faderift | open | merry & bright

Entry tags:

open | merry & bright

WHO: Anyone!
WHAT: Everyone lives happily ever after, forever, for real, wait don't look behind that curtain—
WHEN: Late Haring
WHERE: The mountains
NOTES: No one is late to this. Feel free to get around to it in January. Or February! And if you have questions you can ask me here, but for any question that's "can I do this within my character's dream?" the answer will be yes! You can do anything.

The snowstorm that blows up around them in the mountains isn't unexpected and isn't a disaster. It only dashes some thin hopes that it might not come on so strong or so swiftly. But they've almost reached what they're aiming for — a cave along the cliffy coastal road that's associated with the disappearances of several caravans and now said to be home to a rift — and there's a village up ahead, glowing warmly through the snowfall once they're near enough.

They're not the first waylaid travelers here. The one little inn is full to bursting, with just enough room for Riftwatch's contingent to squeeze in at tables if they get creative about the seating, the lower floor so packed that body heat and the little fire combined make things outright toasty. The beds are all spoken for, but the innkeeper, a warm, upbeat woman with frizzy hair escaping a bun, says not to worry. She's not turning anyone out into the cold. Blankets on the floor is better than that. If anyone finds it too uncomfortable to sleep curled with old blankets on a creaking wooden floor surrounded by the snores of colleagues and strangers — no, they don't. It's comfortable. It's warm. The sniffles and rough coughs from the other side of the room have the rhythm of a lullaby, and the snow-covered roads and the rift and the missing are all problems for a tomorrow that does not immediately come.

They wake, each of them, in a world where there is nothing of significance left for them to worry about. Not the road or the rift or the missing. Not the war; that's over now. Not poverty or obligation or illness. Between them and the life they've always wanted, the way has been cleared of obstacles, and there is nothing left to do but enjoy the comforts of a well-earned easy life — and if something is a little off, no it isn't. Shh. If the victories feel hollow, or the details blur, or the seams begin to show, the world will tighten around them like hands around a wounded bird who needs to be kept from thrashing, whispering that they don't need to worry. Everything will be fine. Just hold still and let it take care of you.

The first to pull free of the delusion on their own will find themselves in the twisting grasp of a lucid dream that's trying very hard to snare them again, stumbling out of their happy endings into the worlds of others'. They might be pulled beneath the surface for a time: the entity saying, all right, if that didn't work for you, maybe this? But the more of them who congregate together, with their incompatible wishes, the more the fabric will begin to fray, until at last it rots away altogether and they find themselves waking on the floor of a cold, abandoned inn, covered in moldering blankets and lingeringly queasy from half-rotted food eaten at least a day earlier, surrounded by the bodies of the inn's other occupants in various early states of decay.

And after, because rest for the weary really is just a dream, they do have to go find that rift.

ooc | Final confrontation with the spirit that allows breaking out into the real world will happen via a log in here I will link when it's happening. But you're also welcome to say your character wasn't involved in that part and went straight to waking up!

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Happy First Day, the war is over.

It’s a fairly easy edit, everything shunted slightly sideways: Astrid’s subconscious eases into these snowy mountains as if she belongs. You are in an Avvar hold — Rifthold, let us call it — and in the way of dreams, it is both Wulfhold and the Gallows alike, some impossible new amalgamation of the two so she doesn’t have to choose. You might walk up a familiar spiraling stone staircase which feels like it should lead to the eyrie, but when you look out the window, you’re gazing onto the Frostbacks instead.

There’s a contented rhythm to this simple life, and you have a job to do. Dressed in comfortable leathers and hide and pelts, chopping firewood, hunting for food, drinking and singing and cozying up for warmth at night. Astrid’s uncle Pike is augur, and if you’re a mage, you might find the intimidating stony-faced man chasing you down for help melting frozen equipment, lifting a cart which fell into a crevasse, or simply discussing magic.

There are multitudes of nature spirits flocking and thriving in the area, small gods living in peaceable harmony with the settlement. Astrid hauls you along for help carrying a fresh carcass, climbing one of the smaller peaks to make the appropriate sacrificial rites: slaughtering an animal, hot blood spilling over your hands and onto the snow. Perhaps you have a connection to a specific spirit yourself.

You might have an animal companion: a hawk circling overhead, a fox rustling in the woods, a loyal hound at your steps. For Astrid, there’s an over-large grey wolf pacing her heels most days: Raskmodig, and he’s a very good boy. Friendlier than he was in life, content to be scratched under the chin, and you’ll sometimes find her napping with him in her cabin in a pile of blankets.

She’s content, here.

When the dream eventually starts to curdle and turn, the snow comes harder and harder in a growing blizzard, blisteringly cold. The mountain pass is cut off; the buildings fade into white. If you try to convince her this place is fake, it starts to sever you from the rest of the hold, lost, wandering, as it prepares to toss you out and to somewhere else.

( ooc: pre-dream sharing a chair for dinner or cuddling to fall asleep? or an encounter in your own dream, or waking up, or the trip back home, or something else entirely? feel free to toss something at me! also hmu @ quadrille on plurk/discord if you wanna brainstorm. )

In the real world, people make mistakes. In the real world, people make bad choices. That is not the case in Byerly’s dream, where everyone you love is good and virtuous.

Do bad things happen in this vision of the world? Of course; it would simply be too unrealistic if there was nothing horrible going on. But not a single bad thing is caused by, or has ever been caused by, you or by anyone you care for. Anything that anyone might possibly carry blame for actually has some other cause. Did you swear yourself to a bad cause? That cause was good, actually, and just happened to be corrupted by bad actors later on. Did a historical figure you admire commit an atrocity? Actually, they were fine, and it was just misattributed to them, and now you have proof of that. Did a friend of yours murder someone? Nope; that was actually completely justifiable self-defense, and anyway, the person they killed was a complete monster.

And have you ever had doubts about your relationship to someone? Don’t worry. Every bit of apparent conflict has actually always been a simple misunderstanding. They actually love you unconditionally. Whether that’s a parent, a friend, or a partner — there will always be a reason available as to why, in fact, neither of you is to blame.

You can feel free to question this. But there will always be some new piece of evidence that will surface to show you that things are and have always been fine, actually. The more you push, the more outlandish this might get. But it won’t relent.

In the meantime, the war is still on, but only in a distant and abstract sort of way. No battles are being fought; missions are being conducted, but they’re always successful; there’s no lack of luxury, and a person can freely travel wherever they wish. There’s just a sense of doing something for the greater good without any of the hardship one normally suffers while fighting for the greater good.

[ Does this premise sound appealing to you, but you don’t want to wait on my slow ass to get to thread this out? And/or do you want to work through some relationship stuff with a non-Byerly character? Feel free to use this subthread for that! ]

The house is old and musty, and it smells of blood. Distantly, there’s the sound of chanting.

“Venatori,” Byerly murmurs. There’s a knife in his hand. This is a mission to put an end to malicious magic, by any means necessary - the details are fuzzy, but don’t really matter, not right now.

“Remember - we know my father and my mother are under their control. But do not harm them under any circumstances. If we get rid of the blood mages, they’ll come to their senses.”

( stealing this idea from hope below, who is a genius. feel free to use this subthread if you want to do your own thing set in astrid’s dream, whether open or closed to another character or whichever; it doesn’t have to be with astrid! this world is yr oyster, have at it. ♥ )

The war is over, there was never a Corypheus, the Venatori never managed a foothold and were extinguished without drama; Riftwatch, too, never had a reason to exist, but its members were united by a drive for technological development and philosophical enlightenment. Circles of Magi are treated like universities, Templars exist only in the Tevene sense as informal buffers against magical mishap, and slavery in the north is conspicuously absent (though what has replaced it is not entirely clear).

Eluvians still exist, supplemented now by gilded vehicles, powered by magic if reminiscent of those found in the home world of Tony Stark and Stephen Strange. Travel has never been easier, food has never tasted better, and financial inequality has been all but eradicated, enabling every living person to live however they please in a paradise of technology. All the way down to Ferelden, the world is a place of beauty and convenience, shining cities brimming with unfathomable delights and proud, happy citizens.

House Artemaeus is but one touchstone in this age of enlightenment, a decadent manor floating over the Nocen Sea and never empty of visitors. Within, a sprawling gallery of the latest developments in art, fashion, technology, and architectural design from all across the world, curated by the svelte, canny, and internationally respected Benedict Artemaeus.

Accompanied always by an entourage of artists and thinkers, Artemaeus has given over his Senate seat-- yes, his-- to a small conclave of worthy minds, allowing him to spend his days attending to the gallery and other philanthropic efforts around Minrathous. Notably, also sharing residence in the home are Calpurnia and Aurelius Artemaeus, the curator's doting and generous parents who, much to his chagrin, can never seem to keep quiet about how proud they are of him. In one of the many guest wings of the house also resides a seemingly unrelated family, the only occasionally visible member of whom is a sweet-faced and beautifully dressed woman in her 40's.
Guests, especially those from the not-Riftwatch days, are greeted at the manor with a hero's welcome and unilaterally fed, boarded, and shown the sights of Renaissance Minrathous.

As the dream begins to turn, the world begins to break down: any technology powered by magic fails intermittently, including that holding the manor aloft, and a foul-smelling, grimy smog begins to seep into the setting, poisoning the color and flavor of all the world's luxuries. A general sense of unease overtakes the populace, and violence begins to erupt as resources grow thinner.

[go drive your cars around vroom vroom]

Crows follow Gwenaëlle — and of course they do. It was always going to be crows. They follow her as she makes her way up the hill alongside Astrid, a little girl with paler skin and lighter eyes holding onto her hand: today, Morgana Hardie is big and brave enough to come up the hill and witness, if not participate. She is carrying her mother’s leather and velvet bag, to help, and the walk feels — new.

But it isn’t. Can’t be. Gwenaëlle is certain that she must have, they must have, walked this hill many times before; it’s only that today, she’s seeing familiar ritual through the fresh eyes of an excited child, and everything feels new that way.

“She might be like her aunt, we think,” she’s saying to Astrid, “so I thought— it would be good to introduce her to the spirits.”

And why shouldn’t Rifthold have Honey Badger’s Avvar? There’s surely a reason they’re here, and not there. She must know it; there’s no need to wonder and worry.

The small fork is in her hand. It scrapes a steady circle through meals that never seem to diminish: Fresh and vivid with the green color of bounty.

Sennara blinks. Presses harder, experimental, and watches a gold tine bend against shimmering plate. The embossing ripples out into new pattern.

(Who made this? How would you make that?)

"Spot," The name tastes strange. Must be fond, for the indulgent smile of a woman who looks very much like him. Sennara knows her from description alone, "What do we eat?"

Edited 2024-12-27 14:51 (UTC)

"Right,"

Blade slips from scabbard, and doesn't make a sound. It's easy here, moments narrowing taut before battle. Because certainly, there will be a battle —

At least, the threat of one. The house smells like blood, but even in darkness, people often see reason. In the face of overwhelming odds, of death and horror, the truth has a way of shining through.

(His armor is bright. Some soft light has smeared the details: The sculpted edge of muscle, and bone, and the old dents of misuse. It looks almost Ferelden. It looks like it's never seen a battle without surrender.)

"They might recognize you. You can still get through."

He speaks very clear Trade. Elegant, really.

Byerly is not a man who was born with an excess of courage on his own. But courage is found with comrades. If there was a tremble in his hand before, it disappears as Cedric speaks, replaced by a sort of tranquility.

“Yes. I can.”

He meets Cedric’s eyes. He nods. And then he kicks down the door of his old home. And there they are: a circle of three Venatori, weaving threads of blood magic that plunge into the wooden floor and run through it like veins, pumping poison into the foundations of the home.

There isn’t any cry of rage or triumph. Even though Byerly has found the source of the wickedness that has corrupted so much around him, he does not give voice to any catharsis. Instead, he moves quickly to draw his knife quickly and efficiently across the throat of the first masked figure.

Benedict liked New York well enough that his subconscious moulds itself after its conveniences, and so it stands to reason that Stephen is similarly drawn in. This dream catches him like a particularly honeyed trap, tantalising, precisely the sort of thing he might like, too: all of the magic, none of the guilt.

Doctor Stephen Strange has attained a professorship at the Orlesian university, the first rifter allowed to do so, and teaches magic at one of the Circles which feels so much like an academy. He is anchored in this reality, with no risk of unexpectedly vanishing someday (and how does he know? don’t ask, it just is). His usual sass about Medieval Times is— gone, actually, because of all the gleaming magical conveniences and Tevene delights that he admires so much, stripped of any reason to feel bad about what went into making them.

So he’s at one of the House Artemaeus salons, breezing through crowds of the magical aristocracy, meandering through the gallery and taking in the sights. He’s comfortable and very much in his element, sipping a cocktail, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the host in question as he takes in one of the art pieces, glittering with illuminated arcane glyphs.

“I like it. I have this set of seven rainbow lamps at home, they’re like enchanted multi-coloured lights, I imagine the principle must be the same,” Stephen says to his friend.

(and for a moment the details are hazy, because he remembers those lamps illuminating something else — the floorboards tilting slightly underfoot, a houseboat, winding stairs, a view of the bay through the windows — and that’s not the Hightown house he lives in now, is it?

— in this dream, that manse looks very much like the Sanctum Sanctorum. This is on purpose.)

The war, as it happens, is still ongoing—but the tide has turned, and everyone is in good spirits about it. Your work, whatever it is, has turned out to be vital to the efforts against Corypheus. Down to the lowliest servant, each and every member of Riftwatch has contributed in some major way to the near-complete downfall of their enemies. It's a matter of weeks until Corypheus and the Venatori are defeated for good, but until then, work and purpose remains.

The Gallows is recognizable as such due to its layout and not much else, though you'd swear you've never known it different: the cobblestone courtyard, the ashlar stone walls crawling with ivy, diamond-paned windows set in dark wooden frames are as they have always been. The interiors of each tower are lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves, as they have always been. This mix of Thedas and Faerûn, Kirkwall and Candlekeep, reflects its dreamer and her priorities perfectly: every book you could ever ask for can be found on these shelves (whether they are legible, gibberish, or in any way accurate depends on if you've read the book before and remember its contents). "Dark academia" eat your heart out.

There are some things that immediately and deeply distinguish this dream from Thedosian reality, chief among them being: there is no taboo or restriction on magic of any kind for any purpose. Blood magic is just another way of accessing magic, and holds no stigma. Templars act only to suppress magic that cannot be contained, and do not need to use lyrium to do so. Additionally, elfblooded humans look like proper Faerûnian half-elves, with the attendant pointy ears and other uniquely elven features.

Ness herself has reverted to her normal Faerûnian appearance: lavender eyes, white streaked hair, distinct purple cast to her skin, pointed ears. She remains Quartermaster, but she doesn't work alone—her drow father Vazeiros has arrived in Thedas via rift as well. His dark amethyst skin, stark white hair, and red eyes set him immediately apart from native elves, but no one's weird about it. He loves his daughter, and has forgiven her for the hideous sin of (checks hand) ever having become his problem.

When the dream begins to turn, once-familiar hallways turn into labyrinths and mazes, preventing you from ever reaching Ness. Every door you open brings you to a different room, each one pleasantly quiet and filled with bookshelves, all filled with books that attempt to tempt you, personally, from your goal, with whatever information would do that. If that doesn't work, the stacks begin to close in, slowly but surely doing their best to squish and smother you entirely.

[ do whatever you want my friends, i am hella not the boss of you! ]

“Good idea. Best do a trial run on her own, anyway, before telling onkel about your suspicions — ‘cos then he’d be haunting all her steps and I know that can be scary as fuck,” Astrid says, light and breezy and familiar.

Pike almost rivalled Guilfoyle in terms of similarly skeletally frightening and protective older men. But the augur, in his turn, was always the most animated when working with magic and the spirits; he’d been disappointed in Astrid’s lack of interest, but at least he had Aura Hardie to discuss the matter.

And Astrid and Gwenaëlle are friends; they have been friends for a very long time, and Astrid will very confidently declare I was there for Morgana’s birth, but if pressed to say exactly how long it’s been, she finds herself petering out on specifics. The days and years blur together in a wintry haze. (How old is Gwenaëlle’s daughter, now?)

When she does this walk up the mountain with a sheep’s carcass, she often has to enlist someone else for sheer muscle — sometimes Gwenaëlle’s husband himself, big and broad — but today, Astrid is doing the carrying. She has several dead rabbits tied up by their legs and bouncing at her hip.

“How’re you feeling, Morgana?” she asks, craning her head to flash a grin at the girl.

The gap-toothed, beaming smile she gets back fills in some blanks: at least old enough to be replacing her baby teeth, then. Of course. Makes sense: that’s a good age for her mama to be developing some suspicions about the recent complexity of her imaginary friends, curious but not — in this good, quiet world — worried.

“Not scared of onkel Pike,” she says, sort of pertness a half-Gwenaëlle Hardie girl might have, or just the voice of a child who has been riding on Guilfoyle’s shoulders since she could hold her own head up by herself. “And I’m not tired, either,” which certainly means a conversation was had at some point in the morning about the length of the walk — hike — and the sort of behaviour expected from her on it.

It’s a toss up if Gwenaëlle would really hold fast to her firmly delivered (she’s sure) ‘and I won’t be carrying you if you wear yourself out running ahead’, but it doesn’t seem very likely.

“Uh huh. You say that now, but just you wait. My mum had me trekking all up and down these mountains checking traps, until it felt like my feet would fall right off—”

Astrid’s mother Runa is— around the hold somewhere, certainly, this picture wouldn’t be complete without her. But she’s more of an impression in the background, a pleasant shadow cast over the landscape, maternal warmth in the distance but not having to be reckoned with up close. Tante Astrid in the meantime is bigger and brighter and more vivid, and her boisterous younger brother is constantly making a nuisance of himself around the hold, pinching Morgana’s cheeks. (He’s easier to fill in the blanks, a simpler picture to paint: the half-siblings have had no end of bickering and squabbling and catching each other in a headlock, to reproduce the scene.)

“Anyway, we’ll get to rest once we reach the peak and after we’re done, too,” Astrid says. “Have a drink, eat a snack.”

She’s got a strong stomach; she’s not fussed by the prospect of eating her cheese sandwich right next to a pile of steaming entrails on the rock.

If Gwenaëlle is equally unfussed, Morgana’s glance towards the dead rabbits hanging from Astrid’s hip suggests she might not be greeting the prospect with precisely the same equanimity as mother and aunt. On the other hand, her following, swift glances at both of their faces leads to a look of pure resolve: she’s not going to be a baby about it on the day that mama has decided she’s a big enough girl to go up the mountain.

Gwenaëlle manages to keep her amusement mostly to herself, looking ahead to the peak instead of down at Morgana, mischief tugging the corner of her mouth. She feels—

light. In this dream, the only wings that beat are the crows circling in her wake, and Asher is waiting for her below, and she can’t think of a single reason why she would want to be anywhere but with Astrid and Morgana right now.

“Guilfoyle packed it himself,” she adds, of their lunch. The dream assures her that he is as content here as he has ever been anywhere — that he and Astrid’s uncle often sit in companionable silence that looks like friendship, and that Asher finds that deeply and powerfully unsettling in a way that always, always makes her laugh.

It all feels true. The sky is bright and the air is still and this must be all that she loves.

"It's an older technique," the host drawls cheerfully, "from before the war. This is a materialist deconstruction-- he gestures from glyph to glyph, "they're placed out of order on purpose. A commentary on the meandering, uneven path to innovation."

He smiles, takes a sip from his own drink, casts a fond glance at his friend. "Your lamps were likely designed by the same person. She's very prolific."

"Roasted duck," Benedict answers easily, straightening-- that Sennara is seated beside him suggests a great honor, and the warmth in the way he regards her doesn't contest it.

"Medium-rare, as it should be, with a glaze of oranges from Par Vollen. Did you enjoy the soup?"

He seems to shimmer right alongside the magnificent dining room and its contents, its guests strangely blurry and difficult to hold in one's gaze.

It's an endless ball - a little less Orlesian Winter Ball and a little more magical Yule Ball, only nobody is a fumbling teen being pressured to making nice and dancing with the students from other visiting schools here. The dancing happens because the market is open.

What market? The romance market.

Come, enjoy a world of no worrying about the war. All the men are dashing, the women are dressed in fine silks, and those who identify as neither are probably the sexiest people in the room. Or not - the dream's not the boss of you.

It's not immediately clear who this dream comes from. It is quite the mish-mash, actually: ballgowns straight out of a Jane Austen novel, but the politics of a Thedosian court's Game, and there is of course the magic. It's happening, but it feels natural - unfeared. Almost like someone who been wary of her magic not matching Thedas' this whole time has gotten her hands on a few too many romance novels to read in her spare time, supplemented it with the few experiences of a school dance here, a wedding there, and the result is this.

But hey, what does it matter if the mages are wandering around free, unbothered by demons or spirits, and if there are any Templars in sight they're not wearing armor? There's punch to be consumed, it might be spiked, and dance cards to fill. Can you feel the love tonight?

[ use this thread for any shenanigans you want to play out in this dream, but for the love of god, you better link to the hot outfit. i am the boss of you. ]

A covetted bachelor(ette) stands by the punch bowl, deliberately avoiding the dance floor, her dance card empty for now. She is dressed in a very well tailored suit, and the heels on her feet miraculously do not hurt her feet. (That should be a red flag.)

Her appearance and attire don't seem to bother most at the ball. From Hermione's perspective, they are happy to ignore her in favour of more interesting attendees. So she is going to pour herself this drink, and find a way out to the gardens (surprise, the ball spills out onto beautiful pleasure gardens, now) where she can get the book out of her waistcoat pocket and keep reading.

What, lo! Her fingertips have brushed yours by accident, her eyes darting quickly to meet yours.

"Ah, pardon - go ahead."

She does so enjoy dancing with someone who is competent at it, and sometimes that is hard to come by - but there have been no butterflies tonight! It has been a ball like many others, with other people pairing up, with matches being made or found most romantically, while Hermione just watches from the sidelines.

(Why is it that important that she also find a match, exactly? Don't worry about it. She is here, wearing her finest, and the bosoms deserve to be admired by at least one person.)

And now, after a quadrille and a Nevarran waltz, she's barely had the chance to drink some water before someone has asked for her dance card. Can she just rest? No, apparently not.

She plasters on a beatific smile, opening her dance card quickly to see whether there are any blanks. Mostly blanks.

"Oh, dear - unfortunately it seems I am all booked!" she says with a very sorrowful sounding tone, as she wills a few fake names to appear next to the next three dances. Lord Fontescue, and Mr Balderdash, and Ser Lemon Drop are all in for a treat.

"I'm sorry to disappoint," she offers.

If you find yourself in Vanya's dream, you are likely to notice it's quiet, first. Not empty, but the peaceful quiet of the way a city boy would imagine the countryside: wind in growing grain, birds in the trees, occasionally the lowing of a farm animal but never in distress. The light is warm and golden. The weather is fine, seasonable for the time of year.

A small market town in Nevarra, the name not important enough to be fully consistent from visit to visit. The inhabitants are friendly, and their few problems are simple one. A single lost sheep, young lovers who haven't raised the courage to speak of their affections, a rivalry for which town resident makes the finest savory pie. They see few strangers but aren't hostile to them, inclined mainly to ask for news of the much more exciting outside world. There's no mention of a civil war in Nevarra. There never was one, here. Corypheus is a recognizable name, but that war is long over.

They speak well of Orlov, if he comes up. A quiet man, clearly once a soldier but disinclined to speak of his past. He bought a horse ranch a half day's ride out of town, moved in with his wife, a widow with a son from her first marriage. He's quiet, yes. But does his part for the town and is honest in his dealings. Brings his family in for festivals, says hello if you pass him. No crime in wanting a quiet life, as long as you aren't unfriendly.

If you make your way out of town in the direction of the Orlov ranch, it is a plain place but well-maintained and large enough it must have cost a fair amount to acquire. There's a small staff of ranch hands and a few servants, who all seem content. The horses, it goes without saying, are beautiful.

For his part, Vanya takes a lot of long rides. There's plenty for him to do if he wants to, but the ranch runs fine without him. His wife and stepson are always happy to see him but disinclined to worry if he's gone now and then. He is aware he should be content with a quiet place to retire and no one looking for him. No more battles to fight. Good work to do. But something niggles at him, like it's at the corner of his eye and vanishes whenever he turns to look at it full on.

He can't settle. He can't shake the feeling that if he were to set his horse's feet for Neverra City, he'd somehow never get there.

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open | merry & bright

astrid runasdotten | avvar au.

“your faves are unproblematic” au

open sandbox

In Dragonmount

open sandbox

Benedict Artemaeus | Thedas Resplendent

sandbox

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dinnertime

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a party;

ness tavane | candlewall? kirkeep? faedas?

sandbox

no subject

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I am making this shit up wholecloth

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"pride, prejudice, and bridgerton" au

sandbox

(version 1) a truth universally acknowledged

(version 2) of all bitches, dead or alive, a scribbling woman is the most canine

I wrote this whole starter and then realized Vanya's dream is stardew valley, you're welcome