<center><style> #wouldjalookitthat {background-image:url('https://s10.postimg.org/t7q5x5hqh/forspink1.png'); width: 500px; height: 305px;} #promiscuousboooiii {background-image: url('https://s18.postimg.org/v4pxdeow9/darktexture.jpg'); width: 500px; padding: 15px; border: 1px solid rgba(70, 57, 57, 0.3); box-shadow: 0px 0px 20px black; transition: 3s;} #promiscuousboooiii:hover {box-shadow: 0px 0px 20px #463939;} .tellmehowtheygotthatprettylittlefaceonthatprettylittlefraaame {border: 1px solid rgba(70, 57, 57, 0.3); width: 500px;} .woooohooo {font-style: italic; line-height: 10pt; width: 400px; font-family: times; font-size: 9pt; position: relative; top: 270px; width: 400px; border-top: 1px solid rgba(70, 57, 57, 0.3); border-bottom: rgba(70, 57, 57, 0.3) solid 1px; color: #e7d7d5; transition: 3s; padding: 5px;} .woooohooo:hover {padding: 5px; border-bottom: 1px solid rgba(70, 57, 57, 0.1); border-top: 1px solid rgba(70, 57, 57, 0.1); color: rgba(231, 215, 213, 0);} #youcanrunfree {font-style: italic; line-height: 10pt; width: 400px; font-family: times; font-size: 15pt; width: 400px; border-top: 1px solid rgba(70, 57, 57, 0.3); border-bottom: rgba(70, 57, 57, 0.3) solid 1px; color: #e7d7d5; transition: 3s; padding: 5px; margin-top: 35px; margin-bottom: 5px;} #youcanrunfree:hover {padding: 5px; border-bottom: 1px solid rgba(70, 57, 57, 0.1); border-top: 1px solid rgba(70, 57, 57, 0.1); color: rgba(231, 215, 213, 0);}</style> <div id="promiscuousboooiii"><div class="tellmehowtheygotthatprettylittlefaceonthatprettylittlefraaame"><div id="wouldjalookitthat"><center><div class="woooohooo">let me pick your brain, girl.<br>and tell me how they got that pretty little face on that pretty little frame.</div></center></div> <div style="color: #463939; width: 460px; padding: 20px; text-align: justify; font-family: times; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 12pt; margin-top: 10px;">
Ceara sat alone in a pub, playing with something in her hands. It was busy work, but her amber eyes stayed focused, trained on the small object in front of her, entwined between her delicate fingers. Sighing, she puts it on - a massive diamond ring. She holds it out before her, turning her hand ever so slightly to examine the near-perfect stone.
Ceara checked her surroundings to make sure she was not attracting any unwanted attention, and slipped the diamond off her hand and into the pocket of her jacket. She then turns her attention to the pint sitting before her. Grasping it, she tilts back the glass bottle, tasting of black cherry. There was nothing like the feel-good drag of fruit-flavored liquor, and she could not get the likes of this back in America.
Ceara put the bottle back on the bar top, looking around from her place in the corner. She hoped he got here soon. She needed to be out of here and on her way.
She put her hand back in her pocket and fingered the ring once more. She needed to get rid of this, get paid, and get back. Ceara let go of the ring and wrapped her hands pensively around the bottle, squeezing it.
She was tense.
“Hey, can I get a double shot of Dewar’s, on the rocks? Cheers.”
The man's voice was as hard as it was kind, and his hands were exposed as he leaned against the bar top. Those hands were the first thing Ceara noticed about him in the pub’s dim lighting. When ran his fingers through thick brown hair, she knew it was him. She swallowed the last dregs of her alcohol, and got up from her seat.
Ceara approached the man nervously, noting the broad cut of his shoulders, and the blue of his eyes as he studied the mirrored wall at the back of the bar. Ceara swallowed, and then gave a polite cough to signal her existence. The look he gave her when he turned was not at all the cordiality he had shown to the pubmaster. He looked guarded. “Can I help you?”
She nodded, obviously nervous, and cleared her throat to speak. The barkeep interrupted, and Ceara exhaled, grateful for the momentary distraction. “More whisky, Sir?” The man nodded, waving his hand in the air to signal ‘when’. Another sip, and he turns his attention back to Ceara. “So, you must be her, then? Let's take a look.”
Ceara was released from her reverie and brought back to the present. Her hands dig in her pocket, and fish out the ring that lay protected within. She inspects it, before holding it out to the man in front of her. Immediately, his face softens, and he takes it in his hands and inspects the ring (and the diamond) from every angle, admiring the craftsmanship. Then, he pulled a jeweller’s glass out of the pocket of his trousers, inspecting the stone. The diamond itself was a large solitaire, cut with so many facets that it glittered in the faintest of light. The color was a brilliant white,and carried an almost opalescent quality to it. It was oval-shaped, and surrounded by the busts of two large prancing stags, set in place by the antlers that acted as prongs, wrapping around into the circle of the ring itself. A moderately humble piece, but there was something about the diamond that was unique, and for Ceara, a pre-law student studying at the University of Devon, her great grandmother's heirloom said only one thing.
Tuition.
Ceara went back to shuffling and playing with her hair while the man inspected the ring, going over it with a fine toothed comb. “So, you say this was your great grandmother's ring...uh..”
“Ceara.. m-my name is Ceara. Ceara Smythe, ” she stuttered. Ceara’s voice quavered, and she was visibly nervous as she looked at him, and the way he seemed to be absorbed so deeply into the luster of the trinket in front of him. “You know, I have to get back to class eventually and…” she stops, closing her mouth, her eyebrows knitting together. The man waved his hand in the air as he had done with the whisky, pays her no mind as he finishes his inspection. Ceara huffed, placing a hand on her hip. “Look, I don’t know who you think you are, but you can’t just…”
“Warrick,” He interrupted, passing her back the ring. “Warrick Cavendish.”
“Okay, <i>Warrick Cavendish.</i> I came to you because the shopkeeper said you might be able to give me a deal on this ring, and I <i>really</i> need the money. But just because I am an American university student does <i>not</i> give you the right to think you’re better than me. You can’t just hush someone up like that and expect them to obey you.” Ceara quiets her voice, noting the quiet and all eyes are on her.
“As a matter of fact, I can,” Warrick says. His bright blue eyes bore into her amber gaze at her, not unkindly, but sternly. “I own this <i>bar</i> as you American ladies call it.” His voice is quiet, pushing off the bar top and coming to stand at full height. Slowly, activity resumes with people continuing with their meals or drinks, and conversation resumes, though much quieter than it had been. Warrick held out his hand. “Might I formally introduce myself. Warrick Cavendish, 17th Duke of Devonshire. And you, Miss Ceara Smythe, are in possession of a very precious diamond.”
Ceara was struck dumb as she shook his hand. The man in front of her was a Duke, and apparently all the people in the pub knew it. Ceara dropped his hand--embarrassed, she slips the ring back into her pocket. Warrick steps towards her, motioning her to a booth in the back, signalling for two pints of pale ale. “Let’s go back here and talk, shall we? We have a great many things to discuss.” He chuckles airly and she finds she is silent as she follows him.
Ceara slides into the booth seat, the bartender right behind them, placing their pints on the table and walking away. Warrick checked his phone, sent a quick message, put it on silent, sliding it back into his pocket. “You have my full and undivided attention,” he says, folding his hands on the table.
Ceara sets the ring on the table between them. “This was my great-grandmother’s ring. She wore it for 54 years before she died and gave it to my father. When he married my mother, it became hers. But after he died…” Ceara’s voice choked, her mind to her father, and how much she missed him. “...it came to me. I have no use for it. I need the money… for school. A shopkeeper gave me a number to call. Which eventually led to you.” She stretched and turned in her seat, crossing one leg over the other. “I don’t know much about it, or how my great-grandfather found it.” She stared him down with her amber eyes, but he was not looking at her. All his focus was on that small object on the table.
Without asking Warrick reached out for the ring, and picked it up. And he began to speak.
“In 1939, a young American girl fell in love with a wealthy British aristocrat. He was the Marquess of Hardington, and her father was the American ambassador to London. They met at a country house party, and it was love at first sight. She was bright, vivacious, and plucky. All the things that local British girls are not. She flowed easily between the classes, and fit herself in Society as if she had been born to it. She was even so brass as to talk about things that were considered too passe for the time. But she could get away with it, because she was wealthy, entitled, and American. Everyone loved her, except the boy’s parents.
“Her name was Kick Cordwell, and his name was William Cavendish. He was the heir apparent to the Duchy of Devonshire. A socialite, his father had great plans for him in the House of Lords. As a Protestant, he was expected to inherit the title and all the land holdings. Kick’s family were staunch Catholics, and in America were very influential in political circles. Their families opposed the match, and though the two were desperately in love, they had to keep their relationship a secret. The lengths they went through to be able to be together, how many times Kick begged her father…” Warrick stopped, his impassioned voice quieting down as he regained his composure.
“He wouldn’t relent. The rift between the Catholics and Protestants goes far deeper in this country than any other. Kick’s brothers would become Presidents and Senators, and there was no way his daughter was going to marry a Protestant whelp from England. William’s parents said much the same of Kick’s family. He had a Plan, his life was already mapped before him, and a Catholic did not fit in that picture. So when World War Two broke out, it was a great relief to Kick and William’s parents. Mr. Cordwell took his wife, Kick, and her siblings back home to America. William entered as a Sergeant Major in the Army, and went to war.
“For five years, they were separated. Letters were scarce, and while the families held out hope that Kick and William would grow apart, they did not. They held on to those letters, and kept them close. Each one was read over and over again until the fold lines were worn through, until the ink was wet with tears. They fell more in love with those letters. Not less. It was, in one of those letters, that William asked Kick to marry him, and much to the Chagrin of their parents, she said yes. The letter took too months to get to him.
“In 1944, when the Allies had finally begun making headway on the European mainland, it was safe enough for the Cordwells to go back to England. Kick and William were married in a private ceremony on the fourth of May. This,” The duke paused, emotion in his breath was heavy, and he motioned the ring to Ceara’s attention. She looked down, captivated by the story he was telling her. “This was her wedding ring. It was taken from a center stone that was originally set in the Duchess’ tiara. Held up by prancing stags, the animal that supports the Cavendish coat of arms. It was the only diamond of its kind. The Duchess treasured it, just as she soon came to treasure her new daughter in law.
“In June, William went back to the war, leaving a young bride behind. In September… word came that William had been killed in action in France. Kick was devastated. She had been married a four short months before her best friend and lover had been taken from her forever. But she did not go home to America. England had become her home, and where her husband had lived. She wore this ring every day until the day she died. Which, tragically, was 4 years later. She died in a plane crash over french airspace. The rubble from the attack was less than 4 miles away from where her husband’s body had been found, and the ring was never recovered. Until today.”
Warrick’s voice got quiet, his hand resting on the table. They had been talking for hours - long enough for the light in the oil lamp to go out. He called the pubmaster over for more oil and a box of matches, and within minutes, the light was back on again, this time burning more brightly than it had before. The ring looked almost ethereal with the way it glowed. Ceara’s gaze was heavy on the heirloom, tears forming in her eyes at the vast history that it carried. “Am I to assume that you are their grandson, then, from a child that William Cavendish never got to know?” Ceara was quiet, her eyes trained on his handsome face.
“No.” He dragged out a sigh, his emotions heavy. “They never had any children. Kick had been pregnant when she found out about William’s death. She was so grief-stricken that she miscarried not long afterward. Willam’s younger brother Arthur took the title after their father passed.”
Ceara looked at Warrick then. She sighed heavily, and, looking down, pushing the ring in his direction. “Take it,” she said, her voice shaky.
Warrick sat back in his seat, really looking at Ceara for the first time. His blue eyes hardened for a minute in thought, and then softened again. “What about University?” Warrick’s concerned voice was quiet, and he reached for the ring almost at the same time that Ceara did. They bumped hands, and Ceara held his for moment, sighed, and put the ring in his grip, squeezed, and let go.
“I will figure out something. Another scholarship, a job.” Ceara’s eyes moistened again; one lone tear trailed down her cheek, highlighted by the glow of the oil lamp that sat on their table. “But I cannot sell something that was never rightfully mine in the first place. So please. Take it.”
Warrick’s hand covered Ceara’s. His tender touch surprised them both, but he nodded, pocketing the ring into his Oxford jacket. His voice is soft. “Thank you. For more than you’ll ever know.” She pulls back then. It was supposed to be simple. Sell a ring, get a check, go back to school. But life was never simple, apparently.
Ceara, had given away the only ticket to finishing her education. Now, having tears in her eyes for another reason entirely, she turns, scooting herself out of the booth seat to straighten her jacket. She coughs, and puts her hands in her pocket anxiously. “I must get back. I’ve been here longer than I planned. My flatmates will have the dogs out looking for me if I don’t show up soon.” Warrick wordlessly gets out of the booth also, and puts his hand in his pocket, twiddling the ring just as she had done earlier in the day. He coughed. “So, I guess I’ll see you around?”
“Not likely. But it was nice to meet you… and hear about your family. I’m sorry about the ring. I’m...I’m sorry about a lot of things.” She looked up at him then. Warrick’s blue gaze captured her amber one, and they stared at each other a good long minute before Ceara ripped away. Opening the door, she quickly walked outside with a quick <i>goodbye</i> as fast as the door shut. Warrick moved to a window, and saw her get into a bright red Mini Cooper and zoom almost recklessly out of the parking lot and down the road.
<center><div id="youcanrunfree">ceara</div><div style="font-size: 5pt; font-family: helvetica, arial, verdana; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 1px; text-shadow: -1px -1px black, -1px -1px black;">offspring x reagan, smoke healing & fire negation</center></div></div></center>
Element 1: A stolen ring.
Element 2: Whisky.
Element 3: A box of matches.
WC, just under 2500 words.
Ceara sat alone in a pub, playing with something in her hands. It was busy work, but her amber eyes stayed focused, trained on the small object in front of her, entwined between her delicate fingers. Sighing, she puts it on - a massive diamond ring. She holds it out before her, turning her hand ever so slightly to examine the near-perfect stone.
Ceara checked her surroundings to make sure she was not attracting any unwanted attention, and slipped the diamond off her hand and into the pocket of her jacket. She then turns her attention to the pint sitting before her. Grasping it, she tilts back the glass bottle, tasting of black cherry. There was nothing like the feel-good drag of fruit-flavored liquor, and she could not get the likes of this back in America.
Ceara put the bottle back on the bar top, looking around from her place in the corner. She hoped he got here soon. She needed to be out of here and on her way.
She put her hand back in her pocket and fingered the ring once more. She needed to get rid of this, get paid, and get back. Ceara let go of the ring and wrapped her hands pensively around the bottle, squeezing it.
She was tense.
“Hey, can I get a double shot of Dewar’s, on the rocks? Cheers.”
The man's voice was as hard as it was kind, and his hands were exposed as he leaned against the bar top. Those hands were the first thing Ceara noticed about him in the pub’s dim lighting. When ran his fingers through thick brown hair, she knew it was him. She swallowed the last dregs of her alcohol, and got up from her seat.
Ceara approached the man nervously, noting the broad cut of his shoulders, and the blue of his eyes as he studied the mirrored wall at the back of the bar. Ceara swallowed, and then gave a polite cough to signal her existence. The look he gave her when he turned was not at all the cordiality he had shown to the pubmaster. He looked guarded. “Can I help you?”
She nodded, obviously nervous, and cleared her throat to speak. The barkeep interrupted, and Ceara exhaled, grateful for the momentary distraction. “More whisky, Sir?” The man nodded, waving his hand in the air to signal ‘when’. Another sip, and he turns his attention back to Ceara. “So, you must be her, then? Let's take a look.”
Ceara was released from her reverie and brought back to the present. Her hands dig in her pocket, and fish out the ring that lay protected within. She inspects it, before holding it out to the man in front of her. Immediately, his face softens, and he takes it in his hands and inspects the ring (and the diamond) from every angle, admiring the craftsmanship. Then, he pulled a jeweller’s glass out of the pocket of his trousers, inspecting the stone. The diamond itself was a large solitaire, cut with so many facets that it glittered in the faintest of light. The color was a brilliant white,and carried an almost opalescent quality to it. It was oval-shaped, and surrounded by the busts of two large prancing stags, set in place by the antlers that acted as prongs, wrapping around into the circle of the ring itself. A moderately humble piece, but there was something about the diamond that was unique, and for Ceara, a pre-law student studying at the University of Devon, her great grandmother's heirloom said only one thing.
Tuition.
Ceara went back to shuffling and playing with her hair while the man inspected the ring, going over it with a fine toothed comb. “So, you say this was your great grandmother's ring...uh..”
“Ceara.. m-my name is Ceara. Ceara Smythe, ” she stuttered. Ceara’s voice quavered, and she was visibly nervous as she looked at him, and the way he seemed to be absorbed so deeply into the luster of the trinket in front of him. “You know, I have to get back to class eventually and…” she stops, closing her mouth, her eyebrows knitting together. The man waved his hand in the air as he had done with the whisky, pays her no mind as he finishes his inspection. Ceara huffed, placing a hand on her hip. “Look, I don’t know who you think you are, but you can’t just…”
“Warrick,” He interrupted, passing her back the ring. “Warrick Cavendish.”
“Okay, <i>Warrick Cavendish.</i> I came to you because the shopkeeper said you might be able to give me a deal on this ring, and I <i>really</i> need the money. But just because I am an American university student does <i>not</i> give you the right to think you’re better than me. You can’t just hush someone up like that and expect them to obey you.” Ceara quiets her voice, noting the quiet and all eyes are on her.
“As a matter of fact, I can,” Warrick says. His bright blue eyes bore into her amber gaze at her, not unkindly, but sternly. “I own this <i>bar</i> as you American ladies call it.” His voice is quiet, pushing off the bar top and coming to stand at full height. Slowly, activity resumes with people continuing with their meals or drinks, and conversation resumes, though much quieter than it had been. Warrick held out his hand. “Might I formally introduce myself. Warrick Cavendish, 17th Duke of Devonshire. And you, Miss Ceara Smythe, are in possession of a very precious diamond.”
Ceara was struck dumb as she shook his hand. The man in front of her was a Duke, and apparently all the people in the pub knew it. Ceara dropped his hand--embarrassed, she slips the ring back into her pocket. Warrick steps towards her, motioning her to a booth in the back, signalling for two pints of pale ale. “Let’s go back here and talk, shall we? We have a great many things to discuss.” He chuckles airly and she finds she is silent as she follows him.
Ceara slides into the booth seat, the bartender right behind them, placing their pints on the table and walking away. Warrick checked his phone, sent a quick message, put it on silent, sliding it back into his pocket. “You have my full and undivided attention,” he says, folding his hands on the table.
Ceara sets the ring on the table between them. “This was my great-grandmother’s ring. She wore it for 54 years before she died and gave it to my father. When he married my mother, it became hers. But after he died…” Ceara’s voice choked, her mind to her father, and how much she missed him. “...it came to me. I have no use for it. I need the money… for school. A shopkeeper gave me a number to call. Which eventually led to you.” She stretched and turned in her seat, crossing one leg over the other. “I don’t know much about it, or how my great-grandfather found it.” She stared him down with her amber eyes, but he was not looking at her. All his focus was on that small object on the table.
Without asking Warrick reached out for the ring, and picked it up. And he began to speak.
“In 1939, a young American girl fell in love with a wealthy British aristocrat. He was the Marquess of Hardington, and her father was the American ambassador to London. They met at a country house party, and it was love at first sight. She was bright, vivacious, and plucky. All the things that local British girls are not. She flowed easily between the classes, and fit herself in Society as if she had been born to it. She was even so brass as to talk about things that were considered too passe for the time. But she could get away with it, because she was wealthy, entitled, and American. Everyone loved her, except the boy’s parents.
“Her name was Kick Cordwell, and his name was William Cavendish. He was the heir apparent to the Duchy of Devonshire. A socialite, his father had great plans for him in the House of Lords. As a Protestant, he was expected to inherit the title and all the land holdings. Kick’s family were staunch Catholics, and in America were very influential in political circles. Their families opposed the match, and though the two were desperately in love, they had to keep their relationship a secret. The lengths they went through to be able to be together, how many times Kick begged her father…” Warrick stopped, his impassioned voice quieting down as he regained his composure.
“He wouldn’t relent. The rift between the Catholics and Protestants goes far deeper in this country than any other. Kick’s brothers would become Presidents and Senators, and there was no way his daughter was going to marry a Protestant whelp from England. William’s parents said much the same of Kick’s family. He had a Plan, his life was already mapped before him, and a Catholic did not fit in that picture. So when World War Two broke out, it was a great relief to Kick and William’s parents. Mr. Cordwell took his wife, Kick, and her siblings back home to America. William entered as a Sergeant Major in the Army, and went to war.
“For five years, they were separated. Letters were scarce, and while the families held out hope that Kick and William would grow apart, they did not. They held on to those letters, and kept them close. Each one was read over and over again until the fold lines were worn through, until the ink was wet with tears. They fell more in love with those letters. Not less. It was, in one of those letters, that William asked Kick to marry him, and much to the Chagrin of their parents, she said yes. The letter took too months to get to him.
“In 1944, when the Allies had finally begun making headway on the European mainland, it was safe enough for the Cordwells to go back to England. Kick and William were married in a private ceremony on the fourth of May. This,” The duke paused, emotion in his breath was heavy, and he motioned the ring to Ceara’s attention. She looked down, captivated by the story he was telling her. “This was her wedding ring. It was taken from a center stone that was originally set in the Duchess’ tiara. Held up by prancing stags, the animal that supports the Cavendish coat of arms. It was the only diamond of its kind. The Duchess treasured it, just as she soon came to treasure her new daughter in law.
“In June, William went back to the war, leaving a young bride behind. In September… word came that William had been killed in action in France. Kick was devastated. She had been married a four short months before her best friend and lover had been taken from her forever. But she did not go home to America. England had become her home, and where her husband had lived. She wore this ring every day until the day she died. Which, tragically, was 4 years later. She died in a plane crash over french airspace. The rubble from the attack was less than 4 miles away from where her husband’s body had been found, and the ring was never recovered. Until today.”
Warrick’s voice got quiet, his hand resting on the table. They had been talking for hours - long enough for the light in the oil lamp to go out. He called the pubmaster over for more oil and a box of matches, and within minutes, the light was back on again, this time burning more brightly than it had before. The ring looked almost ethereal with the way it glowed. Ceara’s gaze was heavy on the heirloom, tears forming in her eyes at the vast history that it carried. “Am I to assume that you are their grandson, then, from a child that William Cavendish never got to know?” Ceara was quiet, her eyes trained on his handsome face.
“No.” He dragged out a sigh, his emotions heavy. “They never had any children. Kick had been pregnant when she found out about William’s death. She was so grief-stricken that she miscarried not long afterward. Willam’s younger brother Arthur took the title after their father passed.”
Ceara looked at Warrick then. She sighed heavily, and, looking down, pushing the ring in his direction. “Take it,” she said, her voice shaky.
Warrick sat back in his seat, really looking at Ceara for the first time. His blue eyes hardened for a minute in thought, and then softened again. “What about University?” Warrick’s concerned voice was quiet, and he reached for the ring almost at the same time that Ceara did. They bumped hands, and Ceara held his for moment, sighed, and put the ring in his grip, squeezed, and let go.
“I will figure out something. Another scholarship, a job.” Ceara’s eyes moistened again; one lone tear trailed down her cheek, highlighted by the glow of the oil lamp that sat on their table. “But I cannot sell something that was never rightfully mine in the first place. So please. Take it.”
Warrick’s hand covered Ceara’s. His tender touch surprised them both, but he nodded, pocketing the ring into his Oxford jacket. His voice is soft. “Thank you. For more than you’ll ever know.” She pulls back then. It was supposed to be simple. Sell a ring, get a check, go back to school. But life was never simple, apparently.
Ceara, had given away the only ticket to finishing her education. Now, having tears in her eyes for another reason entirely, she turns, scooting herself out of the booth seat to straighten her jacket. She coughs, and puts her hands in her pocket anxiously. “I must get back. I’ve been here longer than I planned. My flatmates will have the dogs out looking for me if I don’t show up soon.” Warrick wordlessly gets out of the booth also, and puts his hand in his pocket, twiddling the ring just as she had done earlier in the day. He coughed. “So, I guess I’ll see you around?”
“Not likely. But it was nice to meet you… and hear about your family. I’m sorry about the ring. I’m...I’m sorry about a lot of things.” She looked up at him then. Warrick’s blue gaze captured her amber one, and they stared at each other a good long minute before Ceara ripped away. Opening the door, she quickly walked outside with a quick <i>goodbye</i> as fast as the door shut. Warrick moved to a window, and saw her get into a bright red Mini Cooper and zoom almost recklessly out of the parking lot and down the road.
<center><div id="youcanrunfree">ceara</div><div style="font-size: 5pt; font-family: helvetica, arial, verdana; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 1px; text-shadow: -1px -1px black, -1px -1px black;">offspring x reagan, smoke healing & fire negation</center></div></div></center>
Element 1: A stolen ring.
Element 2: Whisky.
Element 3: A box of matches.
WC, just under 2500 words.