mathias-meadowshine

[mathias-meadowshine]

((He IS an asshole...but a lovable one?))

Winding Down to Start Up

The books are coming in. 

I watch as the ships come into port and I find my heart going out with them. I’ve never been a voyager, and it’s not the voyage I want to take. My sense of adventure isn’t out there. It’s here, inside me. My sense of adventure lies within watching the ships come into harbour.  What adventures did Captain Mathias have? Was he sidelined by marauding Naga? Did the Goblin pirates come and threaten to take my inventory and was Captain Mathias left swashbuckling across the deck to defend the honour of my books.  That is an amusing thought.  The Adventures of Captain Mathias. No, I’ll have to change his name. Something more gallant, Captain Mathias sounds like a cranky Gilnean with a beard that’s too long… Maybe that’s what I want. But then the name should be more Gilnean.  Captain Elijah Blackrose and the Heist of the King’s Library. 

I feel that I may have the inspiration for a new book series. A new take on two-copper prose. Not that I’d ever stop writing my smut, just the idea of something new, a better legacy in the off chance I have kids.  “What did mom write?” “Smut.” Smut and pirates is progress.  Oh, Captain Elijah Blackrose…  Watch, your inspiration is going to be a complete asshole.  That’d be my luck. z

This is why I like my adventures in books. Reality is so disappointing.  

#cossima #friend writing #character mentions #he will protect those books with his LIFE

[mathias-meadowshine]

My favorite type of characters are “they’re not dumb but they are a dumbass”

[mathias-meadowshine]

#something he's only just now realizing

[mathias-meadowshine]

Observations

I spoke about Them the other night.

I’m not entirely sure what possessed me to actually bring them up in conversation, and not just dance around and avoid the subject of family like I should have done. There’s nothing good to say about them in the first place, and it always puts me in a foul mood thinking about anything at all to do with them and everything they did– or didn’t, as the case may be. Did I think it would make me feel better, loosening up and speaking about myself with someone I trusted? Well, it didn’t, and soured the mood completely, and reinforced the rules I’ve kept to thus far in keeping my mouth shut about my personal business. He nearly had me talking about the folk from the Shady Grove: Aesalisse, Theranfier, Sinalie, Corusien, Chandres… Writing their names alone makes me ache. My real family, the people I shed blood for, and with, and at the very least I kept that all to myself. Not that I deserve to have their memory on my lips; they certainly don’t.

I’ve been thinking about them more lately, especially as I watch the seas for signs of Naga that the local security force has warned might be coming to the island. It’s how I’ve been spending quite a bit of my spare time, when I’m not working in the tavern in the village. There’s an old watchtower up above the woods by the coastline I’ve taken to watching from, with a bottle of something easy to nurse and a book or just You, with all my sketches and attempts to not forget the bulk of my Underveil. And, it seems, thoughts of what the hell I’m even doing still on this island.

Mathias sounded surprised that I was still around, given my claims of not liking being stuck in one place for too long. He was right to be surprised, given how surprised I am myself that I’ve been here for long enough that it almost looks as though I have roots growing from my toes. My first mistake, I suppose, was coming to a tavern established as a home for the wayward folk to reject the direction of the outside world. What more did the Grove feed on, and who else did I first discover the meaning of family but with sorts like those? It’s familliar, and I suppose that makes me weak to it.

When news of naga presence first surfaced, my first thought was to gather up my things and disappear again, this time for proper. Find another water hole, another port, another alleyway. But… I didn’t. I took my things to the shore, walked the beaches and the craggy stones and the tower overlooking the expanse of molten metal sea that surrounds this island of Tol Barad. Against my better judgement, something anchors me here (Hah, for a port-village. Anchored) in a way that brings ghosts back to whisper at me when my life is at its quietest moments.

We’ll see. For now, the other people here seem happy enough to have me about, so I’ll keep on indulging them. None seem to be the particularly prying type, so I can keep my business to myself just fine providing I keep my own mouth shut, or someone can give me a good enough reason to make them miserable with my irrelevantly irritating personal baggages. I’m not holding my breath. ~ Naga breech shore contact disappointed looking? left

#character mentions #friend writing #these stupid fucking boys

[mathias-meadowshine]

Heart of the Raven: Meet the employees, Mathias Meadowshine.

@mathias-meadowshine

[mathias-meadowshine]

A Few Extra Hours

He’d risen early, as though a few extra hours of sunlight would make all the difference. Maybe it did. He was far from weightless as he moved from mattress to sink, counter to dresser, but the stained-glass dawn warmed his skin through the skylight, and it was almost as good.

The minutes stretched and shook off the night as he saw to packing for the Eco-Dome. Socks, another set of clothes, more socks, and his journal. Some ink, and a pen he wouldn’t mourn too deeply if lost. Cigarettes and his favourite baggy cardigan. At some point in his packing, he found himself slotted in against the bed, knees pressed into the lightly worn rug. Beside him sat the nightstand, along with the knowledge that he hadn’t dared to open it in months.

He’d talked about it- about everything that happened in Argus, and everything that had happened since- as though it existed somewhere on a shelf. Stardust and cobwebs he couldn’t shake, but that he could easily avoid if he tried. The truth was that most of what he held onto was never very far from reach. It all sat tucked into this drawer, like one chamber or another in his patchwork heart.

The past week had rattled it all, and left him much the same. He’d thought- no, he hadn’t at all, really. But he’d tried at least, to just walk back into his life, as though the past couple years hadn’t happened at all. Like he was still the same grinning show-off, cracking wise at the coffee shop or finding fate by the light of a forge.

A chill ran under his ribs, and the lukewarm coffee on his tongue did nothing for it, bitter black down to the end of his cup. (He never added sugar, though he craved sweetness like little else.)

The truth didn’t sting as much as he thought it would. But that’s just how it is with slow, trickling bleeds. You have time to adjust, get used to how it feels, until you have yourself convinced it doesn’t really hurt. Lyn understood, on the steps of the Shielded Mind with no sense of her own maternal tendencies. She held firm while he lashed out, all white-knuckled fear and red-cheeked guilt- at Lore for ever having left, or maybe ever having spoken to him, though he could never mean it. At his friend Mathias, and all the stupid, desperate games he was playing with a warm body, just because he could.

He held his breath, fingers curling around the handle with cool metal warming to his touch.The drawer slid open with a soft sigh, only furniture after all.

“That’s just you trying to feel something again.” Had Junarra said that? Funny how her spark plug mind worked, tossing out wisdom like so many stupid nicknames. But it was a shock to his system when he least expected it, honest in a way that made his lungs cave in. He’d gone from long winter nights spent occupying only half a house, straight into a springtime mess that no one wanted, no one needed, occupying only half a heart. All this when he still had mess enough on his own, next to where he lay his head.

It lay in bundled memories, wrapped with care in crisp linen and regret. A stack of letters beneath a battered Draenic comm, and a small, painted portrait that had made it back in one piece, even if they didn’t. A sleek pistol that he could still see held in a familiar grip- and the softest pair of doe skin gloves, too small for himself. These he gathered in his lap, a moment’s hesitation passing before he reached for the basket he used for his laundry, upended in the corner. He set them inside, but not aside, pausing to feel each of them in his bones.

Next was the bedroom closet, with shaky hands and feet that dragged, nonetheless getting him through. He carried back armloads of clothes that had long since lost their scent, shoving these into the basket in much the same way.

At last he found himself seated on the edge of the bed, shifting between hot tears and misplaced laughter. One last trinket lay in his lap, unbearably cool between his hands.

The Dal’fin’al pendant was just as beautiful as the day he’d first put it on, starburst points wrought in silver and precious, white gems that caught the light like they needed it. It remained a symbol of something bigger than himself, a mark of who he once was… and an heirloom for a family that never really got the chance to start.

This he held onto longer than he meant to, running his thumbs along the ridges and pressing it into the space beneath his collarbones until it bit into his skin. And he watched as the growing daylight filtered through the fog, filling it with fractured colours, like tiny stars sifting through his fingers.

The morning was well underway by the time he said this last goodbye, tucking it in with as much care as he would a seedling, or something just as temporary and true. From there, Coirra didn’t offer much in the way of questions when he strode into the smithy next door, carting a basket of clothes and other things into the private storeroom there. Nor did the Dark Iron woman seem pressed when he mentioned clearing out some of the extra tools from before she’d taken over. About time, she might have muttered, or maybe he just knew it that well.

The sting of smoke still felt sharp in his throat as he stepped out into the street, glassy-eyed and empty-handed. He swallowed it down, let it settle inside him, a quiet ache that he could live with. And while a few extra hours were never going to ‘fix’ him, he could at least look forward to what lay ahead, in packed bags and possibilities. On a rare, bright day in Rustberg, this did make all the difference.

(( @gloamingdawn, @mathias-meadowshine for mentions!  Also JUNARRA, who doesn’t have a tumblr. ❤ ))

#friend writing #character mentions #siiiigh Jules you sweet sad boy

[mathias-meadowshine]

As winter begins to thaw, spring comes anew; and with new weather, comes new treats to indulge in. Thus, the Heart of the Raven has a new, delectable menu to introduce to you all!

Every Monday at 6:30pm (WRA time) The Heart of the Raven Tavern and INN opens its doors to friend and stranger alike, where we host not only at the bar, but at the tables as well; so whether you want your head buzzed or your belly full, we have it covered.

The Tavern is located in Rustberg Village, Tol Barad, where we stand on neutral ground, so Horde and Alliance alike are welcome with open arms; just remembered to bring your elixir of tongues so you can speak with the opposite faction! Not only do we have diligent servers and bartenders, but we have security as well to be sure peace is kept within our doors and all our patrons can feel safe and secure away from the cry of war. 

(This is a weekly RP event for both Alliance and Horde on Wyrmrest Accord–but any server is welcome as long as you’re able to hop onto ours! We will have summons available for those under the level of 85 from 5:45pm to 6:00pm WRA time, so please join our discord if you know you’ll be needing one, so you can answer the call! We also encourage the use of the Cross RP addon to help cross faction roleplay run smoothly.)

Link to our new menu | Link to our Discord | Link to our INN rooms

[mathias-meadowshine]

Storms End; Just Beginning

This is so typical of me, I wanted to laugh.

It was a nice enough evening. I decided, belatedly, to go ahead and see about this “Maelstrom” club, on Tol Barad Friday. It promised to be at least slightly different than the norm, catering to a mixed crowd who longed for a moment of abandon in an all-but forgotten corner of the world.

My expectations were at least partially met. The music was good. Gyrating bodies of all shapes and sizes abounded. For a moment I felt as though I were in the Lower City, as alien as the makeup seemed to be. It was nice to see so-called Alliance slumming it, too. Out there, you are just, are who you are. (One reason I detest coming home, where lines are drawn firm, not blurred.)

Lights and sound assaulted my keen senses, however, and it was difficult to maintain a semblance of poise for terribly long. Fortunately, the Captain’s winks and nudges grew as stale as the seedy odd pink (!) drink he threw at me and continued to dance with the cute little dark one, so I wandered to a corner to question the stoic armored woman.

She was diffident, polite. I liked her. I queried and she shared a few things about the dancing lads of the Raven. I also liked the man who sidled up to us who seemed to know her, with the fit body and pleasant mien. He confirmed for me he is a firedancer with the Tarts, and asked about me; to which I responded heartily that I did in fact go to their shows when I could, especially when they were in Shattrath. As to what I “do” - that question always throws me; but, social contract understood, I responded with making inks and scrolls. That’s when unexpectedly the topic of tattoos came up.

Interesting, given my recent interactions with a master artist himself and pact for one of my own.

Yet another - stronger - drink made its way into my hand by way of the Captain, who at this point seemed practically pouty as he again retreated. Poor lad must hope I can get sloppy much easier than I in fact can. The taint of my blood sees to my protection, in that regard. Trust; I would love to lose myself to the whispered promises of simple alcohol; but alas, it’s nigh impossible. (Kaz…)

Firedancer continued with his gift of gab and invited me to “The Blooming”, a three-day event later in the month which sounds promising. He also provided the contact of a friend of his who does tattoos. Maybe my ink could be used for others! What a wonderful thought - to mark the willing, forever, in such a tangible way. Why had I never thought of that, before?

That’s when things went a bit sideways, in a most delightfully unexpected way. The handsome young one with the sad yet hopeful eyes marched up to myself and firedancer, asking on the Captain’s behalf that I spend the night with him. His words were as flowery as his tattoos and polite as high tea; and yet the request was blatantly pointed. Points for effort, young man - well done. Imagine my surprise though, since I thought the Captain was wholly and truly into males. Silly me, making such banal assumptions.

The air in the room seemed to slow down. The three men stared at each other as though someone had just dropped a spitting cobra into the soup. That’s when I knew I needed to break the stalemate, ordering the Captain outside. Firedancer, to his credit, quietly tossed an offer to escort me home behind my retreating form. Playing the chivalrous knight, I see. Flower-elf seemed all too pleased with himself, yet clearly some spectre of doubt still haunted him.

Outside in the gloom, the Captain and I dallied in our improvisation. He played earnest that he hadn’t asked for the assist; but then again it was clear enough he wouldn’t turn it down. I played the part of the simmering imperious lady, hinting he would have to do better than that, eventually turning on my heel to go. He, blocking my exit with his hand on my hip, playing a different angle then; mentioning my beloved Outland, whispering about how he wished he could understand the exotic draw. “You have no idea,” I hissed. A warning and a gauntlet thrown. That’s when his hand found my throat, the brush of fingers and words suggesting I could use a good squeeze. Oh, oh you think so? Well, by your leave, sir, good-bye and good night.

…Yes, yes. I admit it, that was the only time I felt a glimmer of passion all night. And this is where the humor lies. Am I still tied that much to that time, that place? Where the whip-cracks of the sayaad echo for eternity? My therapist will have much to say about this, no doubt. At least I’m getting out more, as she suggested; and, getting better about writing it down.

@mathias-meadowshine   @dicenne    @julesvalebright   @caleigh-lightbreeze

[mathias-meadowshine]

PRANKS

🎬 (For Mathias, that big dumb lunk)

[mathias-meadowshine]

Pride, and Reverse (for Julrien)

"Proud of my boat and my arms alike. Both some of the best on Azeroth. I'm not at all shy about saying so, though I don't think I can rightly be called a braggart."

He paused, grinned like an idiot.

"Maybe sometimes."

He sighed, rolling his eyes upward as he thought.

"As for Jules...is bein' too cute a sin? Nah, I'd say envy, at least when it comes to me. He's always cockblocking!"

[mathias-meadowshine]

“Idiots to lovers” is a phenomenal fic tag, and exactly my brand of romance. I love it when they’re just so….. fucking…. stupid

#this will be matty if he ever ends up with anyone

[mathias-meadowshine]

pure of heart!!!!!!!!!! dumb of ass...............

[mathias-meadowshine]

What brought him to Rustberg, and what does he miss most about life at sea?

“I came because Andi - er, Melisande - asked me to. Said she had a lot of things to tell me. I got caught up in Kul Tiras for awhile and by the time I finally made it to Tol Barad, she’s married and expecting a kid...so I decided to stay awhile, help her out. I was taking a break from sailing, anyway, so...no big sacrifice on my part. Heart of the Raven is good folks.

As for life at sea...I miss m’crew, mostly. The rest of it...I’m still figuring it out. Being the captain is a lot of responsibility, and no one ever asked me if I *wanted* to sail. It was expected of me. I’m takin’ it easy, seeing if it’s what I really want when I’ve got a little breathing room.”

[mathias-meadowshine]

The Flip Side of Wrath

Woke up with my mouth dry.

Hands empty, head full.

Ears ringing, and blood cool;

Made it through to the-

Not ready for the-

Fuck me- it’s morning.

Roll back to peach skies,

pushing past the soot-black clouds.

Screaming sunlight through the curtains.

And I’m alone

with it, with me, with this—

I.

“Fuck!”

The nib on his pen bent against his mess, and he let his anger slip through his lips. At least here there was no one to see. None, at least, but the myriad green things in his care, and they were silent, in their way.

Later he’d stop and think, notice the way a bud seemed tighter, or an early bloom looked just a little drained. But for now, he’d wallow out of whispering reach, at the mercy of himself.

Ripping out the page from his book held a certain kind of satisfaction, and he hastily crushed his words between his hands, like dead leaves under his feet. Inky fingers whipped the crumpled ball of paper against the wall, and he didn’t need to look to know he’d missed the bin beneath the window.

II.

The air buzzed around him with the promise of summer not far ahead, and he willed the midday sun to stay with him (just a few minutes more). Stretched out, lying in the grass, soft yellow making love to the green. Rustberg in the throes of springtime, sighing.

And he can still feel hands and arms, limbs all around him, but he hasn’t felt touched in so, so long.

He knows there are places where sunlight doesn’t reach. He’s felt them on the edge of the shattered world where he spends his time. Fel scars and aberrant life finding a way, in dissonant harmony. He’s been learning the words to songs he’s known his whole life, but it’s slow-going and he’s so very aware.

III.

He came to in a tangle of empty bed and too many pillows. Legs curled instinctively into his chest, he’s a too-tight bud in self-preservation.  

He’s lost track of the time since the events of the night before, played out in his head even after he succumbed to sleep. The hours simply climbed through his window while he lay in his troubles, leaving stripes of light and shadow on his skin.

The mirror across the room caught the brunt of it, glinting in what could be early evening or early dawn. But he couldn’t see. Not what ‘Miss Riv’ had seen, or even Dicenne, which curdled his blood and made the room tilt. Whatever Mathias thought he saw, and what scant pieces he had to show a stranger by the hearth-

He rolled over, faced the wall and the tiny seedling potted on his bedside table. A little bit of breath, of pulsing quiet, and he poured a little life into its fragile roots. The flip side of wrath is tenderness, filtered through a time and place.

IV.

The docks soon ended and so did his tear across the beach. Leaning into his burning chest, he slumped forward with his hands on his knees. Cold sweat still carrying last night’s booze, there was an ache in his lungs that didn’t waver. So real, and he along with it, right down to the pulse he could feel in his fingers.  

He’d had his fill of dreams and their meanings. There were some things that simply were, with no symbols or silent pleas to be had.

And even if you could glean some sort of message in the madness- if hands were waiting in the wings to pull him to the surface just before he slipped away- he was here, and dreams couldn’t survive beyond those few precious moments between sleep and sunrise. They were shadowy creatures meant for someplace else.

No hands but his own, streaked in ink with dirt under his nails.

V.

The day was done, but he was just getting started, holed up and hollowed out and hard-pressed to stop himself. Candlelight suited him, as did the soft scratch of pen on parchment, needle on record, fingers on stubble.

Another crumpled paper bounced off the window sill, rolling across the floor nearly under his bed.

(( @heartoftheravenwra, @rivannah, @dicenne, @mathias-meadowshine for mentions ))

#friend writing #jules #utterly beautiful #as ever

[mathias-meadowshine]

#the fala'norore

[mathias-meadowshine]

Ashley Luka (Birmingham, England)

[mathias-meadowshine]

💭 for both of mine!

“Melisande was the reason we ever thought to come to Rustberg, and… well I’d be lying if I said she isn’t part of why I stayed. I’ll always be grateful for all her quiet understanding- and the drinks, of course. She’s selfless, and always wants to know where your head’s at, which is something that I think often goes unappreciated.”

“Maybe I should feel bad. Mathias is a new friend, and a really good guy. He’s Meli’s brother too. I always do this- mess around and before I know it… mess things up one way or another. On the one hand, it’s maybe nice to feel more like me again, after the longest fucking winter of my life. On the other… no. You know what? Fuck that. I’m allowed to have a little fun with my friends.”

((Thanks, @wanderthisparapet / @melisandemeadowshine / @mathias-meadowshine :3))

#omg how did miss this #i'm a doofus #jules