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mcrmadness · 3 months

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4, 7, 10, 13, 16, 20, 29 and 30 for the artist ask 👀

Thanks!!! That is so many (and I am delighted!) /gen

Also get some snacks or something because this is going to be a long, LONG post :D You know how much I love talking about arts!

4. Fav character/subject that’s a bitch to draw HORSES. They make no sense, the anatomy is fucked up, and they are impossible to draw well!!! I drew them sometimes as a kid, then I started actually practicing drawing them after the age of 11 thanks to the DreamWorks film Spirit: the Stallion of the Cimarron. (Or whatever the fuck it is how the name is written, I never remember the articles correctly!)

It took me years to draw them using references and I think I did reach a point where I could draw the legs semi-well without references, but honestly, I still don't understand the legs. AND I AM A HORSE GROOM. I have been STUDYING horse anatomy for school, I had to study and learn and be able to name the bones and tendons in horses' legs, and I have stared at images and photos of both horse skeletons as well as alive horses, and also photos of horses with a skeleton painted on their fur, and I have been looking at and handling real horses' legs from up close many many times - and I still cannot grasp how on earth the bones between the knee and hoof go when drawing. I don't know what is it, the second I see the skin and fur and hoof there (since there is no muscles from the horse's knee down, only skin and bones and tendons), my brain starts adding there bones and joints that are not there.

Here's my so far newest horse drawings, after over 20 years of practice:

And they are drawn without any references and I'm pretty proud of the legs even tho they're not exactly correct. But I guess I still have it even when I don't draw them that often anymore!

7. A medium of art you don’t work in but appreciate Oil paint and acrylic paint, or painting in general. I have never ever been a painter, but more of liked to work with pencils and markers and just anything that is capable of precise tiny details. As a kid all my drawings used to be so so detailed and tiny that it took me one water colour lesson in middle school to understand that hey, I possibly cannot finish this painting ever if the paper is A3 and I draw there objects that are less than 1cmx1cm in size, and I especially cannot colour them properly with water colour because it's not made for small details at all. I have always struggled with bigger sized artworks, my comics etc. are always quite small, but photorealism is usually on papers sized A4 cos there I then again suck at drawing e.g. faces that are smalled than a hand.

But yeah. Painting, it looks awesome and the paint (especially oil and acrylic, but also guache and in some cases water colour) blend in ways that pencils and markers are not capable of. They are great for landscapes for example, cos abstract brush patterns work great as leaves etc. for trees, but that is something that is difficult to achieve with my tools of choice that work with detailed images better. I did lots of acrylic painting in school and art school, and I never ever liked it because it's so messy and I was probably too young to understand how to work with them properly. I probably should give them a try again one day, because I have slowly been trying out water colours again after learning to hate them at school due to wrong supplies (too thin paper, or a rubbish brush for example), and it's not as bad as I remembered it. Maybe I could view acrylic paint differently too as an adult, and while having the power to choose my topics.

10. Favorite piece of clothing to draw Hmmmm. I'm not a fan of drawing clothes, all the loose fabric is very hard to imagine, but I also don't want to draw characters naked so I'm just gonna draw them clothes XD Back in the day I would have said: shoes. But my current drawings have very boring shoes - except for that one time when I drew Rod with his New Rock flame boots which were so much fun to draw as a New Rock shoes fan! :D It was this one:

But I think my actual favourite to draw is the blue 80s jackets Bela and Farin often wore, they are SO MUCH FUN to draw with markers! And this is why:

Okay in general anything coloured with this blue marker works - but I just LOVE IT how it reacts to the blender marker (lifts off colour very efficiently!) and how you get this texture that actually makes the colour look like the jacket was 3D! (This one is taken from my Richy Guitar comic from 2022.) I don't know why it doesn't work this well with other colours tho.

13. A creator who you admire but whose work isn’t your thing There is this one Japanese... manga? artist whose works I sometimes see on my dash or in videos about art. They are often in black&white, made with ink or something. I really like the technique in those and in a way it resembles it how I sometimes make my b&w marker drawings. All the art I have seen from him looks really neat and the topics are interesting, but it's just that manga/anime style that is not my cup of tea and what causes it that I haven't gotten into his works. I can't even remember his name but it's possible that someone might recognize whom I am talking about if someone else is reading this, that's how popular he is also among the western world.

16. Something you are good at but don’t really have fun doing I am gonna say: photorealistic portraits of people. I have many of them because every time there's been a while since the previous, I start to think about how I wanna draw another one but I have always forgotten about how the drawing process is actually not that enjoyable. It's so restricted. I have to draw a grid or my brain and eye will fuck up the proportions. My brain has temper tantrums even when following the grid because it claims I'm doing it wrong, but in the end the grid was always correct and I just can't SEE the proportions right. I can't improvise pretty much at all because then I will fuck up the proportions again. I need the faces to look like who they are supposed to be, or I will hate myself and feel like I disrespected the person I'm trying to draw. So it's stressful. It's lots of redrawing and erasing until the paper it so worn out the colour is no longer lifting off and there's nothing I can do about it.

The succesful end result always looks neat, but oh so boring. I can recreate a photo with a pencil, so what? It can't get any more boring than that. It's just boasting with "hey look I can copy an image with my hand!" but there's nothing else to it. There is no soul to the drawing. There was no learning going on, unless it was something for the tools or techniques, but no learning about how to draw something specific. It's just redrawing until it looks close enough and lots of blood and tears. People online really like photorealistic drawings because many non-artist people don't understand how it's done, but for me photorealistic drawings and paintings have become really boring to look at, and progress videos are boring because I know how that is done and I know how it's gonna end up looking like. There is no surprise to me, because I understand the key elements of drawing: shadows, midtones and highlights.

I really want to have a semi-realistic style that would look neater and less confusing with my shippy drawings, but I just suck at drawing proportions and faces so I'm unable to draw them so that they would look like my targets. That's why photorealism is not fun, because it just reminds me of how I can't draw human faces even without a grid.

20. Something everyone else finds hard to draw but you enjoy People often hate drawings hands and avoid doing that because they find it difficult to do, but I actually enjoy it. They're still difficult, but that's why I often use my own hands as a reference. And if I can't see my hands in a posture I want from my own POV, then I will just take a photo with my phone and use that. The easiest way of getting references ever, no need to google for the exact specific posture when I can just grab my phone and there I have it. This has also allowed me to memorize stuff in the muscle memory and especially with my comics I need the references less and less, which is nice. I think my style in drawing hands is evolving and I'm enjoying the results more and more. (Fun fact: people in my comics always have 5 fingers instead of 4!)

This is from one of my newest drawings:

I like so much how this turned out! Tho the cost was that the 3 other hands did not turn out that well - but at least this one did and I really like it :D (And also how it reminds me of my own favourite comics from when I was growing up - aka the French and Belgian comics such as Asterix or Lucky Luke!)

It's from this drawing which I have posted on Tumblr as its own post before:

29. Media you love, but doesn’t inspire you artistically Oh there are so many medias I enjoy but don't do any kind of fanart of, if this is what it's asking. My fandom behaviour is so weird cos usually I channel my artistic tendencies on just one media or hyperfixation at a time, and the others don't make me want to draw a single thing about them.

And then what comes to medias created through visual arts... such as cartoons, animations or comics. Well usually I am drawn to the visual side of them too. That is one big reason why I don't watch anime and don't real manga, because the art style is not my cup of tea at all, so I would find it hard to focus on the stories either. The same goes for most modern-day cartoons, I just hate the art style majority of them uses, and I'm so visual person myself that I just can't even think about trying them out cos I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be able to get used to them even if the story would be somewhat funny or interesting.

You can see lots of influence in my art from the comics and cartoons I grew up reading and watching, occasionally I feel like you can even see the Dream Works (or Pixar) animations in my art because I, also, grew up watching some of those films. That is what I do, when a media is artistically appealing to me, as a tribute I will take inspiration and pieces of it to my own art but make sure to not base it fully on anything. My art really is a collection of all the art styles I like, and I feel like if lookng at them closely, you can see "cameos" of art styles from everything from Asterix comics to, say, Tim Burton characters.

30. What piece of yours do you think is underrated Everything? :DDDDDDD No but, every single piece that makes me go "OMG THIS IS PROBABLY THE BEST THING I'VE EVER DRAWN" and which always gets the most quiet response ever. Those I feel are the most underrated pieces. Often the ones that get the most feedback or notes/likes are the ones that make me ask "but why this? what's so special about this? " and I never get any answers.

Anyway, as of today, I still think this is the most underrated piece what I have drawn. I'm still so proud of this, the puns(?), and how much there is going on, and how no one can tell what my original idea was. Even I can't tell, because I'm not sure. It can be interpreted in so many ways, and I like each of them.

THANK YOU SO MUCH it was so much fun to answer to these!!! /gen I hope you also have fun reading these :D

#fichtfoxfuchs #ask games #mcrmadness draws

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dreamerwitches · 1 year

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Wich witch introduction was your favorite?

Ohhh! What a good question! I suppose a good build up is always what I want for a witch. Some of them are hard since they just appear suddenly like Gisela or Roberta...

I think Elly is a great one. I adore her labyrinth's introduction, especially in the movie version. You just see blobs of blue and then these skeleton horses passing by behind Madoka. Though I prefer the music in the tv version, i think a darker tone suits it better (contrary to charlotte's new music which i think fits very well). And the pan of her endless labyrinth is great. It's pretty memorable

I think Oktavia's is great mostly because there's a lot of emotional weight to it all. I mean, it feels the whole middle of the anime is leading up to this moment. Sayaka's transformation scene is so good, especially with the iconic line. I love how you don't really see all of her in her first labyrinth as she's got her cape over her arms, it's like she levels up before the second fight. And the sweeping scenery as Kyoko and Madoka enter her boss room, mimicking a train rushing by, is amazing as you're hit with the orchestra. I'm so glad so much effort is put into her <3 I think her timeline 3 appearance is good too, sadly she doesn't get any build up but I think the rock concert theme with the lights, stage and backup dancers helps the brief moment be cool enough

I think Izabel's introduction is pretty unique and cool, we get a one time view of what it's like for a civilian to run into a labyrinth. I think the build up is great but the payoff of Izabel being such a stationary boss and how she's killed so quickly isn't very exciting... it feels a little wasted but the build up is still good

I have complicated feelings about Kriemhild. I think her first appearance is pretty dull. Cool, but after seeing Sayaka's transformation it's nowhere near as good. I like ultimate kriemhild, of course. Her appearance is amazing and so different to anything we've seen up to it but of course it's very quick and brief. I think my favourite appearance of hers is in timeline 4 where she's this colossal giant in the background and in the movie version you get a thud as her name appears on screen. I love it, it's so subtle as she never does anything but you already know her power.

Walpurgisnacht is great and she earns it. She's built up the entire anime goddamnit! (well on the tv version at least). Homura's room, the storm warnings, the familiar parade, it's all amazing and you, me and she knows it. The fact that we see the cool and unbeatable Homura struggle against her is also amazing, she barely flinches and always laughs. She's amazingly imposing <3

Do these count, do they not? Well... I think the introductions to Quitterie and Itzli are good. They're unique witches hidden at the end of dungeons with lots of floors and they just come out of nowhere! I'm sure if I was playing portable blind I would be amazed

But ooohhhh, ohhh of course my favourite witch introduction, hands down, HANDS down, so down they're on the floor, the prize goes to Homulilly by beloved. Everything leading up to it is golden, the flower fields scene, the flaming bus, 'when did i become a witch?' the bit where Homura interrogates Kyubey 'i am anything but happy'/'this is not the happiness i asked for', the scene where Homura sees Madoka fall off the chair, the countdown ala Walpurgisnacht, then you're blessed by 'theatre of a witch' as Homulilly and a literal entire army appears. It's all beautiful and stunning. It's my favourite part of Rebellion absolutely, no contest, its probably my favourite part of madoka magica at all (well, including the fight too)

A special addition for Plejaden von Asunaro, the only spin off witch I could think of with a good introduction. I love the scene where she kills Mirai, the panelling and art is beautiful

#ask

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danco110 · 1 year

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“All right, Kleo, here’s the stuff you wanted. Now, would you mind telling me what you’re planning to cook with it? Hopefully not another bomb, I hope?”

The demon on the other side of the counter casually leaned forward, and gave a sly wink to the impatient Golgari elf.

“Hey, that was one time. Also, it wouldn’t be much of a ‘secret recipe’ if I blabbed about it to everyone I met. Especially my dealers.”

The elf snorted. “Call me a supplier, not a dealer. It’s not bomb ingredients I’m growing for you, here…is it?”

“What? No! Of course not…unless…”

The elf sternly shook her head.

“No.”

“Right. Right. Well, I guess I could tell you what it’s for, at least. I’m making food.”

“Well, I could’ve guessed that.” The elf rolled her eyes in exasperation. “That’s just about the only thing folks call on the Golgari for, anyways. But, pardon my bitterness. What kind of food?”

Kleo absentmindedly drummed her claws on the countertop.

“Well, half of it I’m using for my own meals, but the other…Oh, you know, just…hellsteed feed.”

The elf arched an eyebrow. “You have a hellsteed,” she stated plainly.

“Hellsteeds,” Kleo bristled. “Plural. I swap out which one I ride depending on the day, and I jump between several in my performances. They cost a lot of money. And so does their feed. No thanks to you, might I add.”

“Yes, yes…Wait.”

The elf trailed off, then focused her gaze on Kleo.

“Can’t you fly?”

The demon huffed, and flared her ashen batlike wings out behind her.

“…I just like horses, okay? And besides, as far as horses go, those hellsteeds are some pretty cool ones!”

The elf glanced past Kleo as the demon drew in her wings. There she saw a flaming skeleton of a horse rearing up behind the Rakdos, wreathing its master in an outline of flame.

“…Yes, yes, I suppose they are pretty cool.”

“Right?”

[Curiously enough, the Rakdos are actually the guild thirdmost associated with rearing animals, beat out only by the Selesnya and Simic. The Rakdos’s animals just tend to be more…dead than those of the competition, that’s all!]

#mtg #magic the gathering #ravnica #story bites

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candela888 · 3 years

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The Wild Hunt is a folklore motif. Wild Hunts typically involve a 'soul-raving' chase led by a folkloric figure(s) escorted by a ghostly or supernatural group of hunters passing in wild pursuit.

THREAD BELOW:

In German folklore, it is known as the Wilde Jagd or Wütendes Heer. The leader, often called der Schimmelreiter, is generally identified with the god Wotan. Seeing the Wild Hunt was thought to presage some catastrophe, it was also believed that people could be pulled away.

In Scandinavia, the leader of the hunt was Odin & the event was called Odens jakt or Oskoreien. Odin's hunt was heard but rarely seen, and a trait is that one of his dogs was barking louder and a second one fainter. When it was heard, it meant changing weather, war, or unrest.

In France, the 'Host' was known as Familia Hellequini and Maisnie Hellequin. This hunt was usually led by the devil or a demonic entity. Other similar figures appear in the French folklore, such as 'Le Grand-Veneur', a hunter who chased with dogs in the forest of Fontainebleau.

In England, it was known as Herlaþing, Woden's Hunt, Herod's Hunt, Cain's Hunt and Gabriel's Hounds. Different interpretations of the hunt had different leaders, some by demons, others by cursed men, and others by pagan gods, fairies, or angels. They are said to carry people off.

In parts of Britain, the hunt is said to be that of hell-hounds chasing sinners or the unbaptised. In Devon these are known as Yeth or Wisht Hounds. In Cornwall, they are Dando and his Dogs or the Devil and his Dandy Dogs. The hunt is particularly associated with Wistman's Wood.

The American country song "Ghost Riders in the Sky" from 1948, tells of cowboys condemned to chase the Devil's cattle through the night sky of the Western USA. Cowboys can be condemned to chase the Devil's cattle when they die if they do not repent for their sins.

In Welsh folklore, Cŵn Annwn were the spectral hounds of Annwn, the otherworld. They were associated with a form of the Wild Hunt, presided over by Arawn, king of Annwn. In Wales, they were associated with migrating geese, and are considered a portent of death.

The Santa Compaña is a folkloric belief in rural northwest Iberia: Galicia, Asturias (Spain) and Northern Portugal. The common belief is that of a procession of the dead that wander through the village paths of a parish beginning at midnight wearing white, hooded cloaks.

In Welsh folklore, Gwyn ap Nudd was depicted as a wild huntsman riding a demon horse who hunts souls at night along with a pack of white-bodied and red-eared 'dogs of hell'. He is the king of the Underworld who makes sure that the imprisoned devils do not destroy human souls.

In the Czech Republic, divoký hon or štvaní is a term for a group of demonic beings, often considered the souls of the dead or hunters, who roam the sky or the earth with their leader, often at night. Stories of them are more common in the Bohemia region, and during Christmas.

In León, Span it is called "La Hueste de Animas", and involves a procession of the dead in forests or the sky at night. It is also called La Estadea, led by a woman who wanders the roads and cemeteries. It has no face and smells of the humidity of the tombs.

Dziki Łów or Dziki Gon is the Wild Hunt of Polish folklore. It is very similar to the Germanic variants but the leader is usually a Slavic deity instead of a German one, or the leader of the host is the devil himself.

The Jinetes en el Cielo is the Wild Hunt of Mexico and some of the US Southwest. It involves Hispanic cowboys (vaqueros, jinetes, or charros) condemned to chase the Devil's cattle through the night sky. Vaqueros can join them if they do not repent for their sins.

In Italy, especially in the Alpine area, the Caccia infernale is associated with distant lights, hoofs, dog barking, demonic screams, and a loud hiss of the wind. It is associated with the figure of Theodoric the Great or the Devil. Catholic faith can drive away the procession.

Count Arnau (el comte Arnau), a legendary nobleman from Ripollès, Catalunya, who for his cruelty and lechery is condemned to ride to hounds for eternity while his flesh is devoured by flames. He is the subject of a classic traditional Catalan ballad.

Hyakki Yagyō (Night Parade of One Hundred Demons) is from Japanese folklore. Sometimes an orderly procession, other times a riot, it refers to an uncontrolled horde of countless numbers of supernatural creatures known as oni and yōkai.

In Slovenia, the hunt is usually led by Jarnik (Jarilo), also called Volčji pastir (Wolf Herdsman). In some variations mythical wild Baba leads the hunt.

In Hawaiian legend, Nightmarchers (huaka'i pō) are the spirits of ancient Hawaiian warriors. On the nights honoring the Hawaiian gods Kane, Ku, Lono, or on the nights of Kanaloa they are said to come forth from their burial sites, or to rise up from the ocean, and to march.

In the Netherlands, the hunt is led by Wodan or Gait/Derk met de hunties (Gait/Derk and his little dogs).

La Chasse-galerie also known as "The Bewitched Canoe" or "The Flying Canoe" is a popular French-Canadian tale of Coureurs des bois who make a deal with the devil, a variant of the Wild Hunt.

The sluagh sídhe—"the fairy host"—is sometimes depicted in Irish and Scottish folklore as a crowd of airborne spirits, perhaps the cursed, evil or restless dead. They are also known as "the horde". The siabhra, may be a type of these lesser spirits, prone to evil and mischief.

The missa dos mortos is a Brazilian legend. One night a church caretaker sees lights in the church. Thinking they were thieves, he investigates. To his surprise, he sees that the temple is full of the the Faithful, chandeliers lit and a priest preparing to celebrate a mass.

Everyone was wearing dark clothes and remained with their heads down. He also realizes that the environment was colder than the open one outside. When the priest turned, he saw that his face was a skull, and that everyone in the church was dead, a chapel full of skeletons!

The Flying Dutchman is a legendary ghost ship which was said to never be able to make port, doomed to sail the oceans forever. The legend is likely to have originated from the 17th-century Golden Age of the Dutch East India Company (VOC) and Dutch maritime power.

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yourdeepestfathoms · 3 years

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i have been working religiously on my book, so here is another part for y’all!

— — —

“I’m sorry, Mister Proctor,” Mary whispered as they approached Proctor’s horse.

“For a mouse that squeals and cries as loudly as you do during punishments, you sure love doing things that will warrant such treatment,” Proctor said.

Mary lowered her head. It still hurt. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses. Help me onto my horse.”

Mary obeyed.

“Do try to keep up. I don’t want to be waiting on you. A storm is coming.”

“Yes, sir.”

Proctor was right: a storm was coming, and it hit with the regular ferocity of a Massachusetts winter tempest. Now she understood why Proctor was wearing so many layers.

By the time they were halfway to the farm, Mary was completely soaked and shivering, the cold having crept deep into her bones, turning them into rods of ice. She wondered if this freezing rain had been sent by God Himself to punish her for her wrongdoings. It certainly felt like a lashing from the Lord.

“You could have been back inside by now,” Proctor mused atop his steed. Mary could barely hear him over the crunching of gravel and pattering of rain. “But instead you had to go galavant through Salem.”

“I was worried about my friends,” Mary said, daring to defend herself.

Proctor scoffed but didn’t say anything.

In the distance, a farm swam through the sheets of icy rain. It wasn’t the Proctor property, so there was no point in stopping, but someone called out to them anyway.

“Ah, John! Have you come to accuse me some more? If you haven’t noticed, it’s raining. I can’t set anything on fire in this weather.”

Proctor ground his teeth. “I already apologized to you for that.”

“And yet, here we are!”

There was an old man leaning on the fence bordering the property, white hair clinging to a balding scalp, deep blue eyes sparking with mischief in the half-light. He had a wrinkly lizard’s face and hands more befitting for a skeleton. Despite his age, Mary knew he had enough vigor to best any of the younger men in the village. She heard he once beat a burglar to death with a cane. He was a lot of vex and a little well-mannered, and he loved nothing more than to irritate the people of Salem Village, especially John Proctor.

“It would be a shame if this would be the year your land floods, John,” Giles Corey said. No person in their right mind would be out in this storm; he had definitely been waiting for Proctor to go down the road so he could prod him. He would risk getting ill if it meant he was able to dig under the younger farmer’s skin.

“If this is some kind of attempt to get the deed to my farm, then you can save it,” Proctor said, spurring his horse into motion again. “I’ve heard it all, Giles.”

Corey huffed. His expression brightened once again when he noticed Mary holding onto the saddle.

“Ah, Mary Warren! How are you, dearest? Is the back of your head alright?”

Proctor was quick to step in: “Don’t talk to her,” he snapped at Corey. Then, to Mary, “Don’t talk to him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re going to kill that girl, John!” Corey shouted after them. “If you ever need a place to flee to, Mary Warren, Martha and I are willing to take a servant!”

His words were washed away by the rain, but they remained rooted inside of Mary’s brain. If only she could switch employers. If she weren’t an indentured servant, she would have gone to the Putnam’s a long time to work with Mercy. Maybe then every day wouldn’t be such a pain.

And speaking of pain…

Mary winced, tentatively touching the back of her head. She couldn’t tell if the dampness she was feeling was blood or just rainwater. Didn’t matter now. She dropped her arm.

Above her, Proctor was muttering in his saddle, casting a dark look at the road in front of him. He said something about Giles Corey and something else about the farm and something else about wanting to rip out the old man’s gizzard. He seemed awfully worked up about the confrontation.

“If I may, sir…”

Proctor looked down at her, eyes narrowed. Mary nearly stopped talking right then and there, but she swallowed her nerves and continued on.

“If Mister Corey is such a bother to you, why not do more to stop him?”

“Are you lame, girl?” Proctor snapped. “What do you think I’ve been trying to do all this time? Ever since the fire, he’s been a thorn in my side.”

The fire referred to a fire that started in Proctor’s house, a time before Mary went to work with his family, which she was grateful for because she wouldn’t have been able to handle that drama. Naturally, Proctor said Corey was responsible for the fire, which made Corey file a lawsuit against Proctor. Later, one of Proctor’s sons would come forward and admit to being the one to cause the fire. Proctor begrudgingly apologized, but that didn’t stop Corey from continuously bringing it up whenever he got the chance.

“Why do you bring it up?” Proctor then asked. “What would YOU do? Since you think you’re so clever.”

“Me? Well, I-- I, uhh… Maybe raise the price on the land? Make it to where it would be too expensive for him to want to buy.”

Proctor opened, then closed his mouth. Then, he squinted at her. Finally, he actually laughed and took off his broad-brimmed hat, batting her over the head with it.

“I guess you aren’t so stupid after all,” he said affectionately. “I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

Mary cracked a small smile. The bad outweighed the good when it came to her master, but she knew John Proctor wasn’t all cruelty and lashings. He had a strong softness for all of his children and a deep love for his wife. Sometimes Mary would hear him reading light-hearted Bible stories to his younger kids at night. Sometimes she would stand outside the room and listen.

Through the glistening shroud of mist and drizzle at the side of the road, the Proctor property unfolded from the fog like a proper country castle. Acres upon acres of emerald green grass, sturdy barns, a fine house, fields chock full of crops and livestock. Their cattle were fat and happy, slick with rain, water streaming from their round bellies and mud splashing up from each delicate footstep. It darkened their coats and made them look like they were soaked in blood. It was no wonder why Giles Corey wanted the land so badly. It was thriving with wealth.

“Put my horse away,” Proctor said after sliding off the chestnut stallion’s back. “Tack him. Then come inside immediately. Do not run off.”

“Yes, sir.”

Proctor gave her one last warning stare, then handed her the reins and walked to the house.

Mary would have taken her sweet time putting away the horse if it weren’t for the fact that she was freezing and her head was killing her. She tacked the stallion, put him into his stall, and fed him in record time, ready to get inside and change out of her wet clothes. However, when she finally entered the house, she didn’t get to do that. She was stopped by her master and mistress.

Proctor and Elizabeth were speaking to each other, but Mary could tell they were arguing, despite their level tones. They both turned to her when she stepped inside. Proctor was already in dry clothes, standing beside the roaring hearth. The flames looked so comforting and warm.

“Stay where you are,” Proctor ordered, noticing her desire to go to the fire.

“Yes, sir.”

“I understand she is in trouble, but at least let her warm up,” Elizabeth said.

Elizabeth Proctor had always been Mary’s favorite Proctor. Twenty-two years her husband’s her junior, though she looked a lot younger than that, she was kind and patient, never using the whip and rarely ever raising her voice. She wore dresses in soft shades, greatly mirroring her soothing nature; right now she was wearing a pale green gown with a white apron. Her hair was champagne blonde and her eyes were a pretty hazel with flecks of gold near the pupils. Mary craved her warm, maternal gaze so much it was almost painful.

“No,” Proctor said. “This is a part of her punishment.”

“She is going to freeze. Do you want our servant to freeze, John? Then what shall we do?”

“Get a better servant, perhaps? One that won’t run off?” He shot a glare at Mary, reminding her that he was, in fact, still mad about that, in case she had forgotten. She hadn’t.

So much for their moment on the road.

Elizabeth opened her mouth, then sighed. She looked at Mary. “Yes, you should not have run off. You aren’t allowed to go anywhere without our permission. You know that.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.” Always obedient, always agreeable. Mary knew her place.

“Why did you leave?” Elizabeth asked.

“Mercy came to see me, ma’am,” Mary answered. She didn’t want to throw her friend to the crows, but she also knew better than to not be dishonest, especially when she was already in trouble. “We wanted to go check on Abby and Betty. We heard that they weren’t well.”

“I heard that, too,” Elizabeth nodded slowly. “How are they?”

“Strange. They slept like the dead, but woke up out of nowhere and started screaming. Betty tried to jump out of the window!”

Elizabeth’s eyebrows shot up. “Did she?”

“That is none of our concern right now,” Proctor growled, butting his way back in. “This disobedience cannot go unpunished.”

Elizabeth sighed. “Yes…I suppose you’re right. I say no dinner tonight.”

Proctor rolled his eyes. “You coddle her, Elizabeth.”

“I do not coddle her!”

Ignoring his wife, Proctor looked at Mary, “Fetch me a switch.”

Mary released the breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Her heart leapt out from the pit in her stomach. She nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

#servant of evil #lizzie’s dumb book #nobody cares and i know y’all want resident evil stuff but here is this anyway #because i like showing off my stuff #mary warren #john proctor #elizabeth proctor #salem witch trials #salem witches #my writing

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5csbin · 4 years

Text

HAUNTED HOUSE !

HALLOWEEN TXT EDITION!

txt x neutral reader !

WARNING !: cursing! knifes! haunted house! JYP AND 6IX9INE!

a very crack and dumb one shot i made.

“MANE IF YALL DONT SHUT THE FUCK UP!” taehyun shouted as they were walking up to the line since everyone began to nag.

"this is why i wanted to go trick or treating instead." beomgyu pouted and folded his arms as he and the rest of the group waited in line to go inside of the haunted house.

well it was more like a haunted barn, where they would all get on a hayride and be driven throughout the barn and be spooked supposedly. "trick or treating?? how old are you again?" kai mocked him,

"no offense but i'm starting to think you were right when you said beomgyu was still mentally 9 years old because.. this is starting to get worrying. what 19 year old is trying go trick or treating?" yeonjun added in agreement, while taehyun shot him a dirty look for throwing shade at his best friend.

beomgyu’s first instinct was to scoot closer to (y/n), but he then fired off a clapback of his own. "the only thing that's worrying is that wig you're wearing, who the fuck are you even supposed to be? lord farquad on crack?" gyu fired back at yeonjun, who was now touching the short black bob on top of his head.

soobin couldn't help but laugh, even though it was his own boyfr- bestfriend getting flamed and soon, everybody else in the group let out laughter at gyu’s clapback. even taehyun, who couldn't stand beomgyu, was practically crying laughing at what was said.

"actually, i'm supposed to be dora," yeonjun replied, gesturing to his pink t shirt and bright orange jeans. "and soobin is.. well diego." he pulled soobin closer to him after saying that and kissed his forehead, before ruffling his blueberry curls a little.

"wait.. ain't dora and diego supposed to be cousins?" taehyun asked, his mouth curling in disgust, "i don't think that's positive..." kai added.

“cousin lovers.” (y/n) said making yeonjun smack their arm.

it was a wonder how they didn't annoy the others waiting in line for their ride, since they would fight every second. meanwhile as the group turn drew closer and closer, beomgyu found himself regretting agreeing to come here.

it was weird.. he loved horror movies, but he despised haunted houses because even though both were fake events, being in a haunted house was just so up close and personal you know?

if it wasn't for it being (y/n)'s birthday (lets just pretend ur birthday was on halloween.) beomgyu wouldn't have came, and he would have probably just stayed at home and took pictures of his costume for instagram before going over to hyunjin’s to watch scary movies.

(y/n) noticed that beomgyu looked uncomfortable amongst all of the roasts and jokes flying amongst the group and they decided to ask what was wrong.

"gyu, why do you look so sad? being sad is my job," (y/n) asked as the group continued to move up in the line. "i'm not sad," beomgyu answered. "i'm just nervous, i don't like haunted houses.. i had a really bad panic attack the last time i went to one, and i don't wanna have one and ruin your birthday or anything.. i probably should have just stayed my ass home."

"nah, you not going to ruin my birthday, you're my friend and i care about you... it won't be that scary, it's literally a haunted barn. you know what barns have? cows and chickens. now who's scared of cows and chickens? nobody. except blades of grass."

the little pep talk made gyu feel slightly calmer. "thanks," he replied, fumbling with the thick leather choker around his neck. "your costume is really cute by the way. i like the face paint."

"thanks, it was kai’s idea actually," they responded with a chipper edge to their voice. (y/n)' costume consisted of a sweatshirt and sweatpants with a skeleton printed on the front, and his face was made up to look like a skull.

after beomgyu was calm, he found himself overhearing a conversation between hueningkai, taehyun, and his knives.

"no tae, you can't bring your knives in here with you," hyuka shook his head as taehyun kept asking if he could run back to the car real quick and grab his knives "cmon kai, just in case a demon wanna try some shit"

"well.. can i get my ouija board?" tyun asked, his lips twisting into a devious smile. "i just wanna talk to the demons, it's halloween, and if it's any day i should be allowed to do this, it's today."

"ain't there no demons.. this is a barn. you wanna talk to demonic horses and shit?" yeonjun pokes in the conversation and raised an eyebrow.

"yes? of course i do, the fuck do you think i am?" taehyun whined, pointing to the devil horns on top of his head as the group finally made it to the front of the line and were waiting for the tractor to come back so that they could get on the hayride.

finally, after they all stood around and handed in their tickets to the clerk in front of the line, their tractor was ready, pulling along the hay covered cart as it came to a stop in front of the barn entrance, waiting for the group to board it.

"wait, hay? y'all ain't say there was going to be hay..." soobin complained, his skin already itching just by looking at all that hay. "y'all do know i'm allergic to hay right?"

"bitchhh, we been said it was a hayride involved," hueningkai snapped, "what you done caught the (y/n) disease where you forget everything every minutes or what?"

"aye i don't forget everything, i just be high," (y/n) cut in as they handed in their tickets to the clerk. "and i'm allergic to hay!" soobin cried out, scratching his forearm.

soobin actually is allergic to hay, but it wasn't something severe, he just got irritated by it and it caused his skin to rash up, not like his skin didn't already look as if it was full of rashes.

(that not true btw)

"oh well," hueningkai replied in a deadpan tone, shrugging. "guess you'll just die then."

after they've all handed in their tickets, everyone began to board the hay filled cart, with everyone obviously choosing to be closest to their besties.

when they got onto the cart. soobin was snuggled up to yeonjun, playing with his diego the explore backpack trying to ignore the itchy feeling the hay gave him.taehyun was resting his head on (y/n)’s shoulder, whining about his knifes, beomgyu was clinging onto kai for dear life, because he was still scared after all.

"i better not hear none of y'all screaming like no pussies after we get in here," yeonjun started after the tractor began to start up and drive them into the dark, cool barn. "how y'all gon be scared of demons when i'm taehyun a whole demon. y'all scared of him now?"

"actually, yes, i'm scared of him just a little bit," beomgyu answered, his tone groggy.

"considering he tried to kill me on multiple occasions and almost succeeded, yes yeonjun, i'm scared of taehyun and he make me fear for my life." soobin added on, slightly flinching at just saying the word taehyun.

"that was before i became positive," taehyun suddenly flashed soobin and beomgyu a toothy smile, "just like i'm positive that none of these demons or zombies or whatever the fuck is in this barn is gon' do shit to us."

"tae if you don't shut your ass up, there’s no demons in here, nor is there any zombies, they are paid actors. you wish you was in a horror movie so bad," hueningkai cut in, once again ruining tyun’s fun.

as of right now, nothing scary was going on. just the typical music playing throughout the barn, random screams, and plastic skeletons appearing out of nowhere. shit that made little kids be scared of, but anyone else wouldn't be phased. not even beomgyu was phased by what was going on, and he was the main one who was scared to come along.

but then.. things started to get more spooky. the people who were sitting on the edge would start to get grabbed and poked without warning, and people would come up on side of the cart out of nowhere and scream or otherwise bring attention to themselves, which would catch them off guard obviously, but shit like that was to be expected at a haunted house.. or in this case a haunted barn.

but soon though, things began to get downright creepy.

as they were sitting in the cart, slightly startled and caught off guard by the jumpscares, but not too shaken up, not even beomgyu was that scared, as he made sure to sit in the middle of the cart to avoid being randomly grabbed or touched by these strangers in costume, and it was just amusing to people like taehyun or (y/n), they weren't prepared for what started to happen next.

soon the music that sounded as if it was from a demonic nursery cut out mid note, and it was replaced by an old, gravely sounding voice that began to sing happy birthday very terribly and off key.

and they thought this was creepy, considering it was gus' birthday, but they considered it was a coincidence. "damn (n/n), they singing happy birthday to you, that's wild," yeonjun noticed, laughing at the 'coincidence'.

"see, i told y'all they’re really a skeleton, how else would they know that we're here for their birthday, hmm?" beomgyu added matter of factly causing the others to let out laughter.

so even though it was somewhat unsettling, it didn't become horrifying until the voice replaced "happy birthday to you," with "happy birthday (y/n)."

the place then became a chorus of "did yall hear that shit?" and "yeo what the fuck?!" after they noticed that, with (y/n) in particular being especially shook that there seemed to be a demon singing specifically to them, and their eyes went wide as the voice continued to serenade them, albeit poorly.

"see, this ain't it no more." soobin announced and hueningkai nodded in agreement. "h-how do they know it's (n/n)' birthday? much less who (y/n) is?" beomgyu asked as he held onto (y/n) even tighter than he was before. "i'm scared now."

"that's what we all want to know," yeonjun answered before reaching up to adjust his wig, before feeling nothing but his real hair tied back. he knew his wig didn't fall off or get snatched off, he had it secured with bobby pins, because it was one of his mother's wigs and he didn't want to lose it, but it had just completely disappeared.

"uh...my wig is gone," yeonjun announced and soobin just nodded. "same."

"no i mean it's for real gone... my dora or lord farquaad or whatever the fuck wig i was wearing earlier just.. disappeared into thin air." yeonjun continued to explain as he continued to search the surrounding area for it, just in case it fell out of his head but it was actually gone.

"see, i told y'all asses there were demons in here, but y'all didn’t wanna listen now y'all getting your shit taken, and demons are singing happy birthday to (y/n) and shit, and now y'all shocked," taehyun added with a huff.

"tyun, ain't no demons in here. if there were demons in here, they would do a lot worse than steal hats and wigs and sing happy birthday, believe that. they'd be torturing us psychologically, and- wait, where the fuck is my sheep hat?" hueningkai touched the top of his head, where his costume top was missing from, and now he was heated.

"yeah, we gotta get outta here."

more shit like that continued to happen with the voice continuing to reference them by name, and reference stuff that only people that know them would know, like soobin almost running someone over once, or yeonjun’s furry suit,and then, near the end of the ride, it all came together in the worst possible way.

a single echoing voice with a thick new york accent screaming "SCUUUUM GANGGGG!" followed by a laugh in the distance that sounded a lot like jyp’s laugh.

and in that moment, all of them literally hopped off of the cart and ran towards the exit.

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that-scouse-wizard · 3 years

Note

17,21 and 41 for all your lovely characters if you want and have time 😊

Always going to make time for this 😁

17) What’s the most ridiculous thing they’ve ever spent money on?

David: Once made a bet with Andre over who would win in a Montrose Magpies vs Caerphilly Catapults game, the Magpies won and David lost fifty galleons that day.

Amelia: She spent a lot on several clothing styles (courtesy of Andre) in the end deciding on a few.

Phoenix: She has spent a lot on several bundles of spice-scented candles

Cledwyn: He once bought Ethel a ludicrously expensive ornamental cow but she was happy so he supposes it was worth it.

Faith: Was once duped into buying an old coat sold to her as an invisibility cloak.

Reuben: He spent years building up a complete skeleton of an adult Irish Ironhead.

Marigold: She had a special fox statue commissioned for decoration for a cabin hidden deep in the Scottish Highlands. It’s enchanted to move and highly expensive, she may have done this once... twice...ten times.

Robin: Once tried horse back riding lessons in searching for a hobby, she did not want to try them again.

Nicholas: His first (and last) prank from Weasley Wizard Wheezes, made him swear off trying practical jokes again.

21) What’s one secret of theirs that could potentially ruin a relationship they have?

(I'll admit this is a head scratcher, had to really think about it so thanks for the challenge! 😁)

David: He’ll end things if he thinks the relationship is breaking down, no ifs and/ or buts and definitely no secrets.

Amelia: If anyone knew just how difficult it is making sure the wolfsbane ingredients she cultivates are suitable for potions for Chiara, there would be some words.

Phoenix: Thought she would fall for either a Quidditch player or another dueller.

Cledwyn: Kind of wishes he had Reuben’s skill with animals and magical creatures, while he has experience with dogs and horses, it would be incredible to tame a dragon properly.

Faith: If her mother was on fire, she would not use her hydrokinesis powers to put out the flames.

Reuben: Ashamedly a little jealous of Cledwyn’s skill in DADA at least initially until he realises his parent’s approval isn’t worth it.

Marigold: If some knew just how intense she is studying the dark arts for answers to break her curse, they may be very worried in case she goes too far.

Robin: She honestly has an interest in learning about the cursed vaults but knows how both her parents would react to that if they found out.

Nicholas: While he played keeper for Ravenclaw from second to fourth year, he wishes he had Robin’s skill on a broom and sometimes feels like she’s the favourite child because of that.

41) What do other people love most about them?

David: His loyalty, David is willing to go to hell and back for the people he’s closest to.

Amelia: Her kindness, it’s something people find endearing about her.

Phoenix: Her sense of sportsmanship, she believes in giving everyone fair chances in a competition.

Cledwyn: For as coarse as Cled can be, he does genuinely care about people and his friends understand that.

Faith: Her eventual fascination with aquatic magical creatures, quite niche subject and her knowledge in it becomes impressive.

Reuben: His passion for dragonology as well as his willingness to break the mould his family imposed on him.

Marigold: The fashion choices she designs for people when they're in need of one

Robin: Her generally relaxed attitude, it can be quite infectious for some people, especially if they need a break.

Nicholas: His willingness to help others out when it comes to studying.

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vostokovasmelina · 4 years

Text

emerald stained goodbyes.

for @smallheathgangsters ‘ 1k challenge - huge huge congrats, leah and so sorry i’m so fucking late! all the love xx

pairing: tommy shelby x fem!reader

word count: 1.7k+

warning: substance abuse - this is really dark; i’m sorry, okay??

prompt: “i probably tore her heart right out” (cassie by chase atlantic)

disclaimer: i believe people with any kind of addiction deserve help and recovery, so this piece was not written against them. however, i have seen what it can do to loved ones and i was also heavily inspired by some other lyrics from the song referencing substance abuse, so please don’t misunderstand my intentions - it’s just a piece of fanfiction. many thanks

a/n: phew i think i’m officially back, folks; i’m lowkey not happy with the ending but ‘tis the best i can offer right now

italics = the past

He stumbled to the front door absent-mindedly, mostly his subconscious reacting to the sharp ringing of the doorbell and Tommy just obeying its demands. He had been in a relatively good mood, which had been quite rare lately, and he didn’t even give much thought to a possible threat waiting for him on the other side. He didn’t even check if his gun was close to hand at all, something which he had always done. Tom simply swang the door wide open, frozen in his tracks at the sight that was worse than any armed rival could have been.

“Y/N-”

“Let me in,” you whispered, pulling your baggy coat as tight around your cold body as possible, all your clothes draining of water as you stood there, outside in the pouring rain.

He flicked his cigarette and watched it land in a grey puddle, a few desperate strings of smoke floating towards the sky as if they were drowning in the dirty water. Tommy felt the dull ache in his chest slowly spread around, intruding every little bit of his body and he knew he would go mad if he had to stay here any longer. He kept waiting for that soft hand on his shoulder, that bubbling laughter from inside the bar, the one that hid all your sorrows from everyone but him. Tom wished he could go back in time and make everything better, be there for you and pick your pieces up instead of stomping on them on his way out.

He watched you stumble into his living room and throw yourself into one of his most expensive armchairs. Tommy’s face jumped into a painful frown as he thought about the soft material sucking in all the water from your clothes but he didn’t say anything - he simply shut the front door and turned back to you. Your cheeks seemed even more hollow in the light and Tommy felt heartbroken and furious at the same time.

“Where have you been?” He questioned in a low voice, trying to stay calm and collected as if that would fix the mess you had become the past few months. Tommy thought he had been relatively patient while trying to look out for you but he wasn’t sure if that was still what you wanted from him. Technically, you were still a couple and you wore the ring he had given you proudly on your better days but the sight of the tiny piece of jewelry did nothing but turned him bitter now. The promise of marriage was growing into a heavy burden, pressing down on Tommy’s shoulders and he was more and more convinced that he was the most selfish man in history for wanting to send you away in your deepest sorrow, trying to shield himself from your flames.

“Why do you care so much all of a sudden?” You looked up at him from under your eyelashes, your eyelids getting heavier with every passing minute as the warmth of the fireplace flooded your whole body and your frozen limbs slowly returned to life with a sweet tingle running through them.

All of this didn’t make a difference though. You couldn’t ignore the hellfire raging deep inside of you in an attempt at burning you and everyone around to ashes and looking into its flames had become so mesmerising these past months that you simply couldn’t concentrate on anything else. Everything had shifted out of focus by now and even Tommy, the man you had loved passionately ever since you first met him was but slightly clearer a silhouette than everyone else. You had been turning in on yourself slowly but surely, leaving less and less of hope behind for those that loved you.

Tommy shook his head in the hopes that it would clear out all the memories from the night before for all eternity, providing him with a fresh start, a blank page to start his next chapter on. He didn’t want to erase you - no, he couldn’t do that. Afterall, he still loved you and was grateful you had played a crucial character in so many of the most imprtant chapters in Tommy’s life but he always knew he shouldn’t make himself believe you would stay that loving, harmonious couple you were in the very beginning - especially after you had discovered your great appetite for snow and morphine and god knows what other kinds of drugs you got obsessed with while falling down the rabbit hole.

Tom pulled out another cigarette from the depth of his pocket, suddenly becoming aware of the real destruction of this habit of his, the real damage it was and had been doing to his lungs and he rolled it around slowly between his thumb and index finger as if he was contemplating whether or not he actually wanted to keep doing this to himself. He eventually stuck it in between his lips and felt a perverted kind of excitement at the thought of pure smoke filling up and dirtying his insides, thinking he was deserving of the punishment after all he had done and said to you - even though the actual torture would creep on him slowly over the next years and decades.

He was cruelly pulled back from the downhill of self-distruction the next moment as Tommy turned to see who had intruded on his bitter loneliness and raised an eyebrow at his rosy-cheeked aunt.

“Arthur’s hosted a little bit of tasting of his best liquor if I’m not mistaken?”

Polly frowned at him as she shut the door behind herself and pulled her fur coat tighter around her shoulders, taking the burning cigarette from her nephew’s hand to take a drag. Tommy was sure that soon there would be none left for him.

“Please. Not everyone needs alcohol to have a good time, Thomas,” she remarked, raising the cigarette slowly to her crimson lips to hide a cheeky smile.

“You’re alone with that in this whole fucking town,” Tommy mumbled lowly and looked around as if he was looking down on the whole of Birmingham, seeing all the sorrows and dirty secrets, the skeletons in all those filthy old cupboards. His fingers ran around in his pocket driven by his subconscious and Tom was pulled back into reality only when they touched the tiny cold silver, the only thing you left behind after you had said your final goodbye.

He gathered all the courage hiding deep inside of himself and gave you the coldest piercing look those pale blue eyes had ever cast on you. Tommy could even see you shrink in your seat for a moment before fire lit up in your E/C eyes just again, ready to defend yourself by any means. He couldn’t recall the moment when everything took such a sharp turn for the worse but he felt like it didn’t matter anymore. There was no way he could fix it this time and it was useless dragging out both your suffering too long. However, it was high time he had finally said it all, everything that had been weighing him down.

“I’m literally the last living person who still cares about you, Y/N. When was the last time you looked in the mirror? Do you even realise what you’re doing to yourself? You look horrible,” Tommy let out a cynical chuckle as he looked you up and down, shaking his head and you could feel the angry tears swell up in your eyes, your palm itching to slap his perfect face.

Tommy felt it coming. He was trying to get himself ready for the slap but he was still taken aback by the force your numb and lifeless arms still held. As he took a few steps backwards to regain his balance, you jumped up from the armchair and headed towards him, rage narrowing your sight to your soon-to-be ex-fiancé only. All of it evaporated though when you felt Tommy’s strong hands wrap themselves around your wrists and pulling them into his chest forcefully so you couldn’t get out of his grip so easily. For a moment, you could feel all the anger and determination leave your soul, leaving only vulnerability behind and you got so scared of the possibility of crumbling in Tommy’s arms that you panicked and started trying to escape his grasp, tearing at his white shirt and pushing him with all the force you had left.

“How can you say this to me? How dare you forget that you were the one who got me high the very first time?” You were screaming at the top of your lungs at him and hit his muscly chest one last time before you felt his grip loosen as you pushed him against the wall and trapped him. Your breathing was loud and fast when you looked up at him with the familiar rage back in your eyes. Tom didn’t answer with a word and once you realised he had already ended any kind of relationship he had ever had with you, you scoffed and pulled away, shaking your head in disappointment.

“Fuck you, Thomas Shelby. Fuck your big ass mansion, fuck your cars and horses and fuck your bloody family. Only a madwoman would marry into the Shelby household.”

He looked down at his hand and watched the tiny emerald stone reflect the pale sunshine even in this gloomy Birmingham day. Tommy let out a big sigh before turning to Polly, his aunt raising her eyebrows at him in anticipation.

“I won’t be needing this any time soon, Pol,” he stated and handed the small piece of jewellery to the woman who had given it to him only a few months ago. Tommy knew his aunt was trying to hide her relief but he was too drained and exhausted to listen to Polly give him a lesson about the perfect wife and how Tommy always found the broken ones way too interesting for his own good.

“I probably tor her heart right out, Polly. Try not to look so happy about it.”

He fixed his peaky hat, gave Pol a nod before lighting the last cigarette he had on him and headed home in the dirt and fog of Small Heath, blaming the pinching cold air for the swelling tears in his tired eyes.

#smallheathgangsters1kcelebration #tw: substance abuse #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #peaky blinders #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders imagine #arthur shelby #john shelby #ada shelby #polly gray #michael gray

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nonbinary-renfri · 3 years

Text

Geralt learns that loss always comes early on in his life.

His mother, long red hair and soft tones his vague impressions of her memory, vanishes while he fetches her water.

So many of his friends and brothers in the witchers’ keep are lost to the deadly maw of the Trials. They die from the Grasses with tears of blood weeping from their eyes and agonized screams on their lips. They die at the hands of Old Speartip, and if a corpse comes back at all it is in mangled, gory form. Of those that survive, the boys they lived as so briefly die too, becoming unfamiliar, hard men with countless scars and cold yellow eyes.

Taking to the Path is a whole sort of loss in itself. Geralt leaves behind the stone walls of what has become his home and everything their solidity brings- a comfortable bed to sleep in at night, regular hot meals, relaxing baths in the hot springs below, companionship in the bitter cold hours of midnight- and the sense of security Kaer Morhen exudes.

The elders never sugar-coated the hardships of a witcher’s Path during their training, but Geralt quickly finds he isn’t as prepared as he thinks he is for the true loneliness of traveling the road alone. It’s jarring, departing from a place you’ve come to love full of the people you’ve come to know into an unfamiliar world that recoils from the mere sight of you. His eyes mark him as something to be hated more than his hair, but its pale hue is often what draws people’s attention towards him first. Ordinary humans are… generally unfriendly in their interest in him, and for years during the long consecutive months spent on the Path, Geralt rarely feels another person’s touch except for in the throes of combat, as claws and teeth gouge at his flesh and one of the more humanoid monsters he hunts gurgles out its life on top of him. He aches for something more than this violence that clings to him, but doesn’t know what that could be or how to find it; not when the pitchfork scars carved into the round muscle of his shoulder are still raised and pink.

Traveling the Path means there are no longer mentors to consult, friends to spar with as a way to relieve the tension crawling up his spine, or trusted healers to ensure that a troublesome wound truly isn’t infected. There are just long, cold stares and harsh words and the wet snap of spittle hitting the floor. And sometimes there’s a howling, slavering mob and too-hot flame too close to his skin as blood soaks into his clothes.

Geralt quickly becomes very grateful for his extensive training in wound treatment, especially as he realizes most healers have next to no knowledge of a witcher’s biology, but plenty of dubiously-inspired interest. He spent too much of his youth playing science experiment to fall back into that horrific role again.

A life spent hunting monsters is hard, generally thankless work, but what keeps Geralt’s feet on the Path going forward is the way the clues itching at his brain can become the smallest lick of satisfaction when he solves the puzzle rankling him, curling in his chest like a sun-warmed cat. That, and the creatures with stories and reasons for what they’ve done that would break his heart if he had one that could feel, though it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth as he cleans his sword of their viscera, discontent acrid on his tongue. There are times where he’s not fast enough, not smart enough, not powerful enough to kill the monster quickly, and there’s dead humans and sometimes dead children strewn in pieces at his feet. He’ll flee the town with stones sending up puffs of dust as they thud onto the road behind him and the voices of mothers howling and sobbing echoing in his ears. The guilt aches nearly as bad as the bruises forming across his back and shoulders. He doubts his mother cried that way after leaving him.

Witchers save whole towns from their worst nightmares and scrape by with a palmful of coin, with which they buy an ale the barkeep’s spat in. Returning to Kaer Morhen for the winter is always a breath of fresh air in comparison; every time the sense of kinship washes over Geralt as he sips White Gull by the fire with his fellows and they all swap stories of their most ridiculous contracts from the past year. They laugh and joke, as much as witchers do, and knees and shoulders and fingers casually knock and brush each other as they jostle and elbow their neighbors. The room is loud and raucous and more comfortable a space than any human inn or tavern is for monster slayers such as these, without the blatant glares or the stench of fear or the insults muttered under the breath as they go past. It’s part of what makes stepping back out onto the Path as the weather warms bearable, spring snarling its green teeth at winter’s snowdrifts; the idea of coming back next year with a ridiculous yarn that could make the grizzled, stoic elders chuckle in disbelief and your brothers pound their fists on the table in mirth. This is the closest thing to family many of them will ever know.

And then. The wanderers return to the witchers’ keep one late autumn, to cracked open walls and shattered skulls in the dried-up moat and not a single living member of their guild in sight. The realization hits slow, that they are all that’s left of the School of the Wolf, and the sorrow they all lock behind their clenched teeth hangs heavy in the air.

Most of them don’t stay, that winter. Living for a season in the mangled skeleton of their home among the corpses of their friends and teachers is an untenable prospect for many. They vanish silently for the most part, night after night, taking their horses and whatever supplies they need with them. In the end, a few days before the mountain pass will become untraversable with the season’s snow, Geralt and Vesemir are the only two left in the hollow, broken fortress.

It is somber, grueling work, laying many of their fellows to rest. The dark sadness of the Path doesn’t flee Geralt’s mind like it would’ve among the warmth and clamour of his kin; if anything it becomes even more oppressive, roiling above his thoughts like an overhanging storm cloud. He finally leaves the keep on an eggshell, blue-white dawn when the wind tastes of threatening but still distant snow, making certain to say farewell to Vesemir before he departs.

Geralt can’t remember the old witcher ever having embraced him like this before, but the warm crush of his father’s arms is somehow familiar to him all the same. The weight of the darkness in his soul lessens ever so slightly.

The Path is even harder after that, with their safe haven and respite defiled so and lost to many of them because of that. In the years following the massacre, Kaer Morhen is always even emptier than it ought to be come wintertime, with many of the surviving Wolves abandoning it as a ruined den. Occasionally a silver medallion will find its way back to the keep, devoid of its living owner, but many of the witchers simply disappear into the vastness of the Continent without a trace. Years later, as Geralt searches for a monster to kill for coin, he is shown an eyeless dead man wearing the medallion of his school. He cannot recognize the remaining facial features; no familiarity murmurs in the corners of his mind as he stares at the wrecked visage. A witcher of his ilk is dead and his name isn’t even a hint of a whisper on Geralt’s tongue.

Perhaps in the past that wouldn’t have brought him such anguish, as he expected his fate to someday be much the same. But his moniker is widespread now, thanks to Jaskier, and anyone to find his body is more likely than not to loudly declare, “The White Wolf is dead!”

Or, if whoever it is feels particularly spiteful and a certain bard isn’t within a day’s travel distance, they might name his corpse “Butcher” instead. Despite dozens of songs attempting to convince the people to the contrary, that is one title Geralt still cannot lose. It clings to him like the sucker on a leech, swollen full of bloody deeds.

It’s fitting, he thinks, as he cuts out two of the cornerstones in his life with the neatness of a blunted cleaver. A whirlwind of raven hair and wisteria eyes, tart berries and flowers sweet in his nose; Yennefer leaves because he wished for her to stay but couldn’t simply have asked it of her. And the man who has so desperately tried to change the public’s opinion on witchers runs at the bite of barked untruths from between the white-haired man’s bared teeth.

Geralt has looked loss in the eye many times throughout his long life, but he turns his back before he can watch the second half of his heart walk away, the whole of it carried in the strum of a distant lute’s strings and the perfume fading from his senses. In his youth he thought the organ was needed to feel, but the gaping raw wound in his chest where his heart sat once teaches him that he can hurt almost more without it.

#i decided i was gonna sit down and write and finish something and this is what we got #was like i guess i'll just go through my inspo tag and write whatever Hits #so. geralt angst i guess #the witcher #geralt of rivia #vesemir #julian alfred pankratz #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #writing #my writing #mine #angst

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lassieposting · 3 years

Note

If you’re still doing the getting together ask could I request Saracen and Dexter???

I’m bored, so. Send me two (or more) characters for a headcanon on how I’d have them get together

god so. dexter can't stand saracen when they first meet.

like, dex is the second one in after erskine. So when he becomes one of what will eventually be the dead men, it's the original three - skulduggery, ghastly and hopeless - plus ravel. Dex is the youngest by a mile at 17 - he lies about his age to enlist - but he's scrappy and streetwise and has a relatively sensible head on his shoulders, so he's doing well as a soldier. Skulduggery was the one he was really itching to meet - the youngest general in 300 years, the miracle soldier, the living skeleton - but it's ghastly who actually brings him in, ghastly who saw a scared kid with the potential to be a warrior, ghastly who tried to convince him to go home and offered to teach him to box when he refused, ghastly who introduced him to the others.

Skulduggery does not have flames for eyes, does not glow with holy light and, as far as dexter can tell, does not have any extra special fancy magic nobody has ever seen before. A little bit of dexter is disappointed, but skulduggery is still the most intimidating person he's ever met - he only says four words to dexter the first time they meet: "You're in my way." - but dexter gets the impression that this is someone to whom bloody murder comes as naturally as blinking. His induction into the group is a gruelling three week mission to the scottish highlands, which he's fairly sure is supposed to put him off, but it doesn't.

And things go great, until saracen turns up.

Now, dexter has never really had much to do with The Aristos™ before, unless you count pickpocketing them and legging it with their valuables. But he knows that technically, both skulduggery and erskine come from very wealthy, landed families, and hes spent plenty of time with them, so he thinks he knows how rich people work. and like...yes, ravel has a tendency to be a bit stuffy and pompous, but the fact of the matter is that they've both spent over a century slumming it in the army - skug, especially, likes to lead from the front and lives the same way his men do. They've lost a lot of the inherent prejudices and snobbery that comes with being nobility in the 1700s. So nothing about either of them prepares him for saracen rue.

Saracen is your quintessential 1700s rich boy. He bought his commission - as opposed to skug, who enlisted with ghastly and came up through the ranks - and he arrives to meet with skug and corrival wearing a spotless uniform like a toy soldier in a shop window. His tent is obnoxiously elaborate, he has a wagon and horse to store it and his belongings, and the first thing he does is hand dex his bags like he expects him to set the tent up for him. Dexter looks at this gorgeous, glamorous man and then at skug - who wears battered leathers and gets into fistfights and sleeps outdoors with the rest of them without complaining, and wonders how on earth these two people came from the same sort of family

And - it's not that saracen intends to be offensive at all. He's very much attracted to dexter and wants him to like him. He's very jovial and friendly and he even makes skug laugh on occasion, which is a superpower in and of itself in the post-death, pre-vile days. But he's also kind of entitled and tends to be a bit superior, and he's one of those people who just...talk, and don't necessarily think too much about how what they say will sound before saying it.

For example: the case of the lost necklace. As a young boy, Dexter pickpocketed a locket from a distracted young nobleman, and gifted it to his mother, so she could feel like a lady. When he signed up to fight, his mother gave him the locket to wear and made him promise to bring it back to her when the war was over. During one mission Dexter ends up spending the night with saracen in his stupid fancy tent, and when they're postcoitally lazing, saracen mentions that he recognises the locket, a gift he'd bought for his sister - he knows the inscription written inside. Dexter is mortified, but saracen shrugs it off and casually reveals that when he'd realised it was gone, he'd simply commissioned another one. "You can keep it," he says magnanimously, before making a very off-colour joke about how after that performance, dexter certainly earned it. Dex, who has had to sell sex a few times to put food in his siblings' mouths, does not take this well, and things are complicated for a while - he's frosty, but saracen seems to like that, and they keep ending up in bed together and then bickering and ignoring each other and then repeating the cycle.

They have moments of tenderness, though - occasional at first, and then more often as the years go by. Saracen teaches Dexter to read and write, and learns how to scrap and play knucklebones in return. They drink together and tend to each other's wounds and try to figure out what the fuck is going on between skug and ghastly together, unaware that skug and ghastly are doing the same about them. Saracen dresses Dexter up in his fancy clothes and teaches him to walk and talk and dance like a gentleman, both of them howling with laughter the whole time, and then strips the fancy clothes off him and tells him he prefers him without them. They trade stories, and slights, and sweet nothings, amd over the years they become...something to one another.

And then there's Siberia, the mission to assassinate a man so terrible his own people called him "the butcher". Something goes wrong, they're forced to scatter, and when they meet back up at the rendezvous point, they're a man down. Saracen is missing.

Dexter is absolutely frozen with panic, and he doesn't know why. Skulduggery handles it with the same cool, detached competency he always has in a crisis, and the others seem to take their lead from him, but all dexter can think of is saracen, captured and injured and terrified, and how they've all heard that nobody survives the butcher's interrogations for more than 48 hours. The teleporter arrives to take them home, and they refuse to go, and somehow dexter stumbles through the next three days of searching for saracen in a blind fucking haze of fear, sleepless and sick to his stomach, chewing his nails down to the quick.

It's saracen who finds them, in the end, limping towards them sporting little more than some gnarly bruises, missing his jacket and wearing someone else's trousers. Dexter dives on him as soon as he's within arm's reach and they go down in the snow and he's crying like a child and as soon as they're done kissing he's smacking saracen in the chest, suddenly furious, snarling, "never do that to me again! Never do that to me again!" right up until skulduggery gets hold of him under the armpits and drags him off. That night, after the story of saracen's incredible escape has been told and retold and expanded with each telling, dexter tries to tell saracen how worried he's been, how scared he was, how he thought they might never see each other again. But he cant find the words, and he keeps stopping and starting and getting frustrated

And in the end, when it's clear dex isn't really getting anywhere with this, saracen puts his head back down in dexter's lap, shuts his eyes and says, "ah, shush. I love you too."

And they leave it at that

#Anon #fire message #skulduggery pleasant #sexter #vexrue #sp headcanons

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glottia-arts · 3 years

Text

For the honor of the Captain

Man, this took a lot longer to finish than I expected, having to deal with internet issues (I'm gonna write on my comp from now on instead of google docs), focus, and lack of ideas of how to get from point A to point Z. I apologize for the million year wait, @emizel, but this fic is finally finished! It probably wasn't worth the wait, but I still hope you enjoy regardless!

For anyone else reading, this is an AU for emizel's and my plot for MediEvil. Everything's mostly the same for this universe, the only difference is, is that emizel's character, Hilda, wound up turning into the Boiler Guard, Hecate. She is also very AU-ish on her own since this was my initial idea I had for her, but even though it's not the canon for the exact AU, emizel still encouraged my idea of this.

Warning: Character death, but they're already dead so does it entirely count?

Word Count: 4,344 _____

It was hard focusing on the task presented, worrying for the other residents of the castle. It was announced hours ago that Sir Daniel Fortesque approached the lair, having overtaken the fleet captain’s ship. The would-be hero was on a winning streak that far exceeded their own, and it was downright pitiful how he lucked out against Zarok’s army. Today, that would end. At least, that’s what Hecate hoped.

Her gaze had shifted to the gate several times during hers and Zarok’s preparations to shift into the last stage and conquer Gallowmere once and for all. The mechanical mage couldn’t help her actions, anxiety plaguing her mind on who would come from that entrance. No one was allowed in other than the Captain of the Boiler Guards, requiring to report his success. Sir Daniel, the blighter, would not adhere to such rules.

Kesten was strong, she’s always known this despite denying the concept in the beginning, but he’s lost several times over to that skeleton. This previous time he returned from the repair bay, there was a notable mark Fortesque left on the guard’s chest. The thought infuriated her once more, mixing with fear for the captain. What sort of powers had Fortesque obtained to harm her captain?

Hecate stumbled in her work, somewhat embarrassed from that silly mishap. Why was she thinking about it in a notion other than following under him? Her arms grew a little hazy in her flustered state, berating herself for such thoughts. Though she tried to ignore them, she couldn’t help but focus on it now.

Brief memories of their time serving under Master Zarok together filled her memory, her boiler growing full with happiness. The happiest she’s ever been since her creation has always been with him. Even before they began interacting outside of business, those times were special to her as well, no matter how dull.

Her furnace burned hotter, imagining how many more memories they could create when Zarok finally seized control of Gallowmere. It was a grand task and though it would be sometime before they could have peace to themselves, she relished the idea of relaxing with him. No hero’s to worry about and a brief respite from orders sounded heavenly to her. Perhaps they should venture out on their own accord for some alone time, with Zarok’s permission of course.

The sound of chugging metal caught both hers and her lord’s attention; Someone was coming by train. Hecate couldn’t run fast enough to the balcony to look at who arrived, her professionalism long forgotten. Zarok followed her at a much calmer pace, a barely audible chuckle escaping him prior to reaching her side.

“I believe that is the quickest I’ve seen you move yet, Hecate. You must be excited to witness the results of our defenses.”

If he wished to call it that, sure.

It felt like centuries waiting for her master’s creation to halt, her eyes glued to the opening as footsteps sounded off. Something dropped in her core, noticing the silhouette emerging from the shadows was not that of who she hoped for. Entering from the darkness and stepping to the center of the chamber was Sir Daniel Fortesque, scuffed up, but still roaming the earth.

Zarok disappointedly muttered to himself, “So Kesten failed again I see. I suppose it cannot be helped.”

Hecate struggled to hear her Master through the fog that now clouded her mind, her focus solely on the knight below them. Even the movements he made while addressing the hero and thereafter hardly caught her attention. Her boiler grew scorching hot the minute she caught sight of something that did not belong to Fortesque as he moved around; one of Kesten’s knives hung on the skeleton’s waist.

Her fists clenched as she placed them on the balcony to lean over the ledge.

Why does he have that!?

She was brought out of her anger at the touch of a hand, reminding her of her position and company. Standing tall, Hecate did her best to remain calm in front of her Master and the enemy. The idea was good on paper, but nothing could quell the rage boiling inside.

How dare he keep a trophy of their battle! He continues to mock Kesten, even after defeating him.

It disgusted her to witness the false hero carry that on him, only to have it as a prize. She watched as the blade went unused against the Fazghouls, only using that chalice to keep his summoned spirits afloat.

Coward, won’t even fight his own battles.

A flaming chain shot out at the cur, forcing him to dodge and her eyes to keep up with his movements. With the Fazghouls defeat, Master Zarok’s very last line of defense appeared; Lord Kardok.

Hecate knew the champion had seen the item when he sent a glance her way. She stiffened at the unwanted and unneeded attention and pity, feeling as if she’d break down from his gaze. Kardok must have picked up on this, returning his attention to his opponent and begun unleashing an unhuman assault of fiery madness upon him. She could tell he was just as furious over the news of Kesten’s loss as her, albeit for a different reason. He didn’t shy away from letting the hero know his own hatred in the form of several lashes.

The skeleton struggled as the attacks struck him but nevertheless managed to survive. Just when she thought Lord Kardok might be winning, the enemy pulled out a glove and channeled a lightning attack to push him back.

Clenching her fist, Hecate went rigid.

That must be the weapon that gave Kesten that mark.

It made sense. Lightning was one of the few substances that left scorch marks, especially on a Boiler Guard. The woman doubted he had any explosion inducing weapons on him, but she shouldn’t underestimate him; it was a mystery how he damaged Kesten until now after all.

In the brief respite, Dan downed a potion of some sorts even with Kardok’s soldiers coming to aid him. They were swiftly defeated with that accursed blue sword of his. Lord Kardok, not having gone against him before, was left unaware of the weapon’s strength. A briefing on it differed from facing the blade himself, and he more than likely believed he could handle it. His horse on the other hand…

Circling around towards the hero to ram him, Sir Daniel evaded the undead with a somersault. The sly cur put enough force into his arm as he went, the large blade colliding with the horse’s limbs to send the once majestic beast crashing to the ground. A loud cry fell from the pair’s mouths on their impact, a small pillar of fire following the collision. Cunning as the knight was, he knew to stay away as Kardok’s horse stood on fractured bones, ready to continue. The larger skeleton hit the ground with the mace ball, an enormous wall of fire shot at the hero, knocking him to his knees. Galloping to the now kneeling skeleton, Kardok’s horse was ready for revenge, leaving fire in their wake. Now on top of Fortesque, the creature released an angered neigh as they raised their hooves to bring them down on their enemy. Fortune continued to grace the skeleton, once again dodging the attack. Lucky for them, it positioned Sir Daniel point-blank to the horses flaming legs. He avoided the initial attack unscathed, but the burst of hellfire erupting from the stomp got him, sending the skeleton up into the air.

Yes! Lord Kardok has him!

With the skeleton defenseless, Lord Kardok began twirling the flail in his hand, murder looming in his eyes.

Perhaps he could never defeat Kesten, but destroying his ender would be the next best thing. She thought a little somberly.

Making his final descent, Sir Daniel still refused to give up now fiddling with his pouch. Kardok noticed this and flung the chain with as much force as possible, sparks of light radiating from the tool. The airborne skeleton glanced to the oncoming weapon, panic setting in with its speed, forcing him to feverishly dig through the bag, finally producing three daggers. With a flick of his wrist, a blade sped to collide with the spiked ball, another following to deter its path, and the final one to knock it in an alternate direction.

Hecate watched this all take place and was baffled that someone with one eye had the precision to achieve the accomplished task. Yes, she and every worker that mattered around here lacked physical eyes, but they didn’t require them.

She knew Zarok was stunned as well, his own body now bending over as he clutched his head with his free hand.

Unseen to the horsemen was Daniel’s hand reaching into his quiver, pulling out three glowing arrows.

Hecate knew what that meant.

Warrior pride be damned, she had to interfere. Her magic traveled faster than Zarok’s and though she required time to generate real damaging spells, a quick one should still at least halt Fortesque’s assault.

Her right hand gripped her staff and- wait… why is there nothing? Panicking, she looked to her hand to see it void. Head shooting in every direction seeking the metal rod, Hecate froze.

It’s in the other room near her station. She can’t run fast enough to get it either!

Head snapping towards the arena, time seemed to slow as Sir Daniel fired an arrow. Hecate felt sluggish as she bolted to the edge, trying to yell out for Kardok to move. Only, she was too late. The projectile had struck and created a blue explosion, merging with the red flames of the skeleton and his steed. Another arrow struck, further increasing the mass. The mage nearly dropped to her knees as the last arrow struck, a thundering cry echoing from the arena as Kardok went up into magical flames. In an instant, Zarok’s champion was no more.

She stared at the spot where her ally once stood, unbelieving what she watched. Zarok’s best warrior was incinerated. His greatest soldiers were gone. The elite guard he had so painstakingly created had fallen. Who’s to say what happened to everyone else in the castle.

Her mind went to Scrap, recalling the other Boiler Guards gave them an important task to carry out. What the mission was, she had no inkling, but her emotions plagued her still. Something wanted to escape from the openings of her eye plate. The shadow of the feeling brought a sense of questionable nostalgia. She has never experienced this before, yet it seems so familiar.

Dead eyes shifting to Fortesque, she nearly saw red. He made a safe return to the ground and was storing his bow away, eye looking to Zarok.

The wizard slammed his staff down in frustration. “Bugger! Right then, that’s it! I’ve just about had enough of your meddling!”

As he spun to leave, she called out, “Master Zarok, wait…”

He paused, a hint of annoyance in his tone. “What is it, Hecate? Can’t you see that I’m in the midst of something?”

Slowly facing him, she squeezed her hands, hardly feeling them anymore. “Let me fight your enemy, milord.” Brow raised, Zarok’s mouth down-turned further, unconvinced. Continuing, she did her best to not rattle. “Please… I can take him. You shouldn’t waste your valuable time on him, sir. My magic will destroy him before you know it.”

His dark eyes cast on the floor, gripping his chin with his free hand in thought. “You do have the best means to dispose of him… but you severely lack the speed which Kardok and Kesten possessed.”

Hecate flinched at the mention of Kesten’s name but continued. “I need just one hit and he’s easy prey. He’s tired from battling as well, Master, more vulnerable to mistakes.”

Zarok continued to stare at the floor, and she was thankful the skeleton below didn’t scale the wall to come after them. Her Master was good for split decision making, but right now he was struggling.

A few seconds later he sighed, reluctantly nodding. “Alright. But the second I find you unfit to battle, I am stepping in. With Kesten out of the painting, you have no means of protection.”

Her voice was lost to her, bowing in response before treading to the rear chamber to retrieve her staff. Picking up the forgotten rod, she clenched it so hard she was hoping to leave a dent. Her strength was not like his though. A small sob made it past her throat. She couldn’t focus on him right now, she had a skeleton to exterminate.

Reigning in her emotions, Hecate descended the stairway to the corridor that led to the arena. Blanketed by the dark, Sir Daniel did not see her, but she could clearly see him. Her ire reignited anew, and this time, she did not have to save face. Lingering no longer, she strode into the light with her staff in hand, preparing a spell. Might as well get a head start with a powerful one.

Sir Daniel’s unwavering sight now set on her fed the fire further. Surprising her, he stowed his regular blade on his belt, making no move to draw any of his other fancy weapons.

Was he already giving up?

Almost laughing to herself, Hecate shook her head. Sir Daniel knew how to tick her off. “Is this some game to you, Fortesque? You dare mock not only me but the other warriors you’ve fought within the castle walls! Draw your weapon!”

Shaking his head, he replied with near incomprehensible speech. “Nuh-uh.”

Furious as is, she was inflamed now. Literally. Sparks of fire radiating from her boiler. “I don’t mind an easy win, but it is disgraceful to those who fell if you don’t show me the same respect!”

The skeleton shrugged as he kicked the ground, seeming uninterested in what she had to say.

Magical attack nowhere near its full potential, Hecate aimed the staff head at him. She would have liked some form of a challenge and sweet revenge, but if he preferred to play that card, she’d send him back to where he belonged.

“Fine! Burn in hell, Fortesque!” Without as much of a warning, the blast of vile magic soared to him.

Sir Daniel’s attention finally drew to the speedy attack, sweating bullets by the looks of it. It was too late for him. He dug his grave with the lack of regard.

In a completely unexpected turn of events, he drew Kesten’s knife at the last second, a sense of fear following.

What was he doing!? She wanted to recover that after he perished, she couldn’t recover ashes!

Her thoughts were put on a screeching halt in the next minute; Sir Daniel had used the knife and sliced her spell in half, both parts disintegrating in on themselves.

Dumbfounded was an under exaggeration: What the hell happened!?

Apparently, he had not expected the results either, glancing in both directions where the fragments of her attack passed. Once it was confirmed he had in fact deflected the magic, his posture was more jovial as he shot her a smug look.

“Where did you get that knife!?” Both combatants focused on Zarok, his pale complexion somehow even paler. “Forget that, where did you learn you could do that!?”

Attention drawn to the skeleton, he twirled the weapon, shrugging.

“Hecate, you need to be more cautious with your attacks! That knife was enchanted in the event your magic ever grew out of control. It can destroy or deflect your attacks!”

Her head could not have angled toward Zarok any faster. “It what!? Why did you not tell me this before I came down here!? Actually, why was I not informed of this prior!?” Catching herself, she hurriedly added, “M-Master Zarok, forgive me, but it would have been nice to know everything about my partner’s artillery!”

“Now’s not the time for this conversation, Hecate, it was a ‘what if’ scenario. I didn’t expect the fool would use Kesten’s knife, let alone the enchanted one. It was hardly worth mentioning.”

This was knowledge she should have received at an earlier point. Like a few decades earlier! Why didn’t Zarok trust her with this information? What else was he hiding from her? Was Kesten aware he had an enchanted blade?

“I recognize that look Hecate, but you need to focus on the battle. Unless you call for my intervention?”

“No, sir. That is unnecessary.” A small amount of venom underlined her words, still not thrilled at the secret.

Footsteps began approaching, dragging her focus back to her foe. Taking aim, she flung another mass of energy at him, much weaker in contrast to the last. As before, Daniel deflected the blast with the knife. Panic overtook her as doubt set in for her abilities. She was better than this! Hecate began firing multiple spells at the skeleton as she backed away, desiring to maintain the distance in between them. Every attack cast was diverted or dodged as he advanced, her precision further faltering.

He was so close now.

She was unable to send an attack out as he was practically on top of her, slashing the knife straight down. Thankfully, she still had enough common sense to use her staff and block the attack. Much to her surprise, there wasn’t much force behind it. Hecate knew Sir Daniel was putting his all into it, his body tense from applying as much pressure as possible.

A wicked smile formed on her ‘lips’. The earlier fights exhausted him, leaving her the stronger of the two. How pitiful.

Humoring him, she gradually kneeled to one knee, pretending to struggle in their altercation. Almost leaning down to both, Hecate flipped the tables; pushing off her hind leg with as much force as she could, she effortlessly threw Dan off his footing, making him backtrack to catch his balance. Staff now free, it was used to strike at Sir Daniel’s legs, knocking him to the ground. She slammed the end of the object onto his torso to keep him in place, adjusting her hold as she approached.

Laughter burst from the balcony, almost camouflaging the sound of the train making its return. Hecate could only assume it was reinforcements, but she chose to ignore it in favor of her prey.

“My, my, how the mighty have fallen. I expected more of a fight from you, Fortesque, but I see my colleagues had all the fun.” She channeled her magic into her staff, the action not unnoticed by the hero. “I would have preferred a fair fight,” The skeleton eyed her incredulously, but she continued, “but I understand with the weapon you carry, it wouldn’t have been much of one. It’s a shame it all has to end like this. I was dying to disintegrate you piece by piece, make you wish you were never reanimated. I suppose we can’t all get what we desire in the end, no?”

The train outside stopped, unknown metallic sounds following, echoing into the night and room.

Staff nearly charged, Hecate felt more enraged as Sir Daniel looked to the entrance, a smile forming on his boney face.

“What are you staring at!?” His smug eye glanced back to her as soon as the creaking stopped. “You’re about to rejoin the dead and you have the nerve to smile at me like that!?”

“Hecate.”

Shocked at the interruption, she lost all concentration on her spell.

That voice…

Slowly, Hecate’s head twisted to the entrance, eyes unbelieving. “Kesten..?”

Low and behold, standing proud as ever with his firearm was the Captain of the Boiler Guards, Kesten. Several pieces of armor were missing, particularly the entirety of his left arm and parts of his legs, and was banged up to hell, but here he was. Standing. Still alive.

Her body shook, relieving pressure off the skeleton beneath, the conflict essentially forgotten.

“Well, well, you survived I see, Kesten.” The commander’s attention diverted from her to their Master. “But my oh my, you were in quite the brawl, weren’t you? I’m impressed you’re still standing with all that grime and incisions to your plating. Hecate was about to finish up taking care of Fortesque-”

Zarok was cut off as Kesten swiftly held his gun up, firing at the Wizard. A yelp sounded from him, dodging in the nick of time but not quite escaping the bullet. A string of blood escaped the wound that was now present along Zarok’s left cheek.

Hecate stared at the Captain, shocked at what he did. Zarok, likewise, slammed his staff down.

“Kesten! What has gotten into you!? Fortesque is your enemy, not me!”

Smoke now evaporated from the blunderbuss, Kesten lowered it. “I will fight your battles no longer, Zarok. You’ve used Hecate and I for far too long in this selfish game of yours to control Gallowmere.”

Appalled, the Wizard sneered at him. “What are you getting at, Kesten? I created you two and I can dismantle you both if I so choose!”

“I believe you’re aware of what you stole from both of us, Zarok.” Angling his head in her direction, he spoke words she didn’t expect to hear. “Captain, your orders!”

Still stunned, it was easy for Sir Daniel to knock her staff off himself and roll out of the way into a standing position. Dusting himself off, the skeleton shrugged.

“I think we know what the end goal here is, Kesten.”

Kesten nodded before truly focusing on her. Hecate struggled to pay attention to either of them as she backed up, confused more than ever. What was happening? Why was Kesten acting so strange? Why was he being friendly with their enemy? She didn’t understand.

“Hecate, don’t just stand there, kill them!”

She froze at the command, clutching her staff tight.

Kill… Kesten? She just… got him back. Surely he was jesting… right?

Hecate stared at the Boiler Guard, conflicted. She received direct orders from the Master, but this was Kesten. Could she bring herself to go through with it? To kill the one she grew so fond of?

“Hecate, don’t listen to him, he’s been manipulating us this whole time.” Zarok sent a green bolt of magic his way, sidestepping it he was forced to glimpse between both magic users.

“Be quiet, you malfunctioning miscreant!”

Smoke wafted from Kesten, the telltale signs of anger rearing its head. “I’m working better than ever without your mind control spell plaguing my mind you wretch!”

Another blast of magic fired and missed, this time on Zarok’s account. “What would make you assume such a thing, Kesten?” A brief pause before the wizard began cackling and gestured to Dan. “Was it that good-for-nothing knight over there? I knew he had a way with words, but to fool you? I’m appalled you believed such drivel.”

Smoke exploded out of Kesten’s boiler and even his unarmored arm started to dissipate into steam. Verbal anger was one thing with the Captain; frightening and something to avoid at all costs. This new silent rage spoke of danger, putting Hecate on edge.

The Captain appeared normal, but he had changed in so little time. It was like he was someone else. Did Kesten speak the truth with mind control? Or was Zarok correct in Kesten’s impairment?

Hecate weighed the facts and all sources pointed to…

With an iron grip on her staff, she channeled magic into it. Fear and anger coursed through her body, adrenaline high as her head snapped to Sir Daniel. His expression grew nervous once more, holding his hands up in a placating matter.

He murmured out to Kesten, seeking to gain the Captain’s attention while also not trying to set Hecate off.

“You… this is your fault.” Now it was her turn to slam the end of her staff down, the action causing the tip to glow brightly. Unable to stop a palm from moving, she gestured about while yelling at the skeleton. “Everything was fine until you returned from the grave! We would have conquered Gallowmere and not lost anyone without your interference! You destroyed everyone I knew! Damaged the Captain!” She took aim, unhearing the fast footfall and explosions going on behind her. “I won’t forgive you for that, Fortesque! For my Captain and Zarok’s honor, I will destroy yo-urk!”

Sharp pain in the backside of her boiler forced her to preemptively fire her attack, missing the undead by just a fraction. She hasn’t experienced this kind of pain since her early years, back when she believed she could handle everything without Kesten. The woman couldn’t even move her body, it hurt so bad. Still, she forced herself to twist her head and see if she could make out the offender. Her body began to shake more beyond the physical injury.

“W-why..?”

Towering behind her was Kesten, leaning over some but still shadowing over her. With his close proximity and the green and black smoke that billowed from her body, she already knew what had caused the suffering. He had stabbed her in the back with his knife.

Zarok’s ranting and cursing was audible, but no outside sounds registered. All senses were hyper-focused on the Captain.

Pain erupted once more as she felt the knife leave her, but it stung nothing like the silence of the other Boiler Guard. The discomfort grew as she stumbled to her knees, unable to look at him further. Her staff dropped in favor of curling in on herself, clutching at her midsection. The effort caused the injury in her back to ache worse, but she did not care. The sting of betrayal brought a distorted choke from her.

Another chill shook her frame as she heard a soft click, followed by the barrel of a gun pressing to the back of her head.

Every sense all but faded away, her concentration on the weapon. One thing she thought she might have imagined was the soft words of “I’m sorry” before everything went dark. _____

Part 2 Part 3

#Kesten #Hecate #Boiler Guard #original character #MediEvil #Zarok #Sir Daniel Fortesque #Lord Kardok #AU #glottia writes

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thedreammweaver · 3 years

Text

Gotham New Orleans Backstory Infodump: Oswald

Warnings: racism, hate crimes, hate groups, blood, grief, murder, ptsd

Oswald was born to two French freakshow performers. A woman named Violette with syndactyly with heat sensitivity due to that and a man with Marfan syndrome named Herold. They didn’t originally have last names but Violette made Cobblepot out of a rude nickname she was called as a child for her weight during the time she was in an orphanage, “pot de pavés” her caregivers comparing carrying her to lugging around a pot of cobblestones. Oswald was born in Paris as the circus was touring around Europe for most of the time Violette was pregnant with him but soon after that they went over to America and ended up in the South/Deep South a lot of the time.

The only animals the circus had were two horses (the carriages/trailers were pulled by cars so the horses weren’t used for that) four dogs and six Humboldt penguins dubiously acquired from an aquarium going out of business. Some of the owners tried to add more dangerous animals over the years but the performers always pushed back on that, especially Violette, as they’d seen how bad it went when you tried to make wild things bigger than you do tricks.

Oswald’s father was billed as a living skeleton, he painted himself to look like one during performances where he did sword and flame swallowing. Oswald’s mother was billed as a mermaid, mostly spending the day in a tank wearing a brightly coloured wig and tail with penguins in the tank as well. Since she was sitting a lot she could still preform while pregnant with Oswald and with the water and ice she could cope on hot days. The freakshow/circus, called Les Trois Lions, went through a few bad owners and it definitely wasn’t perfect for everyone there, but was better than some other freakshow conditions. Oswald’s parents adored him, his mother being the first one to call him penguin.

When he was two and the show was traveling through the Deep South as it usually did, klan members invaded the camp after having threatened the circus a few times. All Oswald remembers from that night was fire and hiding behind a turned over table while his mother had her hands over his ears, whispering prayers to herself.

When Oswald was three he snuck away during a show and managed to climb up on a carriage and take a tumble hard enough to break his right leg which didn’t heal right as no doctors in the area the show was in at the time would attend to him.

During Oswald’s childhood his parents made a point to not put him on stage unless he wanted to be up there and only for a few seconds at a time.

Growing up there were a few more occasions where Les Trois Lions was threatened by locals and more klan members. He witnessed his father get desperate, trying and failing to get help from police a few times, especially in the more southern areas. He watched his dad get asked things like “Are you talking back to me?” While simply trying to explain the threatening behaviour of locals. Of course most police officers wouldn’t listen to outsider ‘freaks’ over locals and they were generally no help.

In his early adolescence it was clear Oswald was inherting his father’s height and was starting to look imposing to others. Oswald’s parents knew he would be seen as extra threatening so they cautioned him to never raise his voice or show any anger or fight back in general.

Due to heart issues and muscular dystrophy because of his condition Oswald’s father decided they should retire from the circus. His parents ended up owning a small restaurant near Gotham that had an upper level that they lived in.

When Oswald was freshly 15 he was almost lynched. His father came and saved him. The three men that did it broke his bad leg and at this point his parents didn’t trust doctors to help and it wasn’t treated, the malunion got worse going from him having a minor limp to a very pronounced one. Oswald has an intense trauma response with any choking sensation or anything around his neck because of the experience and it contributes to an anxiety with crowds and specifically grocery stores he developed over time.

They got a bit of trouble from locals every now and then but things there were mostly happy for the rest of Oswald’s teenage years.

One night Oswald, who is 20 at this time, is closing up for the night downstairs and a burglar comes in who is in a mask and significantly smaller than Oswald. Oswald could’ve easily over powered him but he’d been told so much not to get aggressive so he didn’t do anything thinking if he acted submissive as he usually did things would be alright. The burglar said to him “Just stay down and we won’t have any problems, big guy.” before going upstairs. Both of his parents ended up being shot dead that night by the burglar who escaped.

When Oswald went to the police they did nothing, he spent most of those days not eating or sleeping and wandering around in an indescribable depression.

Usually he would avoid backroads at night but he wasn’t thinking straight and ended up wandering down one which resulted in him being abducted by a group of three mostly inebriated men who intended to kill him. They had given his parents and the restaurant trouble before. They were beating him up and taunting him while calling him slurs and a freak. At this point he stopped trying to control his temper and slaughtered them.

The next day there was more investigation into the murder of these men than there was into the death of Oswald’s parents which fully propelled him to spiral into becoming The Penguin.

He wanted to be with the circus again because it was familiar to him but when he tracked it down in France he found that all the members had either died or moved on.

Oswald was still in search of companionship and revenge. On his way back to Gotham from France he encountered the first of a few of his employ. Oswald has a habit of going around the hospital and paying random people’s bills which is where he met a couple of his other companions. A list will be after some more details.

Upon returning, Oswald ended up moving into a farmhouse house that was built in the 60s almost an hour out of Gotham that he expanded into a mansion of sorts.

Oswald still has penguins, they live under the Iceberg Lounge which doubles as Mr. Freeze’s lair. He has two bull sharks that live in the lounge as well, one of the walls being turned into an aquarium wall. The sharks are called Odile and Odette. When Oswald purchased the lounge he also bought the empty building next to it which is where the rest of the tank is. Oswald uses that empty-ish building for some of his bloodier business, like torturing people for info on his parents’ killer. King Shark has a bedroom there.

In Oswald’s early years as a criminal due to his adoption of his father’s skeletal aesthetics and his appearance a lot of people were under the impression that he was a demon, his tendency to not fully show his face during these days didn’t help. Oswald was active for a year and a half as Penguin before Batman became fully Batman. At first Oswald wanted Batman to join the rogues, he was very respectful with his proposals but once Batman didn’t return that respect Oswald’s mercy and patience ran out, his addressing of Batman as “Sir” turning to “Boy”. He has presently been Penguin for over 10 years.

Oswald is demiromantic and greysexual, he’d never been in a relationship before, he wasn’t looking for one but once he got very close to Ed he found it impossible to not give into falling for him.

Oswald eventually tracked down the murderer of his parents, Josh Witting, and killed him in his parents’ old restaurant. He put Josh’s body on the pike in front of his house just as he planned.

Some Additional Details:

Violette’s favourite animal was elephants so Oswald likes little trinkets and things of them.

Details on his crew

He’s 6’8

His voice sounds pretty much exactly like William Marsh in the 1972 film Blacula. Touches of French slip into his accent out now and then. He can yell loud enough to make windows shake.

He only travels by horse drawn carriage as cars make him feel sick and don’t usually accommodate him.

He uses weaponized umbrellas but has also been known to use a heavy chain as a whip. Sometimes he uses his fathers old swords.

Flirtatious remarks usually go over his head.

His parents used to sing Good Old Summertime to him a lot. His father had a habit to sing but especially sang the song Sweet Violets to Oswald’s mother.

When his crew is doing crimes with him/running errands for him, like going to the grocery store since his anxiety is too intense to go himself, they wear a plague doctor costume altered to fit some of Ozzie’s aesthetics (purple trim, skeleton motifs, etc.) King Shark and Zsasz don’t have this uniform though.

He plays the pipe organ.

He rides a clydesdale that he paints to look like a skeleton. He has four other clydesdales.

To cope with the death of his parents he started collecting and fixing antique toys, one of the rooms in his house overflowing with them.

Even though he has a cell phone he likes calling Edward on his very old phone in his house cause he likes the aesthetic and thinks it’s romantic.

#oswald cobblepot #the penguin #gotham New Orleans #infodump

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isabella-aldwyn · 3 years

Text

Isabella Aldwyn

Skeleton: The Hoyden Name: Isabella Rose Aldwyn Age: 24 Family Title: Viscounty Cheltenham About: See Below FC: Caitlin Stasey

O1 ━◞ ISABELLA

Being the eldest of the female Aldwyns was always a curse for Bella, specifically because of her personality. Headstrong, independent and stubborn, if you told her to go left, she would go right without a moment’s hesitation. And when she did so, she’d speak with such a sweet and charming tongue abreast mirthful giggles that you’d always sigh in defeat because you simply can’t turn down that look of sheer joy. Known among the household to be as unruly as a wild stallion yet to be broken in, many of the house staff and family members who must manage her affairs are often chasing after her, her body racing as quickly as her mind (and attention span). Upon hearing such comments, Bella wholeheartedly agrees that she proudly has the spirit of a stallion, wild-hearted, adventurous and happy to indulge in what freedom she can taste. She believes very strongly in making her own decisions and following her own path, an opposite sentiment to what she’s been taught all her life and she struggles constantly with the tension of what she selfishly wants and what’s expected of her.

Bella wears her heart on her sleeve, unashamedly expressing her highest highs and lowest lows. Neither does she shy away from confrontation. Especially when displeased or when facing conflict, she will say it as it is, no matter how hard she tries to keep her mouth shut. Her loose tongue has gotten her into deep trouble more than she’d like to admit.

While impulsive, Bella also lacks any sense of self-preservation. At her best, it means she will go above and beyond (perhaps even at her own expense) to those she loves and are loyal to. At her worst, Bella wouldn’t realize she’s in danger if she was looking at a wolf six feet away. (To be quite honest, she’d possibly try and attempt to tame it.) As such, her schemes and fun often get away from her and put her in arguably dire circumstances.

The world outside her tiny universe in the Aldwyn estate always drew bella to it like a moth to a flame. It took time and numerous failed attempts to learn how to sneak out of the house; from taking advantage of the servant exits, to bribing the footmen, to convincing her maid Nancy to accompany her. When she managed to escape from her governess, Bella would explore Cheltenham (or London depending on the season) and became acquainted with as many of the townspeople and the common folk as she could. At times, her brother, Harry, would sneak out from his studies to accompany her. Other times, she would visit her cousin, Simeon, and wrangle his arm to convince him to take her around.

O2 ━◞ FAMILY

Teresa di Santa Maria del Ponte, the fiery ninth daughter of a Marquis in one of the Papal states in Rome, had not intended to marry an English man. But when Philip Aldwyn visited Italia for business and he met the saucy girl, it is as they say -- it was history. Teresa, who hailed from a large family, only wished to instill the same warmth in her own family. Teresa was fortunate enough to survive childbirth of nine children -- two sons, Edmund and Henry (”Harry”) and then seven daughters. (See more about Bella’s siblings here.)

As Teresa hoped, the Aldwyn siblings were as close as can be. Even as a wee child, Bella liked to follow her brothers, especially Edmund and all his schoolboy friends. But it was Harry who she was closest to. Proximate in age, they grew up as best friends. Harry would let her get away with the most, defend her against Edmund and their parents, and even assist her little acts of rebellion. Of all their family members, Bella believes that Harry is the only one to truly understand her desire to make her own choices and have her own thoughts.

In the same vein, Bella dotes on her younger sisters, often pushing her sisters towards following their passions and to ignore the pending doom of being married off. Her mother and governess, all too aware of bella’s tendency to spoil and lead her sisters astray, are particularly firm in their discipline with the younger Aldwyns.

The Aldwyns had intended to debut Isabella when she turned 20, but after having her heart broken by her first love, she begged her parents to delay her entrance. This was followed by both her Father’s passing, and then Edmund’s passing only years after, which delayed her debut further. Now considered rather late for her first Season, Bella is debuting with her two younger sisters simultaneously. She is more than aware that her Mama is anxious for her eldest daughter to make the first match and set the precedent for her six (6) other daughters. In light of the recent deaths, and the taking up of the mantle by Harry, who had never prepared for the role as Viscount, a secure marriage would assure their old name continued to thrive, despite the recent tragedies.

However, Bella still struggles with Edmund’s sudden and mysterious death. Paired with the loss of her closest brother who must throw himself headfirst in being the Lord Cheltenham, Bella has been left stranded and alone in direction. What Bella is unawares of a dark shifting behind the scenes that may had led to Edmund’s death.

The Aldwyn name is one of old money and old title, passed down from generations. Despite only being a viscounty, their family is known for their wealth and fortune. Bella had never given thought to how the Aldwyns made their means. What she does not know is the unseemly business that her Father, Edmund, and cousin ran -- that the Aldwyn fortune is dirty and has been for generations, their family having multiple hands in the shadowy sides of England and beyond. From the talk of the town, she had heard rumours milling about pertaining to the secrecy behind their mass fortune and snippets of her father’s reputation -- ones that slandered him, claiming that anyone who spoke dirty of their family would be ridden of. Such rumours were always quashed as fast as they appeared. Neverthless, Bella finds it hard to believe her sweet father and her doting brother who were widely respected in the Ton would be anything but honourable.

O3 ━◞ LIKES, QUIRKS, AND TIDBITS

Growing up in Cheltenham, a region famed for its horse breeding and informal horse racing (soon to be formal in 1815 actually!), meant Bella was no stranger to horse riding. She had been riding with her Brothers since she was old enough to walk and handle a horse. Her favourite past-time is exploring the town and surrounding landscapes with Harry and her horse, Athena. Since childhood, bella always sought to be outdoors, preferring to run around on the grounds or to swim in nearby waterholes. Unfortunately, the older she became, the less she was permitted to do so.

Archery being one of the more active upper class activities that she is ‘permitted’ to engage in passionately, Bella is an excellent archer, and enjoys showing off her bowmanship at any garden or picnic event. Though she would not claim to be as polished in her pall-mall skills, she is irrationally competitive with the game. If she were to identify a reason, she would blame how often she and her siblings played in their childhood.

Having seen the way her parents looked at each other, Bella believes in marrying for love. That being said, the Season is not the most fitting of circumstances, and Bella finds herself more irritated than not after being constantly compared and sold around like cattle. The thought has crossed her mind to not marry as the biggest act of rebellion but finds herself waning in resolve at the thought of how it would affect her siblings. And she also has not put the possibility to rest that she possibly could be as fortunate as her parents and not only fall in love, but have the cards fall into perfect position.

Tidbit 1: Her birthday is February 18.

Tidbit 2: If she is to be courted, the way to her heart is dancing. Bella has every quadrille, every waltz memorized, enough so she can dance the steps in her sleep.

Tidbit 3: Though she lacks the attention span to make the most of her studies, bella does happen to have excellent visual memory, allowing her to play the lyre or the pianoforte from memory in short bouts. (Excellent party trick!) She does rather enjoy music, especially that of the lyre where she is not forced to sit.

Tidbit 4: She has a scar around her neck from an unfortunate horse-riding incident from when she was 12. Consequently, she is never without a large necklace. It is what she is most self-conscious of.

O4 ━◞ SECRETS

One of her dearest friends who she had met from town is one of the girls at her cousin’s whorehouse. There have been rumours that she frequents the place, more than any proper lady should, but not enough to have ever made trouble.

Something happened that scared her and that she’s buried deep in her memory; something that her Father covered up for her before he died. Will expand on this as roleplay goes. Dun dun dun.

#introduction #tw. death #tw. murder

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thecleverdame · 4 years

Text

Gods of Twilight - 14

Alpha!Werewolf!Sam x Human!Reader

Master List (posting schedule is there as well)

Summary: You marry Sam, The King of Lebanon, as part of an alliance between two lands. You soon discover that nothing is as it appears and that your husband is hiding a secret that may end your relationship before it can begin.

Warnings: smut, dub-con, canon-level violence, domestic discipline, spanking

Beta: @ilikaicalie

*This story is complete. All 27 chapters are available on Patreon. To get access to this and many other stories, subscribe for a pledge of 2.50 per month. CLICK HERE

Golda told you about the ruins of a Cathedral near the southern border of Lebanon. The immense structure is now little more than the skeleton of a church that was ravaged by fire a lifetime ago. The natural explorer in you hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it.

The past couple of months had brought snow for weeks on end, but there’s a break in the weather. The sun is shining through your window for the first time in forever and you’re interest is renewed. You plead with Sam to allow you to venture out. He was skeptical at first, he’s getting ready to lead a party out to the borderlands and he’s been hesitant for you to venture outside the castle without him.

In the end, he agrees, but with terms. While he can’t go himself he’s entrusted you to the always faithful Philip. But he wasn’t satisfied with just one knight.

That’s how Dean ended up riding beside you, one hand gripping the reins as he looks off into the distance.

Each breath puffs out in a hot little cloud, the air is icy but you’re plenty warm, wrapped in a thick fur cloak.

“Thank you for accompanying me,” you look to Dean who remains stoic.

“I wasn’t given much of a choice,” he grumbles, pursing his lips in indignation.

“Still,” you press, refusing to let him sour your mood. “The fresh air is invigorating, even if it’s a bit nippy.”

“I’ve had enough fresh air for a lifetime.” He shifts in his saddle.

He’s a handsome man, there’s no denying that, but his awful disposition has made him less and less appealing as time goes by.

“And how are you this afternoon, Philip?” You turn the one person you’re always able to depend on for a kind word, even if half of what he tells you is designed to placate you.

“Very well, my queen,” he nods, his eyes darting from Dean to you. “Always a pleasure to be out of the castle.”

“It’s some solace knowing that not everyone is tortured with my presence.”

Dean groans, rolling his eyes and giving his horse a kick as he rides ahead.

“We’re close,” Philip explains, remaining at your side. “The ruins are just through that tree line.”

He points off into the distance and through the naked branches of the dead forest, you can see a crumbling spire reaching upward toward the sky.

“It must have been enormous if that’s the leftover.”

Philip nods. “It was. People came from hundreds of miles to worship here. The place still feels sacred, even what’s left of it. Come on, there’s a path just head.”

You follow Philip through the forest and out into the clearing. As the trees open up there are the ruins of the mighty cathedral. Half of it still stands perfectly erect, as if God himself reached down and sliced the stone in two. What still stands is long charred from fire and smoke, still black from the flames all those years ago. The other half of the structure is nothing more than a low stone outline, showing where the outer wall of the far side of the church used to be.

Dean is milling around, gathering kindling to make a fire. He doesn’t even look up as you dismount and hand the reins of your horse off to Philip. The knight throws your saddlebag over his shoulder, following as you make your way around the ruins. It’s easy to imagine what this looked like before, grand and opulent, especially for a cathedral tucked into the countryside.

You find a spot with the best view and then take the bag from Philip, pulling out parchment and coal for drawing. You’re a terrible artist but enjoy it nonetheless. Trying to put the image on paper somehow sears the details into your brain.

For several hours you draw, then read a bit before feeling true cold set in. The afternoon must be fading as foretold by the severe drop in temperature. Dean’s fire is still smoldering and he warms you a cup of pine tea before the journey home. It’s warm in your hands and even warmer down your throat.

“Thank you,” you nod, savoring every bit of heat you can.

Dean shrugs, taking a nip from his flask. “I can’t have you freezing to death. Sam would kill me.”

“I’m still grateful-”

“Don’t do that.” He cuts you off, looking you dead-on for the time first today. “There’s no need for your polite production when it’s just us.”

“It’s not a production,” you respond calmly. “I’d hoped that perhaps some time together would help to foster our relationship, but I can see I was wrong.”

“You can’t help yourself can you?” Dean snickers, holding his hands out to heat them by the fire.

“Help myself from what? I’m simply trying to suss out exactly why it is you hate me so,” you spit back, feeling your hackles rise.

“Everything you do is a dance, carefully choreographed to fit into whatever the situation brings. My brother is blinded by his lust for you but I’m not as easily fooled. I haven’t yet figured out what it is that you want, but I will. I see you for what you are.” He’s agitated, cheeks blooming redder in the fading light.

You’re dumbfounded, staring at him in genuine confusion.

“And what exactly is it that you think I am?”

“I’m not sure. But you set yourself up quite nicely to appear as some sort of saint, defending the poor and unvalued. The way you came here, the way you’ve wormed your way into Sam’s head by getting into his bed. I see it all. And I’m not the only one.”

“Excuse me,” you gasp, taken aback. “I’ll not have the intimate details of my marriage made a topic of conversation.”

“It’s far too late for that. Besides, you don’t think Sam told me straight away the first time he fucked you? Knotted you? You’ve got him spinning, he’s so enamored he can’t see the forest through the trees.”

“You will not speak to me like this.” You sputter, trying to stand but slipping on the hardening snow only to sit back down, anger building inside you. “You are out of line.”

“Please,” Dean’s on a roll now, unable to temper his disdain as he glares at you. “The worst part of all this that you don’t even understand what it is that you’re playing at. After Ruby, I thought he’d learned his lesson. But I should have known he’ll always be deceived by a beautiful face. He’s supposed to be the one with the level head but not with you whispering to him in the night like some kind of siren.”

“Stop!” You cry, clutching your fists. Tears spill over the edge of your eyes, utterly gutted by his unwarranted hostility. He hates you. No, this is more than hate.

Somewhere along the way you’ve become the enemy.

“You’re brave though, I’ll give you that.” He laughs dryly, waving his finger. “Telling him to stay in your bed during his rut-”

“He can’t!” It’s Philip who pipes up, the exclamation leaving his lips before he can stop himself, but Dean doesn’t seem to mind his reaction.

“Aye,” Dean nods, looking from Philip to you. “She’s convinced him that it’s the only way.”

“He’s my husband!” you spit back, leaning forward to counter. “A wife wanting to keep her husband from another woman is certainly not out of the ordinary.”

“And if you survive it, he’ll be even more bewitched, won’t he? Wrapped around your finger out of loyalty and obligation. My God,” Dean hisses, unrestrained disgust seeping from his veins. “It must be worth it, whatever it is that you have planned. And if it doesn’t work out you won’t be around to reap the consequences. He’ll never be able to forgive himself if he hurts you, and if all goes well you’ll give him a child by this time next year. No would be able to touch you after that.”

“You sir, are out of line,” you whisper, vibrating with anger and shock, hardly able to believe what you’re hearing.

“Sam always said I was the one who was out of control but there’s something between your legs that melts his reason-”

“Enough,” Philip is beside you now. Your eyes widen as he stands tall and Dean rises in opposition. He shouldn’t speak, certainly not challenge the brother of the king. “You don’t hear the things I hear. He hurts her, she calls out when he’s-”

Philip realizes his insolence mid sentence, stopping short and looking in horror to Dean.

“I’m so sorry, my lord.” He bows his head, clasping his hands together.

“Watch your tongue,” Dean snorts, turning at you. “You think you have everyone fooled, but not me, little witch. I’m watching.”

He kicks a load of snow onto the fire and heads toward his horse.

“We should go, the sun will be setting soon and you need to back inside the walls before dark.” Philip walks off as well, leaving you by the dying fire in shock and confusion.

You’re seated in front of the fire in a self-made nest of blankets, trying to get warm. Your mother always told people you have thin blood, every time there was a breeze you asked for a cloak and in the winter you were never able to stay warm. It’s worse here, Lebanon has brutal winters and once you get cold it’s nearly impossible to warm up.

Watching the flame you replay Dean’s words over and over in your brain. You’ve rarely been on the receiving end of such contempt, even your mother was far more uninterested than spiteful, but Dean hates you with a vengeance, that much is clear.

You’ve just fallen asleep when Sam returns, inching into the room trying to stay quiet. He spots you asleep on the floor and smiles, untying his cloak and toeing off his boots.

Hearing the rustle you sit up, spying him in the shadows.

“Hello,” you mumble, wiping at your cheeks. “You’re late, I was starting to worry.”

“We got caught up…” he cocks his head, reaching into the basin of water on the side table, splashing water on his face and rinsing his hands off. “Have you been crying?”

“No,” you sniffle, rolling your eyes at your inability to remain composed. “Perhaps a bit.”

“Why?” He slinks toward you, illuminated by the firelight. Watching you carefully he sinks down, reaching out to cup your jaw. “Did someone hurt you?”

“Your brother is an absolute ass.” You shake your head. Dean’s awful words come back into memory, spurring more tears. “And I am a child for letting his words bother me so.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Sam rumbles, reaching out and scooting forward in tandem until you're between his legs. Big, strong arms engulf you as you rest your cheek against his shoulder. “You’re shivering, did you just return?”

“No, the midwife thinks I have poor veins.” Feeling the warmth and strength you felt against his chest, happy to have at least one person who wants you in his life. “Please, don’t tell Dean I was like this. I shouldn’t like to give him the satisfaction of knowing he had such an effect on me.”

“What did he say?” Sam strokes your hair softly, his chin resting on top of your head.

“Nothing that I wish I repeat.”

Above all else, you’re stubborn. You always have been. Telling you not to do something only sparks the need for you to prove your aforementioned detractor wrong. And you’re going to prove Dean wrong.

“Let’s go to bed,” Sam presses a kiss into your hair. “Take your nightdress off, it’ll be easier to warm up that way.”

You both disrobe, crawling into the cold bed only to be surrounded by Sam’s raw, animal heat. His body radiates warmth, his skin on yours does the trick as you sink into this safe place.

“Sam, you’ll stay with me when your rut comes, won’t you?” you whisper, wiggling your backside into the softness of his belly. “You promised me you would try. I need to know you won’t go to her.”

“This is what you’re worried about?” His lips are at your shoulder, hot breath curling like smoke that sends a shiver down your spine. “What did my brother say to you?”

“This isn’t about him. I need to hear you say the words, promise me.”

Sam hums at the shell of your ear before nuzzling his nose into your hair. “I promise you.”

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