. 

“So… are you going to include that in your notes?” 

Ah… that made sense. 

“I will, though, for now it's just random observations. It will all be organized later.” I dutifully jot down the fact of sprites being ‘rather strong for their size’ and begin to move on. 

“Why are you taking notes on us?” Pigg, as it had introduced itself earlier, plopped down on my shoulder in curiosity. “Is your book about us?” 

“Not necessarily, though I haven't finished the full cast of characters yet, so some of them may be.” I was a person of habit and routine, something which I liked. Being in this… early Technicolor and oddly liminal place was throwing me for a loop. So I was resorting to old habits. 

Writing down every bit of information on a certain topic, I could observe. 

“Then why the notes? Are you planning something…” Pigg trails off for a moment, the saying starting in jest but fading into a tentative reality. “Nefarious?” 

“No. I have no want nor need to get any more involved with the Fae.” I shrugged it off my shoulder before standing, maybe letting them see my notes wasn't the best idea… though hiding them would likely be seen as worse at this point. “It's just your species, or the general beings of the Fae, are interesting and I want to know more about them.” 

That much was certainly a very true point, and perhaps one of the bigger reasons I even agreed to this odd deal with Queen Saki in the first place. 

I had always loved the mythology, folktales, and fables of the Fae. 

The Welsh otherfolk, the Irish faeries, the Nordic Fae; guardians of the forest, protectors of homes, troublesome beings of the elemental and nature itself. 

They were beautiful and terrifying; the stories of them were enchanting in a way I could not fully understand, but had always been drawn to nonetheless. 

To be able to observe something in real life, something that I was so enamored with as a concept, something I had thought was simple mythology long faded from the world, was a hard thing to say no to. 

Something Saki was well aware of at this point, and probably why she assigned this particular sprite to me. 

Lat Pigg, of the Coeden family. It had many siblings in various positions across the fae courts, and even beyond them in the service of deities and entities unfathomable. It was a key attendance of her retinue, who she was lending to me to use throughout my time here in the gallery. 

“I see…” Pigg seems welcome to leave the matter to rest for now, though I'm sure that Saki will be bringing it up by our first meeting. 

Within a few hours, I needed to get going. 

“Where are you going?” It asks, launching from my shoulder to flit around my head as I pack my things. 

“To my meeting with her majesty. It's been a week, I have things to show her, and she wants to meet in one of her gardens.” 

If memory serves correctly, a particular place was on the other side of the palace. The Gallery itself was large enough that walking through it in its entirety could take a few hours, and it was barely an eighth of the palace's total size. 

“And you're leaving already because…?” 

“Because the meeting is on the other side of the palace, and it takes a few hours to get there?” Not to mention the fact that I am horrifically directionally challenged, so finding my way to and from places usually takes even longer than it should. 

Though hopefully Pigg knows where we’re supposed to go.

“It will take us maybe twenty minutes, Lais Corin.” Pigg tries to protest as I begin to hop down the steps of the Writing Pavilion. 

It was the most grand pavilion of the Gallery, and because of that, it was also the most secluded and furthest from the entrance to the rest of the palace than the rest of them. 

“You can just call me Corin.” I huff my bangs away from my eyes as I finish stuffing my notebook into my bag and set off on the small paved pathway to the center of the gallery, “and it will take at least an hour, Pigg.” 

“It won't… but if you insist on leaving early, we can make a detour to stop at the kitchens." 

“Why would we make a detour to the kitchens?” 

“For snacks!” 

The Kumos spent all that afternoon at the lake. Playing in the water, building sand castles, taking naps in the shade, and eating all the tasty snacks they had packed. 

By the time the sun had set, all of them were happy, cooled off, and very, very tired. 

“That was so much fun!” Amelia yawns in her father’s arms, “I can't wait to go to the lake again.”

“It was so nice not to be hot.” George agrees, holding his mother’s hand as they all slowly walk back to their mansion. 

“Now I'm tired though…” James yawns too, rubbing his eyes, “Can we go to bed early?

The lake was lovely! The water was clear and blue and cold! The beach was sandy with lots of big trees and bushes for shade! There were pretty rocks along the bank, the wind blew gentle waves across the water, and the sand was so soft to bury their little feet in!

“We’re here! We’re here!” all the children cheer, running down the sandy slope of the 

beach and into the shallow part of the lake, “we’re at the lake!” 

“There's such a nice breeze here!” James shouts in relief

“And the water is so cold!” Clara cheers

“This is wonderful!” all the children shout, splashing each other in the water while their parents begin to set up on the sand. 

Aunt Ruby and Uncle Maite laid out the blankets they brought onto the sand, and Uncle Betram set up the little sun-shade tent next to them. Aunt Tomoko put up the umbrellas while Uncle Danile and Uncle Claude started setting out towels and sand toys for the children to use. 

“Remember not to go out too far!” Aunt Cordelia calls out, “Stay where your feet can touch!” 

“We will!” all the children call back, running around in the water and splashing each other. 

“It's so nice and cool here!” Amelia sighs as she and Coraline start to play in the sand,

“Yes! Cool enough to play!” Coraline agrees. 

“Let's make a sand castle and play princesses!” They both cheer as they gather buckets and shovels. 

“I want to play water tag!” Charles shouts, “I wanna be it!”

“Count to three and then chase us!” Clara, Cecil, and George tell him, running off into the water while Charles counts “One… Two… Three!” and then races off after them. 

“Uncle Maite, why are you digging a baby pit?” James asks. 

Uncle Maite and Uncle Daniel were digging a big hole in the sand and sitting baby Mabel in the middle of it. 

“It's not a baby pit, we’re making a little area to fill with water so Mabel can play in it safely.” Uncle Daniel tells him.

“She’s still too little to play in the big lake, so we’re making her her own private little phone!” Uncle Maite explains. 

“Can I help?” James asks, 

This prompt was fun, and as I was writing a story, I kept coming up with more questions than actual story stuff, so I thought I'd show you how weird my general writing process is lol. When I have an idea, I tend to just write tangents and questions/answers until I have enough to build a story with, so it's chaos. But hey it works for me!

Enjoy!

Prompt: 

Magic is a non-renewable resource. The only reason modern scientists had considered it a myth is that the wizards of previous eras eventually exhausted it. That was until an oil rig breached an untapped reservoir by accident.

Work: 

If magic is non-renewable and there is now a (what we can assume to be one of) ‘final source’ found by this oil rig, then how was magic originally used? Did wizards from the olden days just eat it? Did they put it on themselves somehow, make it into charms, keep it with them somehow? Or are we assuming that there was so much of it that wizards were just able to access it from existing in nature? Was it in the very air particles and in the earth and the water sources? 

If that's the case, then did everyone, back when all the magic that ever was did exist naturally, have magic powers? Or is it a case of the ‘magic user’ needing to have some kind of affinity for it in some way or another in order to use the latent magic supply? Is it genetic then? Are some people genetically more prone to being able to use magic when it's available? In this case, is magical ability and power a result of your genetic traits rather than actual effort/practice? (a very interesting concept by the way). Furthermore, does this mean being able to use magic is some sort of disease? Or is being unable to use magic a disease, and the abnormality is in those who can't use it? 

Furthermore, if magic is genetic and the wizards didn't need to do anything with the magic around them in order to use it, does this mean that as the magic sources faded, only those who were more sensitive/attuned to magic were able to use it as time went by? This would make sense, as wizard/magic use probably died out slowly rather than all at once. 

If this new magic course was found by an oil rig, which are usually deeeeeeep out at sea, does this mean that 1) only those nearby it and 2) only those who are strongly attuned/sensitive to it would be able to use magic? I assume that if it is being buried, =s it not being able to be used by anyone, that there is something to do with proximity and acquaintance involved with who can use it and how. This leads to: how will the modern world capitalize on it? 

But first, we must think of what form the magic is in. Liquid, solid, gas, or other? Is it a gem or a sludge? Is it a smoke that instantly enters the atmosphere and becomes so thin and diluted that it doesn't matter anymore? If it is something that can be mined/gathered and then processed, does this mean that people are going to try to sell it as a way to use magic? (I mean, obviously they would). How would that work? You would only be able to use it under certain genetic circumstances, ones that would have likely died out, mostly if not completely. Like how humans no longer have tails, even though we have tail bones (but we also have appendices for no reason, right? So would the ‘magic gene’ fade out completely over several centuries or…?) If that were the case, then the consumer base would be very small, and it would be nearly impossible for anyone to tell if they could or couldn't use magic (though this wouldn't necessarily prevent companies from selling/people from buying it anyway). 

After lunch, everyone races off to prepare for the lake! 

The children changed into their swimsuits, the adults packed their bags, and everyone helped pack dinner and sacks for the beach picnic! 

“We need juice!” Charles and George insist. 

“And chocolate!” Coraline adds. 

“Are three umbrellas enough, or should we pack four?” Uncle Claude asks,

“How many towels do you think we’ll need?” Aunt Elanor asks, 

“Do you think I can bring my reading chair?” Grandfather Edward asks them when all the children line up at the door. 

“You can't bring your reading chair to the lake!” All the children tell him. 

“You can bring a beach chair, it's like a reading chair but for the beach! Aunt Tomoko suggests to Grandfather Edward.

“Is everyone ready?!” Grandfather Edward asks the children, 

It was summer in the cloud forest, and it was very, very hot! 

Usually, the Cloud Forest is filled with big fluffy clouds of fog and mist that keep everyone cool and happy, even during the hottest days! However, today was far too hot and far too humid!

Outside, it was unbearable, especially for Clara, Cecil, and George, who had been playing in the yard. 

“It's so hot!” Clara sighs, 

“And so sticky!” Cecil wines, 

“It's like I can feel the air’s sweat!” George wails. 

“This is horrible weather!” All of them cry out. 

It wasn't any better inside the Kumo mansion, though; it was so humid that Amelia and James couldn't focus on their lessons, and Coraline and Charles couldn't enjoy playing with their toys. 

“I can't believe how hot it is!” Amelia huffs, throwing her pencil. 

“How am I supposed to do maths when it's this horribly hot!” James cries. 

Even their tutor, the lizard Mr. Pinocchio, agrees with them.

“Even my dolls hate how sticky and nasty it is…” Charles sighs, 

“The tea set is wet, and you haven't even poured any tea yet!" Coraline pouts. 

“This is horrible weather!” all the children cry out. 

“Maybe we need to go to the lake!” Grandfather Edward suggests at the tea table that afternoon, “It's hot and humid, and nobody is going to enjoy anything but some splashing in the water today.”

“Oh, the Lake!” Clara, Cecil, and Jamesa cheer, “Yes! Yes! Let's go to the lake!” 

“A lake?” George asks his grandfather, “Do we have a lake?” 

“It's not our lake, it's the Forest’s lake. But anyone can use it to swim in and cool off.” Grandfather Edward tells him. 

“Is it ok to swim in?” Amelia asks, and she and George had never been swimming in a lake before. “Don't fish live in there?” 

“Not in this one!” Coraline tells her older cousin, “This one is made by all the rain we get in the spring, and it evaporates by the fall, so no fish can live in it!” 

“We’ve been swimming in it since we were your age.” Uncle Bertram tells the children, "It's wonderful that it comes back every year!” 

“Then let's go to the lake!” Grandfather Edward declares, “We’ll pack a picnic and have dinner there on the beach!” 

Many people forget that before the Sengoku era, Samurai were mercenaries, vigilantes, and rogue swordsmen considered heathens amongst the common folk. 

It wasn't until the year of my great grandfather that they became soldiers who were bound by honor, duty, and strict codes of conduct. 

My mother was the only child of a great Samurai, Yorin, who served our land’s Daimyo, a right hand directly to the emperor. 

That he had no sons was a great disappointment, but he saw value in it. My mother was raised with poise, grace, and careful training on how best to be a wife to a great man. 

The same way I would have been trained. 

She was engaged to the eldest son of our Daimyo before either of them was even ten. 

She had me, her daughter, her curse, the stain on her reputation, the blot on our family’s honor and dignity, five years before their wedding. 

As I was told, the same story is told to anyone who finds out, with many tears, and expecting great sympathy for my mother. A Samurai who believed in the values of the olden days took her against her will. 

She has told me time after time, with tears in her eyes and venom in her voice, about how painful it was. How terrible an experience it was, how relieved she was when he let her live afterwards, when her father’s men rescued her and killed him. 

What a terrible thing it was that I was born three seasons later, in the dead of winter, during a harsh storm where the snow kept anyone from entering or leaving my grandfather’s palace. 

Had things been different, she would have thrown me into the snow to freeze; it would certainly have been easier. 

Unfortunately, her fiancé’s younger brother was present at their home that day, having been snowed in like the rest of them, and he witnessed my mother being forced to have me. 

He told his elder brother the very day that he was able to leave that place, once the snow thawed somewhat, and he wrote back to the family, making sure there was no confusion on the consequences my death would have. 

He understood what had happened, he did not blame my mother for the attack, and he would not hold it against her. As far as he was concerned, the wedding was set to happen as planned, and I was to be brought along into his house with her. 

If I were absent for any reason, there would be no wedding. 

And so I was kept. 

As it was, a battle and then a war kept them from marrying for another four years. So when I was first brought into his house, I was five. 

No one within that house referred to me as her daughter; the story was that I was the daughter of her handmaid, who had unfortunately passed during childbirth. 

They were close, that was the lie, like sisters. She had no family and had begged her sister, the lady she served, to take care of me. 

And the gentle soul that my mother was could not refuse; the thought of it never crossed her mind. 

She certainly raised me in the manner that she fed me, clothed me, and kept me from dying. But in all honesty, she hoped I would have more days than not. 

Her husband was kind enough to include me, treating me as if I were his own, but he was never around for long. 

Important men were the busiest ones after all. 

I was often stored away in a small room, locked there for days at a time when he wasn't around. Barley fed, barely acknowledged. 

It got worse when they had their two sons. 

She decided that it was no longer necessary, that he would not have to ‘play-house’ with me now that he had his own children. 

So the beatings got worse, the starving got worse, the periods I spent in that shrinking room got longer. 

There was a point, when I was thirteen, that she threatened to sell me to men ‘like my father’, my real father, the one who forced me upon her. She said it was to teach me a lesson after I asked for a sip of water after not having anything to eat or drink for nearly a week. 

I asked her if she would just kill me. 

She laughed. 

When I was fifteen, everything changed, not because of anything good. 

A fire broke out in the house, and I was barely able to escape my room by the time the blaze had taken over the main section of the palace. I ran to the children’s rooms, I grabbed both of them, and ran from the fire with them. 

I waited for hours, until daybreak, for someone else to leave the house, for her to come stumbling out and be glad that the three of us were alive and well. 

She hated me, but she was my mother, wasn't she? Surely she didn't truly want me dead? Surely she would be glad that I had saved my younger brothers. 

He found us first, racing back on a horse that collapsed when he dismounted it and fell to his knees next to me.

A rival Daimyo had done it, slit my mother's throat, and set the house ablaze after slipping something in the food last night. 

Food that I was the only one not eat. 

It kept everyone asleep long enough to burn alive in that place, the dose strong enough that it killed both my brothers before the fire even started. 

A new story started after that; my mother’s husband became my father. Everyone was told that I had always been his, that he and my mother had gotten too intimate before their wedding, that they thought it would have been close enough to their original date that no one would know. The lie had been made to protect his wife’s honor after their wedding was delayed by four years, but after the death of his wife and sons, he could no longer lie. He had to protect the child he had remaining after all, so he could not let me live in the shadows of the truth any longer. 

I was sent to live with his brother’s wife while he and his younger brother wrapped up the war against his rival Daimyo. After which, I was moved into his other palace, one closer to the capital. 

I was raised as his heir, his only daughter, the lady of one of the most powerful houses in the country. 

It's still just another story that everyone is told and is made to believe about me. About who I belong to, where I come from, and who I am. 

I was the youngest son of eight, something that my father was very proud of and that my mother mourned. 

She had been the one to push my father into having child after child after my eldest three brothers were born. He had wanted heirs to his lands, titles, and fortunes; she had simply wanted a daughter.

He wouldn’t let her have any more after my birth almost killed her. Daughters were useless to him after all, and a dead wife was more trouble than it was worth.

So they compromised, and I became my mother's doll.

I wore blouses, skirts, dresses, and ballgowns. I grew my hair until it was nearly long enough to sweep the floor when I walked. I donned makeup, jewelry, and heels. I learned the language of fans, tea party etiquette, and how to kill someone’s reputation without any of the blame ever getting back to me. I learned the arts: music, dancing, painting, and poetry.

If I had a daughter, I would be the most sought-after girl for marriage.

But I was a son playing house with his mother for her sake.

Not that I minded any of it, I never really knew I was any different until one of my older brothers pulled me aside to prove my health.

“Are you feeling ok? What is your mother doing to you… Is it hurting you? In your heart I mean.”

It wasn’t. I actually genuinely enjoyed most of it.

Mother died when I was ten, leaving me to my father's devices.

But he had no use for me, so I simply waltzed my way into being the lady of our house.

I had none of the talents he wanted after all.

My brothers were swordsmen, generals, warriors, politicians, businessmen, flatterers.

I could sing pretty songs and paint lovely portraits.

So he left me to my own whims, and my brothers swore to provide me with everything I needed as I grew.

My eldest brother even entered into a contract with me, promising to maintain my lifestyle in the house when he became lord of it.

“Here neko neko!” Tora could remember the little girl who used to call him from the wall. She had big, bright eyes and the sweetest little smile. 

He was an ally cat through and through, and had never even considered being a domesticated fool. But whenever she called him down with her little ‘Neko Neko!’ he would think about it. 

About being curled up on her little lap while they sat on the engawa and watched the seasons go by in a blur of pink, green, yellow, and white hues. 

It would never happen. The day Tora had truly been thinking of it, really had been considering just waltzing into the house and letting himself in as the new family pet, everything had changed. 

The little girl wasn't there anymore; she didn't come out into the yard, didn't call out her sweet little ‘Neko Neko!’, didn't snooze in her father’s lap like a cap in a sunbeam. 

She was gone. 

There were other children in the house now, an older boy, a boy her age, and three little boys younger than her. Two more adults moved in, too; all of them were somber and quiet. 

Then the burying started. A big black chest, wrapped in chains and rope, was sealed and buried in the yard. 

They dug it up, buried it, dug it up, buried it, over and over again for a whole year. 

Then they buried just a small bundle in the backyard, under the Ginkgo tree where the little girl used to sit and call out to him. 

Then the little girl came back. 

She wasn't a girl anymore, wasn't bright and cheery, their eyes didn't shine, their smile never seemed truly happy, their hands shook, their shoulders hunched. 

“An accident”, that was what the older boy said to the little ones one day. “Tamashii-chan was in a car accident and got hurt. That's why we haven't seen them for a year; they were at the hospital.” 

He almost didn't seem to believe it himself, but he told them over and over again, so Tora heard the same story over and over again. 

Years had passed since then, and the little girl who was no longer a girl was now also no longer little. They were more grown, an age that a cat mother would have shooed them from the den and out into the world on their own. 

But humans were odd in that way, keeping their young close for much longer. 

Tora lost his last life, and he spent his dying moments wondering if he would have been happy as her little ‘Neko Neko!’. Wondering about a thing that would never have a chance to happen for him. 

Then they found him, followed his wandering soul, picked up his body, and brought him home. 

Tora often wondered if Tamashii remembered him from the yard, and remembered calling out “here neko neko!” to him on the wall. 

They didn't seem to, or if they did, they didn't recognize him as that cat. 

In the last moments, after his final wish had been granted, being able to nap on their lap in a sunbeam like a family pet, Tora found himself wanting more than anything to have one last life. 

One last life where he could be with the little child who called out to him every time they saw each other. 

When he awoke in soft fields of flowers and grass, a glowing figure towering above him, he didn't hesitate when it asked if he still had unfinished business. 

The next thing he knew, he was back on the wall, his one tail split into two, as he watched the yard. Waiting for Tamashii to come out so he can speak to them. 

Nekogame had given him a chance to be their cat, which meant he had to help them find what they were missing. 

Tamashii had grown up in a small rural village on the edge of Osaka Prefecture. As a child, they had attended every single event in the village, and sometimes even the ones held by the surrounding villages, no matter how big or small they were. 

They were particularly obsessed with Lantern Festivals as children. 

It was, unfortunately, not something they could fully enjoy now, being blind after their childhood accident. But they still insisted that the whole family attend the lantern festival held in the larger village that neighbored them. 

“Chichioya! Hurry up!” Tamashii calls out, Sachi holding them tightly by the hand while Hanzo wrangles the triplets not far ahead of them. 

The three adults were wandering slowly after them, stopping at every stall and chatting with every person that they bumped into. 

“How can they be so sociable?” Sachi sighs softly, tugging Tamashii towards their eldest cousin, who had managed to herd the triplets towards some taiyaki vendors. 

“If they keep taking this long, we’re going to miss the lantern parade!” Tamashii whines, accepting the still-warm treat that was shoved into their hands.

“You can't see the lanterns anyway, Tamashii, and you’ll be able to hear the procession music from here.” Sho points out, “But I do want to see the parade too…” 

“Chichioya!! We’re gonna miss the parade!” Tamamshii turns and yells at their father and uncles again once their younger cousin mentions it.

“Remind me why you want to see the parade again, Tamashii?” Takuma sighs when the three of them finally catch up to their gaggle of children. 

“I still like the parade, it's my favorite part of the whole festival!” they argue before stuffing their face with the treat. 

One of their most vivid memories from when they could still see was the Latina parade at this very festival. The bright colors, the lines upon lines of red paper lanterns being carried by polemen as they danced down the street in teams, the shining lights of the intricately crafted metal and fabric lanterns that seemed to soar into the sky and come floating back down to the earth. The music that thumped and sang so loud you could feel it in your blood, the beautiful songs that all but drew your legs into dancing along with them. 

And the way everyone’s souls and faces were lit up in happiness, the pure joy, the ureshii that Tamashii could see shining from the very core of their beautiful souls. 

Tamashii couldn't see the lanterns, couldn't witness the colors and carefully crafted creations that the artisans of the village spent months on, but they could still see the pure ureshii in everyone’s souls, the bright shining forms of joy that shone out from their very core during the parade. 

And they wanted to see that, over and over again. 

“We’ve… We've been over this Rymm…” Hathe sighs heavily as she averts her gaze from her younger cousin's jihad. “So many times. We’ve been over this so many times!”

“And? Simply because we have been over does not mean I shall be forced to bow to your absurd logic on what can and cannot be a proper hoard.” Rymm huffs, wings puffing up as he plops in front of his collection.

Rymm was barely over three centuries, which was the equivalent of a fresh-faced 21-year-old for dragons, and has started collecting the oddest of hoards as soon as he turned 250. 

Hathe, the eldest cousin of the family and usually the one delegated by their parents to handle the younger ones’ oddities, had tried again and again to nip the little issue of Rym’s in the bud. 

“Rym…” 

“I am not getting rid of them! Do you know how difficult it is to collect these?” 

“Rym…...” 

“Absoltuly not, I love my hoard and i don't care if it's not like other hoards.” 

“Rym………”

“I don't care Hathe. In fact I think you’re just jealous about how amazing my special and unique hoard is compared to your boring, normal gold hoard.” 

Hathe was not, in fact, jealous in any way of Rym’s hoard. In fact, she really could have cared less if her eccentric little cousin had an odd or ‘unique’ hoard instead of the classic gold or treasure one (though her uncle may have a few words about it). 

No, you see, in reality, the issue was WHAT Rym was collecting in his hoard. 

More specifically, the WHO. 

You see, to put it ever so clearly, Rym hoarded children. 

Human children, Elvish Children, Mermaid children, flompf children, dragon children (which resulted in a very angry, very violent dragon mother to come demanding her child back, and what kicked off the Endangered Magical creatures committee’s investigation -because OF COURSE Rym had managed to collect the entire population of some endangered species). 

It wasn't even just the young of these creatures either. Rym collected them, built them a little room in the massive terrarium/apartments that took up a majority of his cave’s wall, and called the little creature his child. 

His logic, according to his older brother, was that he wanted children, but despite the idea of getting a mate and having children. And since the only way a dragon can get children is to mate and then have babies, he found a loophole. 

“Princesses are just human children whom we kidnap and hold for ransom and or safety purposes.” He had tried to convince his mother early on in the hoard, "I'm just broadening the definition.” 

“And keeping them in tiny boxes forever?” His mother was appalled, rightfully so, really. 

“Of course not! The terrarium is set to be their ideal environment, it is free range with limitations based on species, safety, and roaming needs! And they are allowed to leave, once they reach adulthood and prove they will be safe, careful, and responsible on their own. That and once they agree to come back at least three times a year for the holidays.” 

That had been when Rym only had seven children in his hoard, and the magical committee was already trying to break down their family’s door over the ‘inhumanity and injustice’ of his hoard choices. 

Rym now has over three hundred children, whom he apparently knows by name and knows every little detail about. So obviously, the magical committees were about to launch an all-out war against him. 

Which is why Hathe is here, trying to convince him to set them all free and pick another, less kidnapping-related, hoard. 

She had tried suggesting everything from fossils -” you want me to collect DEAD people?!”- to office supplies -” but who would use them!? I'm too big!”.

None of it had worked. 

And in all honesty, Hathe doesn't think Rym’s hoard (children) want to leave. In fact, all of the adults she had collected and then released had come back to protest the magical committees’ trying to remove them. 

And the ones currently in the terrarium were looking very upset about the idea of no longer being a part of Rym’s hoard. 

“I'm not giving up my babies.” 

“They are babies, Rym.”

“They are to me! They will all always be my babies!”

“How are you more maternal than your mother?” Aunt Iter had thirteen children, and even she wasn't this obsessed with them, and she was considered rather obsessive for a dragon mother. 

“I love my babies, and no one shall take them from me!”

Time passed by in a blur and haze

Nothing much changed; most everything stayed the same

Each passing day felt like restarting the same maze

And then one day, things changed when you passed through the doorframe 

We sat next to each other out of chance, sharing little smiles

We broke down our names, our homes, and why we were there

You drew me with my hairclip, so I drew you too, comparing our styles

By the end of our first meeting, you had named the clover clip in my hair

We would paint together, sitting outside in the bitter fall cold

I invited you over for the holidays since I didn't want you to feel alone

I worried you wouldn't like my family, but after one taste of our cooking, you were sold

We did so much together, trying to do all of it before you had to go home

Now you’re halfway across the world, and you feel so far away in another timezone.

Now I have to stop messaging you every minute. I wish we could talk every single day.

And suddenly I'm realizing my heart feels for you like it has never before known.

“Sweet Little SongBird,” that's what he called her, every day, every hour, every minute, he called her that. 

She was his only child, his only daughter, and he was the sort of parent who was obsessive. It came with the line of work he was in, surely, never knowing who would try to kill you next, never knowing what ally you would have to put a bullet into. 

Or cut into pieces, in his case, that was his job there. 

He had done it to lower-ranking men, friends, and one of his own siblings at some point. 

He was willing to do worse for his little girl. 

‘Sweet Little SongBird’ was his daily cook when he woke her up, put her to bed, read her stories, did her hair, fed her, and took her hand as they crossed the street. 

No one would have painted him as a good father; most still don't. 

He's good in the way that he watches over her, protects her, and provides for her. 

Truly, she wants for nothing because he gives her anything anyone could ever want. She's more papme[ered than a princess. 

But those who know him know what lies beneath. 

A couple thousand-page document that details how every single second of her life will play out, every moment, every milestone, every outfit, hobby, relationship, school grades, college major, career path, her future husband, 

Thousands of pages, handwritten in a code that hardly anyone could crack, detailing every single little thing down to the last mark. 

He argues that it's just how he is; he likes plans, systems, and solid goals to work towards. 

Most call it obsessive; the brother he killed called it abusive. 

It's fine for now, we’re sure of that at least. She’s too young to understand, too young to think of there being more, too young to know better.

That won't last; his little bird will grow up eventually, and she’ll want out of the cage he’s built her.

He thinks that if he makes it pretty enough, gilds the gold of the bars that keep her safe -trap her, suffocate her, close in on her every passing year- then she’ll never notice what lies beyond them. 

She will. 

And you have to wonder how far a father’s love goes for a psychopath who doesn't like it when things -people- fall out of his carefully laid world view. 

Running a small business was already difficult enough as it was. The taxes, managing inventory, advertisements, the cost of starting it, getting employees, and the stress of not knowing whether or not you’ll make ends meet by the end of the month. 

It's enough to drive someone into an early grave when it's a normal small business in a normal little town with normal people coming and going to buy things. 

It's a hundred, thousand, million times more difficult when you accidentally set up shop in the Fae Realms. 

And in your defense, you didn't even know there WAS a Fae Realms. 

You just bought that curving little old stone cottage that had been abandoned for years. No one else was going to use it; it was really cheap, which is great for a new business owner, and it matched the aesthetic. 

No one told you that it just so happened to be on the boundary of the mortal realm and the fae realms. 

And you were 90% sure at this point that the realtor was some sort of Fae creature. 

All things having been said, it really wasn't all that bad. The first few interactions were a little strange, borderline scary that one time, but otherwise, the Fae were very nice customers. 

They had very strict hospitality laws, and that apparently extended to being in somebody’s store, so you never had to deal with Karens or Hagglers or shoplifters or anything like that with them. If anything, they actually got the human customers to behave better, shutting down would-be Karens with nasty glares from across the store. 

It was like watching a sassy grandmother who looked 30 at 109 stare down a toddler who was throwing a tantrum. 

The real issue was that the Fae apparently didn't have a set currency or really understood the idea of standardized currency. 

Some offered to pay in souls, wings, the blood of your enemies, even. 

Then some asked what you wanted to be paid with. 

On one hand, you would think that they were the best ones; you get to pick what they pay you with, right?

You would think…. You would think indeed… 

However, the fae are very literal creatures and take the first ‘answer’ they can get from you. 

“Now, what would you accept as payment?” My most recent Fae customer stood at the till after I scanned everything. They did have access to human money, sometimes stuff from other countries, but still human money. 

“Give me a few minutes, I-“ i had misplaced my list of currencies the Fae seemed to carry regularly yet again, 

“Unusual, but granted. Spend them however you like.” and it gathered everything into its arms and walked out of the store. 

With three hundred dollars' worth of product. 

For a ‘few minutes.’