omendreamer
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For the longest time, Sarah had been lucky. With the right friends, and charms, and keys, she'd slipped easily in and out of different realms. She'd forgotten what true danger was. She'd become complacent.
By the time she realised her mistake, it was already too late.
(When you stare into the abyss, don't be surprised when the abyss stares back)
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Nine years after defeating the Labyrinth, Sarah is in Ireland — a land of old magic, where legend suggests her victory comes with a price and her story is far from finished. Something ancient has been set in motion and Sarah finds herself at the centre of a very old, very Goblin, tradition.
As time passes, fruit ripens. Let the feast begin at the Goblin Market...
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Normally, Laura is perfectly willing to delicately coach her baby brother through the endless labyrinth of his emotional manpain, but Laura’s dissertation is due in two days and she just flat out doesn’t have the time.
Bookmarked by omendreamer
17 Jan 2013
Bookmarker's Notes
“Is Derek going to break up with me?” he asks her in a rush, suddenly breathless.
With a sigh, Laura folds down until she can rest her forehead on her laptop—which is still closed, even though her dissertation is due in two days—and spares a moment to hate the fact that she knows her brother so well that she can predict exactly what’s going wrong in his relationship with his boyfriend at any point in time.
“Stiles,” Laura says, probably muffled because of her position but unwilling to change it, “I want you to look deep in your heart and ask yourself: Will Derek ever be capable of breaking up with you?”
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Nothing then but silence, broken only by the sound of Mary’s uneven breathing. The house around them is silent, too, only the two of them left within its walls. Blackbeard’s grip on the heavy bronze mastiff has gone white-knuckled, but when he finally speaks his voice is even. Calm.
“It’s really true, then. Stede Bonnet is dead.”
Or: Blackbeard's crew descends upon the Bonnet homestead after hearing the rumor of Stede's alleged death.
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While I do enjoy tickling the ivories for hours at a time, and have occasionally fancied that a bit of tricky finger-work was carried out so adeptly as to bring the house down, this was in the way of being a metaphor.
Bookmarked by omendreamer
11 Mar 2015
Bookmarker's Notes
'I know it's not quite the thing, Jeeves, but the Wooster frame has been described as "willowy" by more than one party. Surely we both might fit.'
'Sir,' Jeeves began.
'Pish, I'll hear no more of it,' I said, with all the imperiousness that the old ancestors at Agincourt must have possessed.
'Sir, I really must protest--'
He had a mulish set to his jaw that I am well-acquainted with, for when two men of indomitable will cohabitate, these little disagreements will rear their head from time to time. Still, I fancy I have learnt a thing or two about Jeeves, namely that if sound logic and persuasive arguments will gain me no ground, then sometimes abject pleading and a complete abandonment of manly pride may yield results. 'Please,' I said quietly. 'I won't rest well otherwise.'