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Welcome to Charming, the year is now 1894. It’s time to join us and immerse yourself in scandal and drama interlaced with magic both light and dark.

Where will you fall?

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Queen Victoria was known for putting jackets and dresses on her pups, causing clothing for dogs to become so popular that fashion houses for just dog clothes started popping up all over Paris. — Fox
It would be easy to assume that Evangeline came to the Lady Morgana only to pick fights. That wasn't true at all. They also had very good biscuits.
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took a walk with all my brightest thoughts
Early, February 28th (#2), 1894 — Wellingtonshire
tw: attempted suicide
He hadn’t been able to get to the hospital last night through the blizzard. The Floo had been offline. It was too dangerous to walk out or to apparate. He had done what he could for the next door neighbours who’d needed help, but otherwise – there had been a lot of time to think about things.

He had taken out some parchment at his desk, and thought about writing letters. There were people he wanted to say sorry to: his family, Dionisia and Elliott, Ben. But he had done enough to them already, and more words wouldn’t help – actions would serve them better. And – his usual methods weren’t helping him anymore. All the relief of cutting himself had worn off. His arms were littered with scars from the repetition of it, and more recently he had started on his thighs – knowing too well where the arteries were, and how to make it just painful enough to feel it when he walked. No one had noticed, because no one had any reason to. And it still wasn’t enough. Nothing was ever enough.

But letters would make it too obvious, what he’d done. If he could spare them that shame and still find a way out – that was something. So, early that morning – it had started getting light, but the snow was still coming in fits and starts – he went out, pretending he was going into work. Instead he turned away from Bartonburg and from the High Street, intent upon not seeing anyone he knew – if anyone was out in this weather at all. He already felt numb with cold, but he kept trudging on. He was somewhere in Wellingtonshire – he had thought he would pass the cemetery and head out towards the forest, somewhere on the outskirts of town. So that enough time would pass before he was found, after the snow stopped.

He only saw one person in passing, but he had hurried onwards, pretending he hadn’t, and – that was fine. It would be an accidental death when they recovered his body, Ari was sure: he had thought it all through. He had poison in his jacket pocket – in an unmarked flask – because he was still apparently a coward to the end and was scared of it being too uncomfortable without it, dying in the snow. But the residual signs of the poison would be gone by the time they found him, so they could still presume it hypothermia. And – they would grieve, maybe, which he didn’t want; but they would heal sooner or later, and maybe one day some of them would also quietly come to think it a relief.

When he had gotten out past the houses and could walk no more for shivering, and for his legs feeling ready to give out under him, he stopped, and pulled out the flask. His hands were numb, and the lid almost frozen shut, in spite of the warming spells upon it; it took almost more energy than he had to warm it up enough to twist it open.
Cassius Lestrange

The first February 28th, Cash had stayed up too late in his office, reading a mystery book. He caught a few hours of sleep, and when the valet woke him, he found himself still snowed in. He was the furthest thing from an important employee; he did not have to make any efforts to get to the Ministry. He read another few chapters of the Mystery book.

Eventually, Cash decided to head out for a walk — it was freezing, but he could not abide being stuck in his house. It made him feel itchy. He had to leave. He dressed, carefully, because he was not particularly fond of freezing — and started out, towards the woods at the edge of Wellingtonshire.

Cash had just reached the trees when he stumbled over something. He landed hard — the item beneath him was less yielding than the snow. Cash shifted backwards onto his knees, feeling through the snow to find someone's body prone in the snow — and shifted the body until the snow shifted and the man's face was exposed. A frozen yellow vomit foam around his mouth. Cash pressed fingers to his throat — nothing. He rolled up the man's sleeves and ran his fingers there, and could not feel a pulse — and startled at the feeling of scars beneath his fingers.

I know this.

He had never done it, but he recognized the impulse.

The next thirty minutes were blurry. He spent some amount of time trying to revive the man. He ran to the constabulary, found the constables, led them to the body. They brought him, and the body, back to the constabulary to provide a witness statement (and do whatever it was the constabulary did the man's bodies.)

They made the mistake of telling him the man's name. He didn't know him, but he knew him. Cash spent some amount of time trying to convince Constable Woodcroft that Ari Fisk had killed himself, he had not frozen to death — he had been sure, ever since he saw the scars. Time passed.

He made it home. The valet drew a bath. Cash sat in it until it cooled, periodically running his fingertips over his wrists, where he'd seen the scars on the other man. At some point, he heard the clock in the house strike midnight, and decided to step out of the bath — but he blinked and he was sitting at his desk with the mystery book in front of him.

February 28th, again.

Where was Ari Fisk?

It took Cash ages to fully bundle up. He didn't know when Ari Fisk would get to the spot where he died; he had to be ready to beat him there. He placed warming spells on his boots and gloves. Once he was ready, he walked out of the front door, locked it, and sprinted — the same pace as he'd run at when trying to get to the constabulary the previous February 28th.

(He worried, briefly on the run, that he was going mad — that he was losing time, that the previous day was a hallucination, that he should go home. But he could not be sure, so he had to try.)

He was nearly out of breath and it was only years of athleticism that kept him going at this pace when he saw the man, alive. Cash came to an abrupt stop, skidding in the snow until he was wavering on his feet a mere six inches from the other man, and could not muster words — he pointed, with one hand, at Ari Fisk.

The following 3 users Like Cassius Lestrange's post:
   Elias Grimstone, Philomena Sprout, Tycho Dodonus

MJ made this!
He had picked his poison deliberately. No sense in wasting all those years of healing on a different death, was there? And it had become something of a mind-easing, soul-soothing activity over the past year: browsing the ward’s storeroom or flicking through a well-worn copy of The Healer’s Complete Guide to Poisons, imagining which options might be most useful to him. Anything to help him sleep at night. Anything to help him sleep now. The contents of the flask would be fast-acting. Too quick and too complex to be undone. His body would fight it, because that was the nature of bodies; but in the act of choosing it, his mind was still in control.

Was one supposed to look back on their life, at the end of it? Ari had witnessed deathbeds enough to be familiar with the strange helpless ritual of it – the waiting and the watching by loved ones and family, the confessions and resolutions and desperate, futile patched-up promises. He couldn’t think about his own life here, couldn’t face his own regrets. He felt quite sure his mother would have been disappointed in him, if she were still living.

The future was easier to look at: the Fisk family was large enough that his absence would be no real fracture in it. Dionisia would be a widow – left with the house and money and her son, and free. And Elliott was still young, too young to comprehend the loss. Young enough that most of his memories of his first (false) father would fade in time for some other, better figure to step into his life. It would all work out well.

And maybe Ben would hate him less, this way. If Ari stayed, Ben was well within his rights to blame him for the decisions he had made, to feel the hurt and resentment on and on – but Ben might find some forgiveness if he was gone. (Ari was only sorry he couldn’t erase everything else, the years of turmoil he had already created in his life.)

He had only lifted the flask to his mouth when he caught the movement of someone else, someone here, in his peripheral vision – and he startled physically at their presence, jerked the small flask away from his lips without having drunk from it. The person was out of breath, and pointing; Ari held the poison low and discreet in his hand, masked his expression into some bewildered calm. “Are you alright?” Ari asked, forcing himself to look at the other man, trying to pretend to care. It seemed like an emergency, perhaps. So – his death could wait a moment or two.

The following 1 user Likes Ari Fisk's post:
   Rosalie Hunniford

tw: suicidal ideation
Cash was catching his breath, and Ari Fisk had lowered the flask from his lips. This gave him time, a small amount of time, to try to figure out how to talk Ari Fisk out of doing this. How did he do that? Cash's desire to die had always been passive; he'd wanted it, but he had never quite looked death in the eyes and wanted to make a choice to meet it. On the first February 28th, this man made that choice — but Cash had not been there.

He caught his breath. What he said was: "Don't do it."

Ari Fisk could not kill himself. If there was anything Cash had discerned from the questions that the constables had asked, from the conversations he'd heard — there were people who cared about Ari Fisk. Maybe he did not believe it, maybe he did not feel like he had a reason to live right now — but Cash could not let him do this.

MJ made this!
He had imagined this a coincidence – untimely and unfortunate, precisely the way life dealt coincidences out – but the man was a stranger, and had spoken to him. Ari couldn’t help himself: he flinched slightly, first, at the words.

His eyebrows knitted together, trying to fathom what else he meant. Because he couldn’t possibly mean this, could he? Ari hadn’t told a soul what he was planning. The man had been running, though, in these conditions, and had pointed at him as if he had known. There was no way he could just look at him and know it, could he? It didn’t make sense. Unless he was adept at Legilimency, perhaps, but even then –

And Ari’s mind was racing and his shoulders were tense and he was still poised on the edge of it, wondering whether he should just do it, do it now, what did one witness matter? But... it would be safer and surer to get away from this fellow first. So he let his arm drop, the poison held casually at his side, as if it was whiskey or cocoa instead. He schooled his expression, polite confusion, and said calmly, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

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