#cffierceness

The late afternoon sun began its descent towards the horizon. Overhead, white wisps of cloud lolled by on the breeze. Paris, Nadir thought, suited them. After months on the road, years of separation and of torture, he was reunited with his beloved. He did not deserve her understanding or her love, but Rookheeya flowed with warmth and kindness, pouring into Nadir’s own soul, as life-giving as a river and as endless as a sea. He has almost lost her. His folly, his loyalty, his dogged determination to show a friend humanity and justice had blinded him. Beside him was his reason for living. His Rookheeya. His love. His wife. Together, they had endured so much. They had lost so much. Together they had buried a son in a country to which they could never return. 

And she stayed by his side.

Of all the miracles Allah had bestowed upon Nadir, Rookheeya’s love was most miraculous of all. 

Those first weeks of freedom, as he learned the taste of fresh air and the feel of grass again, he would trace her features with his eyes. He had not dared to touch then. No. He could only look. Tears would fill his eyes until she was as blurry as a mirage. It wasn’t until they touched for the first time, stolen caresses beneath the stars, that he’d let himself cry. She was real. She was his. He was hers. All hers. And he was sorry. He was forgiven. As their trust in each other mended, they’d given way to more ardent touches, reveling in the desperate hunger and relief they felt in one another. He thought of those nights fondly, privately. He thought about them now, looking at her. She should have been serene now. They were no longer wanderers without a home. They owned a little flat on the Rue de Rivioli in Paris, overlooking one of France’s finest gardens. Nadir could not give Rookheeya the courtyard they’d love in Persia, but he could give her this. Consternation creased her brow. Was it not enough?

Over the last few months, Nadir had seen countless husbands and wives in Europe. The last few weeks alone, as he and Rookheeya walked through the Jardin, he watched them. Today, as Rookheeya looked troubled, Nadir decided to imitate their mannerisms. He reached for her arm and enveloped it in his. He pulled her close and he smiled. 

The flight from the Moors to Avalor was not a short one. Diaval spent much of it with large, dragon wings, riding thermals to preserve energy over the seas, but as he neared human civilization, he transformed into his favored form - that of a sleek and beautiful raven. Far less conspicuous - and far better looking - than any other form he could have taken. 

Diaval was on his way to meet with the crown princess of Avalor on behalf of the Moors. He was not a diplomat. He was a raven. His chief qualifiers for the job were his ability to eavesdrop and his knack for mimicry. He’d adapt to Avalor’s customs easily. He would also blend in with the human citizens much more that one of the fae folk, with their wings and horns and whatever-else. 

Not as a raven, though.

As a man, 

Not yet. 

Diaval sought to get a measure of the people he was to offer a treaty with. He perched upon an open window for a day to watch the royal family ready for the arrival of an emisario. Diaval wondered if they meant him. How strange that humans would think to show hospitality to a raven! The only human he could think of who might do that was sweet Aurora. He thought of her now and wondered if it had been she and not Maleficent who had communicated with the Princess Elena. That made more sense.

He spent the night nesting in a tree. Come morning, he arrived at the castle as a man - or an approximation of one. He bore scars in the shape of his feathers upon his face and chest. His nose was just a little more beak-like than the average man’s. He thought himself rather handsome that morning as he looked at his reflection in a fountain. Perhaps not as pretty as he had been as a bird, but certainly better than men without bird-like features. He wondered, though, if his beauty would still let him pass among humans as the servants eyed him, Diaval did what he thought was most appropriate, what he always did in the presence of humans whilst human himself:

He bowed. Just slightly, a dip of the head and a bend at the waist. 

“Diaval of the Moors to see her royal highness,” he said. From his shirt pocket, he procured a scroll with Aurora’s signature and seal upon it. He didn’t know what it said, but he knew they were papers to prove he was who he said he was. He’d admired the swell of the “D” in his name with great pride. He watched as the guards studied it. They handed it back to Diaval and led him onward. 

Diaval’s coal colored eyes scoured his surroundings. How much livelier this castle was than King Stefan’s had been! And yet, he hated being indoors. He stepped carefully upon the stone floors, minding how he walked and hoping that no one noticed anything amiss about the emisario from across the sea...

“The princesa will see you shortly,” one of the guards said before he and his counterpart moved back towards the doors. They left Diaval standing alone in the center of the throne room. When sure they were out of earshot, he ran through potential greetings to Princess Elena of Avalor -

“Good morning your majesty-” he started. “Highness? Royal highness? Good morning your royal highness. I am Diaval of the Moors. I am Sir? Diaval? I am the raven, Diaval?”

He paced, seeming to hop a little agitated as he thought. If someone were to visit Aurora, how would he expect them to talk to her?

Send me 🗣+ the names of 2 muses on the blog, and there will be a random conversation written involving them. | Accepting

“You use your limited magical ability for such pathetic things,” the faerie remarked. 

Maleficent is regally leaning against the island of the kitchen, watching as Erik prepares morning tea. She has her own brew - something Erik once described as “noxious” and “vile”. Maleficent supposes the brewing of the chaga tea only reminded him of his time as a healer - a time she could scarce believe existed. She, rather, enjoyed the earthy flavor. It was more full-bodied, she thought, than the oolong he was brewing. Erik, maskless, shot the faerie a scowl. He doesn’t go maskless around anyone but Nadir intentionally, but he doesn’t always mind with Maleficent sees him unmasked. She has horns and wings - as demonic as she is angelic - and though she’s one of the most beautiful creatures he has beheld, he feels less embarrassment around her than with the others. Today, he feels something like agitation mixed with contempt. It is contempt, he believes, for her contempt. 

“Manipulating a young woman - scarcely more than a child - into a haze is hardly worthy of your talent,” Maleficent continues. She stirs her tea. “If you had lived under the jurisdiction of the Moors, you would have commanded armies.”

“I have no desire to command an army,” Erik says. He squeezes a lemon slice over his tea. “I am capable of enough bloodshed on my own.”

“I don’t doubt that.” Maleficent tilts her head. “But you didn’t always enjoy it.”

“Killing, madame, is like opium. One becomes hopelessly addicted.”

“Addictions can be broken, like any curse,” she says. “Perhaps not an army leader then - perhaps a great troubadour, whose spellsongs could create endless beauty...”

“Forgive me if I do not share your enthusiasm for the imaginary. The past is in the past.”

“Imaginary? Perhaps.” Maleficent leans across the island and her wings shudder and stretch. A smirk tugs at her crimson lips. “Or, perhaps, prophetic. I could curse you with a brighter future.”

“Curse me with a handsome face, Madame Maleficent, and then you will have my interest.”

And with that, Erik tossed his teabag into the sink and took his drink into the next room. A trail of gold magic followed him, not a curse, but a blessing. Not the one he asked for, but one that would serve him better - or at least serve the other muses he was around better - to curb his self-pity for the next day. What an amazing man he could be...

But Maleficent knew better than most: trauma took its own time to heal and love its own time to grow. Until then, she could not meddle with him too much. It would never create genuine healing.

It’s hard to say - “Victor Frankenstein” does wonders with camera angles and heeled shoes to make the audience forget that James McAvoy is only 5′7, while much of his surrounding cast is taller. Daniel Radcliffe and Jessica Brown Findlay aside, every other actor McAvoy performs against in this film is at least two inches taller. McAvoy’s personality, too, fills up the screen. He’s playing Victor Frankenstein and he plays him larger than life.

If you look at this picture here, it looks like Victor and Finnegan are the same height. However, notice that Victor is closer to the camera and Finnegan is angled away. Freddie Fox is actually 5′9.

The first dozen times I watched the film, I didn’t notice that the actors are largely wearing heeled shoes. I just assumed that everyone was taller than they are in real life by Movie Magic - except maybe Radcliffe as Igor who seems shorter than he does in real life. I bumped Victor’s height up to 5′8, which is a negligible difference but one my muse was insistent upon and so, it stands to reason that I should bump Finnegan’s height up by one inch: 5′10. This makes Finnegan taller.

However, like I said, the characters in “Victor Frankenstein” wear heeled shoes. (Side note: Men’s heeled shoes should only add 3 cm/1.2 in of height in order to be considered appropriate.)It’s a pretty typical joke when I stream the film that Finnegan walks like a model in his. Victor, meanwhile, has his moments of grace and his moments of utter clumsiness. Logically that seems to say that Finnegan is more used to the heeled shoes than Victor, but does it stand to reason that he “wears more heeled boots to be taller”? I don’t know. I feel like one could argue that Finnegan is innately more graceful or that we only see Finnegan for a tiny fraction of the film, compared to Victor who we see in all shades of sobriety, excitement, bad assery, and weakness. I imagine that if Finnegan were asked to do some of the things Victor does in his heeled shoes, we might see a much less graceful Finnegan.

But that doesn’t answer the question.

I suppose that it’s an issue of semantics: Victor wears more heeled boots than Finnegan does, as Finnegan is more likely to wear oxfords. 

Name: Deirdre Amin

Gender: Female

General Appearance: Deirdre’s long, black hair is extremely soft. It feathers around her face, often kept at a medium length. Her almond eyes resemble her mother’s in shape; her father’s in hue. It’s hard to tell where her pupils end and her black irises begin. Overall, she takes after her mother, smooth brown skin, full lips. She was born with what the doctors called “birthmarks”, however, that indicate she is unquestionably Diaval’s daughter. Feather-like ridges around her eyes, neck, chest, and back indicate that when she is old enough, she, too, will be able to shapeshift at will. 

Personality: Playful and flirty, Deirdre is the kind of girl people often underestimate. They seem to think that her bubbly exterior is all there is to her. They’re very wrong. Beneath a candy-coated exterior lies a clever, curious mind. If she wasn’t such a born performer, she might have been a pediatric doctor or nurse. She’s keen on science; it’s the numbers that trip her up. She’s smart and adept at reading people and caring for them. And perhaps that’s why people don’t take her seriously - her compassion is too often mistaken for weakness. 

Special Talents: Though musical, Deirdre has the uncanny ability to imitate other vocalists. It’s eerie, but she has fun doing it and it lands her all sorts of roles in musical theatre. Deirdre also has an ability she doesn’t readily tell others - the ability to shapeshift into a raven. 

Who they like better: Her father - they bond over being shapeshifters in a world of humans. Both are playful and kind, although Diaval does not appreciate his daughter’s flirty nature or occasionally reckless spirit.

Who they take after more: Elle, just a little more. Not much though.

Name: Azar Hashemi  & Basir Hashemi (twins)

Gender: Female & Male

General Appearance: Azar possesses her mother’s slim face, with her father’s large eyes and even larger smile. Basir is the reverse, with broad features, but Sora’s serious eyes and mouth. As they grow up, Basir’s build becomes more athletic - still stocky, but very muscular and toned. Azar, too, has a larger frame than her mother’s, but is very curvy and feminine in appearance. Both possess brown eyes and dark hair. Azar likes to cut hers in starting ways that she can hide beneath a hijab when spending time with the extended family. 

Personality: Azar is well named - rebellious. vivacious, and absolutely unwilling to let you forget that she is the oldest, she takes on much of Darius’ extroverted nature. She will talk to anyone about anything and she loves working at the restaurant after school, when it doesn’t interfere with dance team, student council, or explorer’s club. She has no set social circle, but befriends many people at school - students and teachers - and outside of it. Bashir also excels in school, but does not seek out attention the way his sister does. He is quietly making his way to becoming valedictorian in his class, takes all the AP classes he can get his hands on, volunteers at the hospital after school... and accidentally got recruited for the soccer team. He went to the try outs to support a friend and coach made him try out. He plays forward on the varsity team his senior year. When Darius tries to bond with him over it, Bashir is quick to say, “It’ll be good for scholarship money”. and change the subject. He thinks it is expected of him to become a doctor or scientist like his mom and that Azar is going to take over the family restaurant. He’s never really explored what a life where that wasn’t true might look like.

Special Talents: Azar is very good at foreign languages. In addition to English, she speaks Arabic, Farsi, and Russian. She is taking AP Spanish in high school. Bashir is secretly very good at drawing. Rather, he thinks it’s a secret. HIs parents have held onto all of his drawings over the year and both wish he knew they would be happy for him if he went to art school.

Who they like better: Azar is a daddy’s girl to the core, but there is a lot she tells Darius he “doesn’t understand” when she’s a teeanger and she spends a lot of time with Sora, as well. Bashir is anxious to make his mother proud and he loves her very much; secretly he feels less pressure hanging out with Darius. It’s all kind of an equal toss up anyways.

Who they take after more: People think Azar takes after Darius more; she definitely takes more after Sora. Bashir also takes after Sora, but no one has any illusions about that.