gclen-blog

[gclen-blog]

diemhynson:

Diem was overwhelmed by the sights. She was in a hallway when the explosion went off, so to finally walk into the gathering hall where the explosion originated from was a shock. She didn’t realize how bad it was in there. She came in contact with debris and chaos in the hallway, but that was a walk in the park compared to the room she found herself in. Diem knew she ought to just go to the bunker like everyone else. She knew it would be wise to stay clear of the source of the explosion in case that wasn’t the last bomb in the area, but she needed to find Melody. Part of the reason why she came to the event in the first place was to be there for her friend and she’d be damned if she didn’t know for sure her friend was safe.

But she didn’t realize how much wreckage the room sustained. She walked in there and was just overwhelmed by the heavy paintings of silver and red that resided around the area. She didn’t expect to see so many mourning families still in the war zone and not down in the bunker. It made sense that they were reluctant to leave— it just was something Diem didn’t expect. 

She stumbled forward blindly, not even knowing where to start looking for her friend or if she was ever still in here. She would’ve checked the bunker first but Diem didn’t know if they would let her out once she got in there and she wasn’t going to be at rest unless she know everyone she cared about was fine. She had a list in her mind of people to make sure are alive and well– Melody and Isla being the most prominent figures on the list. 

Diem was glancing around warily when she ran into Galen. Galen— another person she was glad to see alive. She grew fond of the stable boy, even if she doesn’t see him often due to their jobs. Working in town made it harder for her to see the people she cared about that worked on the palace grounds. She looked him over, mouth agape when she noticed all of the blood on his body.

“Are you okay?”

“It’s not my blood.”

The words slipped from him, as if they were the answer to every question he’d ever asked, as if they were the only words he knew. Perhaps they made it worse; Galen would much rather have been the one to bleed out upon the stones, to be torn by the spine and left at the mercy of healers who knew as little of Jack’s condition as she did. He was alive - that was a divine mercy in itself; but as he had gone unscathed, so many others had not - so many others who deserved to suffer less than anyone in the world. Galen looked down to his hands as Diem approached, feeling the warmth of relief tugging at his stomach; at the very least, she was here, she was standing; he’d neglected to care for all the others for whom he cared so deeply, for the horror of Jack’s condition had consumed him. Had Diem fallen prey to the chaos about them, he might never have forgiven himself. 

“I’m not hurt,” he nodded at her question, taking a cursory step toward her, “Are you? Are you alright?” Galen felt entirely useless in this time of crisis; it was as if his good sense had ceased to function, and frantic worry had taken its place. Though his fingers were dried with blood - Jack’s blood; this would never cease to shake him - he reached forth to touch her cheek, as if the simple brush of finger on skin would assure him that she would survive the day in peace. His girls - they all need survive the day, come out of it in one piece, for each played a crucial role in his life, in the landscape of his heart that without them he would surely fall off balance. 

“Let me get you out of here,” with a cursory glance over his shoulder, a shudder at the sight of the hall, crumbled and dusty and threatening to fall atop them at any moment, Galen held out his hand, bloodied palms up, “I’m so glad to have found you - but we can’t stay here. We’ll do more good in the bunkers.” And he could breathe more easily when Diem’s delicate head did not rest upon the fate of the crumbling stone and marble overhead; with clear sky above and sturdy walls around, he could breathe. 

#c: diem #d: march 19

[gclen-blog]

ofsilentbeauty:

        What was her life without her mother? Surely, it did not exist.

        The majority of Leira’s memories, especially those from her early childhood, involved her mother. They all rushed to her conscious, rather than the subconscious they normally remained bury in. Images of her mother teaching her to tame red tresses and the lesson to let the Red servants do the work they were hired to do but how to fix it if even a strand of hair was out of place fought to the forefront of her mind. She remembered countless lessons in manners and proper etiquette. More importantly, she remembered the lecture she received after falling out of a tree when she was eight. ( Lady Osanos caressed the young girl’s face, “It is not a lady’s place to climb trees, Leira. ) Lady Osanos seemed to take up more space in Leira’s life than Leira herself. With every problem, other than the speeding of her heart around Lei, she went to her mother. Pleas for advice left light pink lips and the requested advice left mauve painted lips. Rather than speak of boys, the mother-daughter duo spoke of potential suitors over tea or plan Leira’s future wedding, nearly every detail scribed onto paper and tucked away. When times were less serious, they played card games left over from a time long ago. At times, Lady Osanos would shoo away the servants and carefully apply Leira’s makeup for the day and with each stroke she told Leira exactly how to do it herself.

        No, Leira did not have a life without her mother.

        Pain did not seem like a strong enough word to describe the lacking that consumed her entire heart. Sorrow inched closer to describing the sensation of not enough that buried itself in her heart. Perhaps desolation was the word that came closest to describing her grief. Yes, desolation. It clawed at a barely beating silver heart and pushed it further into dysfunction. Another sob escaped her lips. Her cries matched the slow rhythm of her heart.

        When the blanket was placed on her shoulders, she startled. However, soon, she gripped the edges of the blanket and pulled it tighter around herself. She looked up, briefly seeing the man’s face, before once again burying her face in her knees. She was not to be seen in the pitiful state she was in, especially not her face. “ Thank you for the blanket. ” At the mention of her brother, she looked up again, “ You would help me find him ? ” Green eyes, desperation clouding them, stared at the man. “ Thank you. Thank you. ”

        One of her hands letting go of the blanket, she pushed herself up off the floor. However, once she stood, her knees wobbled and she leaned against the wall. Walking. It was supposed to be easy. Left foot. Right foot. However, as she leaned against the wall, the grief of losing her mother still heavy in her being, she wondered if one could simply forget to walk.

He’d been lucky enough to keep his family in close comfort, to watch them grow and flourish with little thought of death or loss; even if they’d danced near death’s door, Galen had never entertained the idea of losing them - any of them. His sisters, his father, his mother; the loss of a mother was an immeasurable one, something he could not fathom. Galen had never thought to wonder what such a loss might look like upon a human face, and yet here it was - plain as day, easy to read upon pale features as neatly scrawled print. This was what visceral loss looked like. He’d never thought he would see anything of that color upon a Silver face. 

With careful hands, he pulled the blanket more firmly about her shoulder, aiding her own trembling fingers as they sought the warmth it provided. Loss was the great equalizer, it seemed; it hardly occurred to him that the blood on his shirt was red, and the fading spots upon her porcelain skin were Silver. 

Silver - and not hers. 

Galen regarded her with pure sadness upon his face; he could hardly find it in himself to look away, for if he did so he imagined she might shrivel beneath the blanket and never rise again. She was so young, so small; she did not deserve to be here alone in the wake of such a loss. She needed family - family healed wounds that only time could completely close. Though he was in no way beholden to her, Galen knew that abandoning the Lady Osanos was not an option. She needed help - she needed him. For a moment, he considered apologizing, as if this all was somehow his fault; what was one to say at a time like this? There was no controlling the chaos that befell them, and there was no retribution strong enough to mend the rift it left behind - and for that he was sorry. But the apology that the universe owed to her was stuck in his throat; instead, he simply nodded at her question swallowing thickly, for silence was perhaps the best answer.

She stood, then, and immediately crumpled, as he feared she would. The blanket began to slip from her shoulders, legs refusing to cooperate, to propel her forward as she so desired. Galen leaped forward without a second thought, hands that once were so wary to touch skin that bled a different hue looping about her back, beneath her arm to hold her upright. “I’m sorry -” the apology, for the loss, for touching her without permission, slipped from him, but he did not deign to let go. Galen took a stilling breath; he’d found his voice - it would befit him to use it. “Let me help you,” he muttered, tone akin to the one he’d use when his sisters were too tired to find their own way to bed; with free hand, the other keeping a firm grip about her torso to keep her upright, Galen tugged the blanket over her shoulders once more, “Can you walk? We will find your brother - I promise. He can’t be far.”

#c: leira #d: march 19

[gclen-blog]

melodywalsh:

If, by chance, the world erupted, and the sky began to darken and the air turned to ash, then the people should duck and run for cover. They should look for their own and hold their hands over their heads; they should search for an exit to save their own skins. But Melody could not find it in her to run; could hardly remember to breathe, much less move. She stood frozen in place, hardly noticing when people brushed past her and collided into the kitchen girl who no longer knew what to do.

Sometimes, anxiety came in hiccups and blinding panic; sometimes, it paralyzed you and turned your thoughts to dust, plucked every last bit of sanity from your head and left a black hole of terror.

The motion of someone tumbling clumsily drew her attention; hadn’t she been in the same position countless times? Her hands prepared to soothe and cover and help them to their feet. But before she recognized him (usually an easy endeavor, what with the romantic curls of his hair and the tenderness of his eyes, the soft perpetual smile on his lips), Melody saw the red. The scarlet that stained a boy who she hoped would never be stained — “Galen,” she all but whispered with horror, “Galen, what happened to you?”

The hiccuping began when Melody realized he could very well be hurt. “Galen, Galen,” she said pleadingly, begging the gods for his life. He had become something close to family; he had reminded her of Nate and Concord in one, and she had clung to him for it. But this was her nightmare: her family in danger, Galen wounded. Trembling fingers gripped onto his forearm as Melody rushed towards him. Something was ripping apart in her throat, and it showed in the way her words came out strangled and afraid. “Are you hurt? Is this blood yours?”

The relief at seeing her was something akin to being trampled by an enormous wave; it rolled over him, drowning him in a moment of breathless numbness as he turned, eyes wide and glassy upon her frantic face. She was alive - this was his first concern, the first wave-break to shake him, to still him amidst the chaos that surrounded him. He felt his hands rise to reach for her, but as his sights caught the drying crimson upon his palms, he stopped. His hands hung lamely before him, feet propelling him forward against his own volition; this was family that stood before him - and as he had seen so many families fracture before his very eyes, in the short blink of an uncontrollable moment, he was incomparably happy to see her here. 

“Not my blood,” his voice was a near-gasp; ash and panic mingled to form a block at the back of his throat. Galen felt a tremble take his spine in another breaking wave as gentle hands took hold of his arm - regret was swift to follow; regret that he’d not known of Melody’s whereabouts until now. Had he found her blood upon his hands along with Jack’s, he might never have forgiven himself. Had Galen found his Melody in anything less than perfect condition (as perfect as one could be at the eye of an ashen hurricane) he’d surely crumble alongside the towering prosceniums that fell along the length of the hall. 

He could no longer restrain himself, no longer worry for getting Jack’s blood on her porcelain skin; Galen pulled her against his seat-damp chest, chin atop her head and bloodied hands clutching at her back, her shoulders, her cheeks, her hair. “I’m alright,” he nodded, ruffling her hair, barely-audible breath nearly muted by the rumble around them, though he had no doubt she could hear, “I’m okay -” he thought of the Silver, then, and considered his answer a half-truth, “- but Jack -” he looked down to her, then, stalwart eyes colored helpless, “- something happened.” 

A precarious patch of broken stone overhead gave a great rumble, and strong arms instinctively wrapped round Melody’s shoulders once more, uncertainty and wandering intent turning immediately to protection. His eyes darted upward, then back down to the surrogate sister he’d claimed as his own; “Were you hurt?” he demanded, tone vehement through the choke at the back of his throat (and guilt, suddenly, that he’d bloodied her blouse), “Are you alright?”

#c: melody #d: march 19 #A MILLION YEARS LATER

[gclen-blog]

#[ visage. ] #silver au orrr

[gclen-blog]

march 19 palace gathering hall OPEN

He moved blindly, a force of crimson nature, dripping evidence of Jack’s pain and his own horror - Galen knew that he was useless if not helping, if not pulling indiscriminate bodies from the rubble, from the smoke. He cared not what color blood they bore; he knew of few who deserved to be buried beneath the chaos of this explosion, and so when Jack was safe, when Jack was still - though he had never seen such blood come from such a small body - he returned to the fray, if only to offer his hands in help. He longed so desperately to station himself at her side, to put her head in his lap and wait until she could be fixed (but was it something that warranted fixing?) but he knew - were it his own family in the hall, horrified and alone, he would want someone to go back for them as well. 

Galen was a picture of gore and horror as he stood at the mouth of the chaos, on the fringes; the flesh of his arms and hands were colored crimson, his shirt dripped remnants of Jack - the crimson heat within his own veins pulsed maddeningly as he stood stock still, eyes wild and ranging for someone anyone to help. 

But he could not help but wonder - would they shy away at the sight of such red, too?

Shaking the thought from his mind - now was not the time to dwell; in the stillness of night, he could feel the disturbance beneath his skin - he stepped forth, chest heaving with belabored breaths. He could hardly see; smoke and ash blurred his vision, clouded his keen eyes. But he listened, hands outstretched to feel for any and all who might need to be pulled to safety - the moment a helpless voice reached him, he would spring to action, and he would take them to safety. 

To Jack. Jack, Jack, Jack. 

He stepped forth, and as his foot caught a broken piece of cement, he nearly toppled forth, stumbling further and further into the fray; he could have sworn he touched a motionless body as he passed - surely it was his own horror coming to him in manifestation. Overwhelmed, he stood, frozen - how was he to help if he himself was horrified into stillness by what he saw?

#ofsilverstarter #d: march 19 #let my son help u!!! #will probably post a starter for the second time stamp later too

[gclen-blog]

ofsilentbeauty:

date / march 19th

location / bunkers 

status / open

        Lungs were supposed to provide oxygen for the heart to pump it throughout the rest of the body. Blood passed through the alveoli and picked up oxygen while it did so. Then veins carried that oxygen back to the heart, where it was then pumped throughout the rest of the body. However, when lungs refused to work, the entire process slowed until the heart eventually ceased to beat. Still covered in her mother’s blood, Leira certainly couldn’t breathe and the few breaths that escaped lips once exquisitely coated in light pink lipstick came out labored and let little oxygen into her system.

        Despite the acute lack of her lungs working, she knew that her recent tragedy had not caused her ducts to cease function in any way. Tears fell freely down her face, mingling with makeup, silver blood and general grime. Skin that was rarely seen without makeup, now looked bare with only silver blood. tears and smeared makeup. In nearly any other situation, she would have stood up straight and demanded to be allowed to change, to fix her makeup, to look like the image of perfection that her mother worked hard to make sure she fostered.

        Although, no one seemed to pay much attention to little girl sobbing with her knees pulled to her chest and her back pressed against a wall. No, here, under the castle, surrounded by those who felt the same pain and loss that she did, she was simply another face. A bitter laugh escaped her lips, her mother would have rioted at the thought of her perfect daughter being fractured to imperfection because of her death. A stronger girl, a more perfect girl, would have pulled herself together and wiped her tears. With that thought, another round of sobs overtook the girl.

        Voice harsh from sobs and screams, she spoke for the first time since she begged her mother not to leave her, “ Has anyone seen my brother ? ” Name. she should say his name, in case anyone didn’t realize who she was, who her brother was. “ Emory. Has anyone ever seen him ? Please tell me he’s okay. ” She left him with their mother’s body, alone, the thought of being near her mother’s corpse anymore made her stomach threaten to revolt.

It was one thing to be separated from a parent for any given amount of time, but it was an entirely different beast to lose one entirely. Galen had been lucky enough to go his entire life with two parents of relative health, and had not given much thought to either of their demises; it never seemed possible, that they could be pulled from this world so quickly, that they would leave him and leave his sisters behind. But the attack had been a stirring reminder that no one was safe, that anyone could be pulled from life at any moment, that loss was the great equalizer. 

It was almost a gross mockery of her pain; Galen looked upon Leira Osanos and saw nothing but Silver. He’d seen what had happened, in the midst of the chaos - he’d seen the moment the lady Silver had lost her mother, and had felt nothing but pity. Any fear, any resentment that may have lived housed between his ribs at the sight of Jack’s misery and the nameless Silver’s reaction had been pushed firmly to the back of his mind, for that was real pain. He oft wondered if Silvers understood the concept of real pain, if they knew what it meant - it was at the sight of her face now, in the bunkers with the rest of the rabble, that he knew she’d been underestimated. Everyone had a capacity for suffering; perhaps some just hid it better than others. 

He pulled the blanket, discarded, as it had been speckled with crimson, from the table beside him and took a hesitant step, flinching at the emergence of the next wave of sobs. Galen knew the family, thankfully, and knew their faces - perhaps he could be of some assistance. “Lady Osanos,” he spoke as he stepped to her side, blanket hesitantly outstretched - it took a moment of pregnant pause to muster the courage to settle it delicately upon her shaking shoulders; his stomach churned with uncertainty (’... all that Red blood ...’) as he stood stalwart beside her, but now was not the time to abandon someone in need, no matter their color. “I’ll help you find him, if you’ll let me. I’m sure he’s here somewhere.”

#c: leira #d: march 19 #hope it's ok that i jumped on this???

[gclen-blog]

ladycalistaeagrie:

DATE: March 19th LOCATION: Palace Gathering Hall  OPEN

               The decent into hell is easy, it’s what her father had always uttered over the dinner table, entwined with the demands and rants of a man hungry on his own pursuit for power and wealth. Screams were forced from her chest, yet remained lodged in her throat., tears springing to her eyes in horror. It was a catastrophic event, devastation rocking the glittering room. Her mind was dizzied, and for the first time since the attack, Calista forced her eyes open. Silver poured from cuts which littered her skin, yet she could not see the impact to her body, or the horror which had ensued. 

               She was caught, stuck between the living and the threshold of something otherworldly, the event had acted in repeat for her, over and over, mind circling around the same trigger point. Her fingers grasped for something, an uprising of coughs and she seemed to intake a plume of smoke with every breath. Her eyes stung, an abyss of darkness surrounding her, and in all her life she’d never felt so vulnerable. 

               Tears slipped down the curvature of her features, her arms flailing desperately. Every ounce of her swan-like elegance slipped away, and perhaps to others she appeared maddened, although they were likely wrapped up in their own injuries. She caught her hand on a sharp edge, wincing from the pain as she used it to hoist her body up, only to stumble once more over a protruding object. “Help!” she cried, pressing her hands to her eyes. “I–I cannot see.”

He was covered in blood - crimson, warm, Jack’s. Getting her to safety had filled him with a vehemence and a panic that he’d not expected to feel, that he’d felt only once before when his youngest sister had fallen from a tree and broken her leg. It occurred to him, as he stumbled back toward the hall, hands held sparingly from the side of his body (though her blood was on his shirt, on his trousers - he’d never thought he’d see that much of her blood), that he’d never felt horror like this, that he’d never been exhilarated by fear in such a way before. Galen could hardly keep silent, hardly keep still - he needed to help, needed to do anything but follow Jack into the bunker, where hysteria would surely rise to choke him at this sight of her. 

It was here, at the mouth of the maw, that he came across a familiar face, a familiar slender form who surely would, under different circumstances, jumped at the chance to be away from all the red that covered him (for the Silver in the hall had showed her true colors - why not Lady Eagrie?). But she looked so helpless, arms wild and eyes unseeing. He stumbled forth, haste marring caution; silver blood spilled from her hand - perhaps she’d not feel what covered his own. 

“Lady Eagrie,” he called as he approached, voice a commanding boom which he’d not quite known he possessed - perhaps it was the adrenaline (perhaps it was the truth); hands held out, as if comforting an animal gone wild and spurred by fear, he came to her side, daring without permission to touch her arm with the firmest of reassurances, to hold her steady, “Let me help you. You’re bleeding, my lady - let me help you to safety.” An obvious, redundant observation; surely she knew she was bleeding. But could she feel the abundance of red on his own skin? Did she even know who it was that had taken hold of her arm to hold her up - and did she care? 

(They’re getting that Red blood all over the floors.) Did she think the same?

#c: calista #d: march 19 #i hope this is ok???

[gclen-blog]

kassiopeanolle:

Granted, she was sad that her horse was tired by the time she returned, but she couldn’t ride any other way. She tried to make up for it by visiting at least one other time a week just with treats and not pushing the horse past his one day, but still, couldn’t have been easy. Though, she was sure with Galen’s care of the horses, if she were harming them seriously in anyway, he wouldn’t hesitate to let her know.

“That’s what makes this the best show in Norta.” She grinned, punching his shoulder lightly as she passed.

A delighted look crossed her face at the look on his face. “You know I don’t mind if you flirt back every so often. Makes me think I’m charming.” She joked lightly. After all, in the castle she had plenty of people flirting with her. If he didn’t choose to exert himself, it wouldn’t be any skin off her nose. “You have to stop calling me ma’am, either I blush or I feel like I’m a hundred years old.” Today it would be the latter, fortunately. “I never plan on tiring him out, mind you. But I’m not going to ride any differently than last week, and if he’s still not built up his endurance or stamina, well…”

She watched him before taking his place and tightening a few of her own straps with a firm hand and a strong arm. Then, she backed away and looked to him for approval. “I’d love to look as muddy as you do. Seems like you had fun…” A thought occurred to her, and she smiled as she reached up and mounted the horse with neither block nor help. “Why don’t you come with me? Everyone’s still reeling from the news… I doubt they’d be out here to leisure ride. And I’d really love the company.”

He offered her a slight glance as she passed, instinctively letting his shoulder cave at her playful punch; Galen was entirely unused to being flirted with, though he certainly should have been used to it by now. It was quite difficult to navigate when he could respond - but flirting with a Silver seemed like nothing more than a death wish and a sure place at the very edge of the chopping block. It was a dangerous balance; he certainly couldn’t ignore her. 

And so with his eyes still upon the straps between his worn fingers, the vast majority of his effort placed upon tightening and clasping, and not his misguided attempts at being charming to a Silver, he forced a chuckle: “I’m sure you have plenty of other men reaffirming your charm - you certainly don’t need me to do it.” He could only imagine in what low regard she held his opinion anyway - the cynical corner of his mind nagged at him as he spoke, but he was persistent in ignoring it. 

He stepped back as she took to tugging at the straps; Galen was glad to let her do it, for he figured she should know to do it on her own anyway - not all the Silvers could rely on his expertise forever. Calloused fingers rubbed at his dirtied palms, rubbing crackling streaks of mud from his skin. No matter how much time she spent down at the stables, he never could quite read her. And perhaps it was for the best - it wasn’t as if they could be friends. 

At her question, her suggestion, however, he blanched. Surely this was a trap; some elaborate ruse to get him into trouble. It was a tempting one - he’d not been on a ride in days; even if the company at hand was questionable, it was a prospect nearly too sweet to pass up. Absently, with obvious longing behind his eyes, he glanced down the aisle to where his usual horse stood, with lumbering head hanging over the stall door, obviously raring to stretch his legs. “Well...” he began, “I have been meaning to get him out more -” he nodded to his horse, “- I fear the poor thing may go stir-crazy and kick down the door.” He looked back to her, then, with uncertainty on his face. “But, of course, I couldn’t. I’m -” a Red, a servant, “- sure I’d just be in your way. I’d be remiss to neglect my duties here. I couldn’t -” he shook his head; the offer was too tempting for his denial to sound anything resembling convincing - surely she could hear it, too. 

#c: kass #d: march 15 #l: stables #this is a hot mess omg im sorry

[gclen-blog]

                             writing sample one: ‘the last supper’

“Come on, little duck – you know how your mother’ll get if that ribbon’s not right. And if that blouse isn’t tucked.”

“She’s your mother, too, Galen.” A persistent hand swatted away his worrying fingers, tugging at a too-large ribbon which sat perched atop her head, making her almost as tall as he.

He laughed at this, practiced hands tightening the frilled knot atop her head, “Yeah, well she’s your responsibility now. You’re the head of the household now, far as I’m concerned, and – hold still, will you?” Galen’s voice was full of laughter, empty of all the sternness required to keep his sister in line, though she always relented in the end. Playful, as if the impending departure were a figment of some strange shared nightmare, he bent and grabbed her round the waist, tickling at her sides before straightening her skirt and tucking her neatly pressed blouse beneath the hem. In retaliation, she reached up to ruffle his hair – which seemed to be untameable anyway, despite the obvious time he’d spent combing it at his mother’s request.

Once she was in acceptable form, he straightened, adjusting the buttons on his shirt – one reserved for special occasions, though this occasion was not one any of them desired to celebrate – and grinning down at her in a way reserved only for his sisters. Nora and Imogen, Imogen and Nora; the three of them were meant to always be together, to be happy together. Such an occasion was meant to celebrate the dashing of that hope – or perhaps to ease the blow. Nora was old enough to understand; even as she stood before him, tugging at the bow their mother had imposed upon her hair, he could see that the slump of her lazy shoulders was of a different angle, as if she were coiled to run and ready to crumble all in the same breath. He only wished he had more time – time to tell her it would be alright, time to assure her that she and Imogen would be safe here, even without their brother around to chase the monsters from beneath their bunk bed with the broom in the cupboard. Had he only a moment more to spare, he would look her in the eye and tell her the truth – but to tell her the truth would be to admit that he was just as scared as she, and big brothers weren’t meant to be scared.

And that was a role he’d never stop yearning to play.

“Ready for dinner?” he held out a hand, wiggling his fingers as an invitation for hers to lace between; Galen’s hands had been hard since he was a child, all calloused and rough – large hands, they were. Nora had often observed that he had been given such big hands for her to swing off of. He could not disagree. For a moment, it was all he could think of – little Nora swinging from his hand and little Imogen clinging to his back for dear life, though he’d never let her fall. His eyes were misty as he thought of it, mouth somewhat ajar and free hand hanging limp at his side. Nora’s small hand in his woke him from his state – a state which he’d found himself in more often than not of late, a wistful defense against the separation yet to come.

Nora considered, wrapping her petite fingers around his, and giving a familiar scar a good rub. “Do you think,” she wondered, looking up to Galen with honest eyes, for she knew that he would give her an honest answer – he almost always did, “that if we’re late, and if you miss the train –“

“They won’t forget about me, little duck,” his voice was a reluctant sigh; Imogen had pitched this idea to him not hours before, likely at Nora’s behest, “Someone’s got to go take care of all those pretty horses – when they don’t get their dinner, someone’s going to realize that their stable boy is being held hostage.” Though the smile did not reach his eyes, he reached down to give the ticklish spot on her side a poke. And through his force smile, he sighed: “But I wish.”

“Me, too,” Nora nodded, skittering away from Galen’s advances with the barest  of laughs; it seemed as if the old tactics would not work today. She opened her mouth to speak again, eyes upon the ground between them, but before she could muster the words, a smaller body hurtled from the door behind them, down the rickety porch steps, to where Galen and Nora stood, nearly taking his leg out from beneath him as petite but firm arms wrapped around his thigh. His mother and father followed, though they remained on the porch, watching as Galen was overtaken. And they remained silent – it went without saying that this was to be how the evening would go.

His mother had made dinner for them all, as a sendoff that they could all swallow with forced joviality and halfhearted smiles. Galen had not been hungry since the moment he knew he’d be leaving; it was the better option, of course, but to pry himself free of the two girls so firmly attached to him would be to tear his heart in two and return him to the palace with the defective half. His free hand, at the feeling of Imogen digging her heels into his toes, clasped at her back, keeping her pressed against his leg so as not to topple off and ruin her pretty dress. A dress saved for nice occasions – they all were clad in celebratory wear tonight; Galen felt quite like ripping his attire to shreds, for it felt like a lie etched into his skin.

Imogen’s voice was muffled, her face buried in Galen’s leg, offering him a view of nothing but a head of hair and a bow similar to Nora’s pressed persistently into his trousers. “I’m not hungry!” she shouted, tightening her grip about Galen’s leg – as Nora tugged relentlessly on his hand. It seemed as if they were determined to knock him over, as if that would convince him that he needed to stay, of broken bone or otherwise.

“Of course you are, Immie,” Galen sighed, weary but ever good-natured, “You’re always hungry. Just a fact of life.” Nora laughed at this, tugging momentarily forgotten – Imogen reacted in kind, head lifted and tongue stuck outward in a display of defiance. It was this that allowed his father enough time to descend the steps and pry her from his leg, adjusting Imogen’s hair bow just as Galen had for Nora.

The lack of her weight upon his leg was one he’d feel for weeks to come – never was there a pain more acute than that of absence. A similar sensation would persist upon his fingers, too, for Nora’s grip was tight. Love hurt, he decided; he did not appreciate the sting. But for his sisters, it was worth the trouble.

He reached up to his mother, who remained on the porch, eyes fit to water and teeth clenched down upon his tongue to keep unbidden tears from falling. “The woman of the hour,” he forced; it was clear that emotion had overtaken him quite suddenly, though he was determined not to show it, “Shall we eat?” The train is coming soon. He had little time to spare; they’d come for him sooner rather than later – he would need to leave them sooner rather than later. His mother followed suit, and down to the wood they walked, to the clunkily built picnic table that Galen and his father had tinkered on during a summer many years ago. It had housed many a Dean family dinner, when they afforded the time to sit and enjoy each other’s company.

Galen was merely thankful that they had the time.

All throughout dinner, he watched Nora and Imogen fidget, tugging at their blouses, their ribbons, pushing food about their plates, for they knew what was coming. And he could do nothing; he was the one leaving them after all. Would he ruin them, by doing what he thought was right? What he knowswill save them?

Later that night, he would find matching ribbons in each pocket – and his mother would never notice that they were missing.

#[ character development. ] #[ drabble. ] #[ family. ] #[ dearest sisters. ] #this is from my app but i wanted it on here ANYWAY #i cry

[gclen-blog]

kassiopeanolle:

Kass went to the stables at least once a week. She loved to ride the fastest stallion possible making fog trail behind her and blanket her trails, thunder rumbling all around from her sheer joy. It was the closest she’d ever get to flying, she knew it. She felt bad, of course. The stable boy, Galen, always got her horse back exhausted and muddy, and she tried to apologize every time. But, let’s be honest, it’s not like Kassiopea Nolle is the type to go for a leisurely trot in the woods. She didn’t know how to walk. Her only commands were canter, gallop, and jump.

That day she came in a tired old riding gown, no cap, with her hair streaming loose and wild around her shoulders, an already feral grin on her face. “I fully intend on not caring about the mess, Galen. C’mon.” She joked, purposefully stepping into the mud and listening to it squelch beneath her boot. “I know plenty of kitchen maids and ladies’ servants who wouldn’t mind if your clothes were always done for.” Her grin was more mischievous than it ought to be, but urge to ride gave it to her. This wasn’t the need for violence that made her volatile and turbulent. No. Her craving to ride was more capricious and playful than that, and it made her more teasing than tyrannical. “God above, am I to be treated to that show every time I come in here? They don’t pay you enough. Would you please help me adjust the straps to my saddle, I never get them quite right on my own.”

A familiar face - and one who was kind enough to wear out the wildest of the horses weekly, all in the name of fun. At first he’d doubted that the Silvers knew the definition of the word, but when the petite Silver (who was smaller than he in stature, but certainly not in might) returned from her weekly rides nearly dragging her mount behind her, Galen figured that this was what her brand of fun looked like. And he was alright with it - most would earn no more than a harsh sideways glance should they return with a ragged animal at the end of their line, but she always seemed to have their best interests at heart - if not the simple intent of wearing the stallion out at any cost. He felt no hint of malice in her treatment of the animals - and so he had no qualms with her insistence upon taking the same horse out every week. 

It certainly made his job easier. 

“The show -” he cleared his throat, looking dumbly down at his damp shirt, “is a mess in itself.”

Galen grimaced at her overt teasing, forcing a laugh for he was at a loss as to what else was appropriate to say in response. Tossing the rag aside and running an absent hand through his wet curls, he turned his attention from his own bedraggled appearance to her request - with which he was more than happy to oblige. “Of course, ma’am,” he offered her a good-natured smile, ignoring the hint of embarrassed blush tinging the tips of his ears; Galen had never been adept at taking compliments. “Planning on tiring him out again today?” he gave the horse a pat on the neck as he hastened to her side, attention upon the saddle, “He’s shaking in his hooves - knows good and well he’s going to work.” With deft fingers, he set to work on the straps upon the saddle, cinching them tight with angled shoulder should she want to see how it was done. 

“Got to make sure they’re good and tight -” he muttered, almost absently, “wouldn’t want you to come back lookin’ as muddy as I.” Galen offered her a haphazard smile, cast over his shoulder as he tightened the straps - making certain she would not slip an inch. 

#c: kass #d: march 15 #l: stables #it's perfect!!!

[gclen-blog]

jacob-riley:

Date: March 14 Location: Halls of Archeon Status: Open

Jacob ran a hand over his temple while trying to simultaneously massage his lower back as he took a rare brake waiting for the laundry to finish. He had taken even more of Sam’s chores than usual yesterday as he knew she’d want to attend the prince’s–or was he king now? Jacob didn’t care–announcement in person. It had left him exhausted and with even less patience than usual as everyone around him, Red and Silver alike, seemed to flit about whispering about the announcement. Jacob didn’t really see how it changed anything. Whoever it was that would rule beside Orion would still be a Silver and somehow he doubted that simply by opening the floor to all genders it made someone who sympathized with the Reds any more likely to take the seat.

He grumbled and shook his head as yet another person started up the conversation again. He didn’t see the point. It was an action only revolutionary to the Silvers and the people so loyal to the hierarchy of their world. Sure he’d heard people say it meant more than just that. That it meant maybe the prince was on their side. That maybe he was going to change things. Jacob didn’t believe it for a second. “It’s a power play,” muttered under his breath but still loud enough for them to hear him. “Enough to get people talking and sway a general opinion in his favor.” He closed his eyes, massaging the back of his neck as he leaned against the wall. “It’s a power play, nothing less, nothing more.”

As was the norm, Galen found himself - in the rare moments that he was afforded a break in his busy daily schedule - in the palace, following Jacob about, apple in hand and ears at the ready. The two of them were more like to talk truths and hard facts than anyone else; Galen was hardly like to speak on the state of the world with anyone but Jacob. He was vocal - Galen was thoughtful. He was opinionated - Galen was agreeable. They thought many of the same thing, had many of the same ideas; Jacob’d particular brand of fire, however, made it much easier for him to speak on it. 

He leaned against the wall, matching Jacob’s disgruntled position, and took a bite of his apple, giving a great heave of a shrug. It was risky to disparage politics within the walls of the castle, he thought - they never knew who was listening - what was listening. “But what if it’s not?” Galen considered aloud, voice muddled by the bite of apple still clenched between his teeth, “Why would he say such a thing if he didn’t intend on doing something with it? Not smart to piss off the people if it’s not for good reason.” He wanted to believe that it was true, that the prince was good for his word, but skepticism colored his words, even now. “Can’t imagine the rest of the Silvers’d take too nicely to being yanked around for nothing.”

#c: jacob #l: archeon #d: march 14

[gclen-blog]

DATE: march 15 LOCATION: the stables AVAILABILITY: open to all

It was the third time that week that the persistent little colt had pulled him into the mud; perhaps he liked to muck about in it himself, or perhaps he simply enjoyed watching his human caretaker sink to his shins in the particular patch of muck that seemed to linger ever close to the water trough in his corral. Of course Galen could not fault the little trickster for seeming so diligent in his quest to keep Galen as muddy as possible; were he in the colt’s position, with a strange man following him about with a rope and a bucket of oats, he would have resorted to crafty methods of escape as well. At present, he grazed happily at the other end of the corral, firmly at his mother’s side, leaving Galen to slump against the water trough, spilled bucket of oats at his side and mud coating his clothes from toe to hip. 

“I guess we’ll try again later,” he sighed, giving the bucket a halfhearted thump with his heel, and watching it roll thickly through the much. There was no malice in his voice; no matter how hard a time the little colt gave him, there was nothing more amusing than the constant battle they seemed to be locked in. The other horses were placing bets, to be sure; and the odds were not in his favor. 

Galen hoisted himself off the ground with a good-natured shake of the head; he had a mighty long list of other chores to complete, which would not land him in a muddy hole as far as he knew, and would be remiss to neglect them in the name of an obstinate colt. The little thing would relent eventually - they always did. With a glance over his shoulder, he slipped through the gate and made his muddy way back toward the stable, which would look no worse for the wear despite the thick layer of mud he sported over his trousers. 

If he were to ‘trip’ and fall into a Silver looking like this.... 

He shook the thought from his mind with a chuckle, wiping a stray droplet of sweat from his brow - only to replace it with a distinct swipe of mud. Once inside the stable, he was quick to realize that his usually quiet afternoon had been broken by a familiar face - and as he still looked quite like an inhabitant of a nearby swamp, and not the faithful stable boy, he could not help but turn a slight shade of red beneath the mud. 

Reaching for the rag he’d left hanging on the hook by the colt’s stall - not nearly enough to clean him entirely, but just enough to wipe the mud from his face - Galen cleared his throat, looking down to the mud he’d tracked into the pristine stable. “I fully intend on cleaning that up,” he clipped, voice muffled by the rag as he scrubbed the mud from his brow, “The clothes, on the other hand... they’re done for.” With a quiet chuckle to himself, he reached over the door and into the water trough upon the wall, wetting the rag and proceeding to give it a firm squeeze over his head, water dripping down upon his head, shoulders, into his shirt. Surely he’d do better to strip entirely - but his modesty was to remain somewhat intact. 

#ofsilverstarter #d: march 15 #l: stables #definitely don't match this length!!! #also @ this gratuitous shirtless gif

[gclen-blog]

His heart was like a sensitive plant, that opens for a moment in the sunshine, but curls up and shrinks into itself at the slightest touch of the finger, or the lightest breath of wind.

Anne Brontë, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (via antigonick)

#[ words. ]

[gclen-blog]

  We would like to formally introduce ELLE to Of Silver Blood as Galen Dean. As you settle into society, please take a moment to look over the checklist that will help you transition into the Kingdom of Norta. You have forty-eight hours to set-up your account and send it into the main. Please let us know if you need an extension as we are more than happy to help our elite!

  Elle, I am not ashamed to say that I cried reading your para sample, but I knew far before that point that I was in love. Galen was a character I suffered over, never sure I got him exactly right – but you did from the first. You knew his flaws better than I did, understood the strength in him when others would call it weakness, and reading this application, I fell for him all over again. More than what made him quiet, you’ve captured what makes him loud – not with words but with actions. This application was as stubborn and true as he is, and your plans for him, your excitement for him, makes me so happy to see him on the dash. Congrats!  — Admin Rogue

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#[ application. ] #[ about. ] #there are so many typos in this app #sky swallow me whole

[gclen-blog]

#[ visage. ]