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merciless-macdonwald · 1 day

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i think we should remind musicians they can absolutely make up little stories for their songs btw. it doesn’t have to be about them at all. you can invent a guy and put him in situations to music. time honoured tradition in fact.

#exactly.#all of my music is about The Characters

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merciless-macdonwald · 3 days

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Art for a class project. Macbeth as a mecha anime titled “Mechbeth”.

#oh this concept fucks severely #macbeth #shakespeare #mech

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merciless-macdonwald · 4 days

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ok i. wrote like 800 words for the Traitor Lennox thing hdbcjjdfgh. got possessed or something. anyway here it is (cawdor pov). putting it under a cut because it got longer than I intended. enjoy !

Cawdor wondered if being suspicious of the very weather itself was one of the so-called tells of treason. Not a single cloud was in sight, and the bright blue sky above, like the very eye of heaven, stared down at him as he rode toward the old chapel he had been summoned to.

He supposed that “summoned” wasn't the right word. A king could summon him. A fellow nobleman could summon him. No, he had merely been persuaded to attend the meeting, where the weeds King Duncan had sworn to put the torch to grew tall and mingled. He was, arguably, the tallest of them, and so risked the scythe that much more.

His hands clenched around the reins. Many of the rebels were sympathetic enough, having come from families in Scotland who had suffered as a consequence of Duncan's legislature. They understood that Cawdor was no longer one of Duncan’s yes-men, parroting the king’s ideas back at him in the hopes of earning some coin or a palace or two. But Macdonwald, he feared, he would never understand. He had long since resigned himself to that fate. Cawdor himself was distant and reticent, carefully tip-toeing around the hangman’s ropes. Macdonwald, on the other hand, had a fire in him that was unquenchable, and he regarded the noose about as highly as an ox would a flimsy, shabby fence.

He would undoubtedly be present at the meeting, as one of the rebellion’s foremost leaders. But the encoded missive had promised one more in attendance, closer to Cawdor in rank and far more of the silent type. Inwardly, he wondered whether that meant the meeting would be over quicker; Macdonwald enjoyed arguing strategy and recruitment, but Cawdor was content to follow the plans laid out by the Norwegian commanders he engaged with.

Perhaps it would be someone from Denmark, he thought, or from England to the south. He didn't know many of the other nobles, having kept to himself whenever they visited for one of the king’s feasts. (There were other happenings, of course, but he saw the way their faces lit up most before a table full of food and drink.) He hoped, almost foolishly, that it might be someone he could befriend, and he almost cursed himself for it. A traitor could never truly call anyone a friend, let alone another traitor, he told himself.

The clack of horseshoes on cobblestone drew him from his thoughts, and he dismounted his horse and slipped into the chapel, crossing himself at the entrance. He prayed that the angels would turn their eyes away, for just a few minutes, and pressed on.

He knocked exactly as he was directed to: twice, then paused, then once, paused again, then thrice. A lock clicked on the other side, and a Norwegian warlord let him in.

“It’s unlike you to be late,” Macdonwald teased. Cawdor ignored him, his attention drawn to the cloaked figure standing between two Norwegian noblemen, their hood drawn so low that he couldn't make out their face.

“Did you get lost?” Macdonwald prodded again, snickering.

“If I rode as you did, I should sorely want of a second horse, just to survive the trip back,” Cawdor retorted. The cloaked person stiffened, imperceptibly.

“And if I had as much of the king’s money as you did, I'd simply buy another.” The head of the Norwegian delegate cleared his throat.

“Gentlemen…” Cawdor bit his tongue. The tone reminded him of Duncan, and that was one thing he resented. He enjoyed his status and everything that came with it, but to do so meant always being beneath the yoke of a more powerful man.

“Apologies,” Macdonwald muttered, adopting the more formal register of those outnumbering him. “Who’s our… guest?” The stranger’s thin hands rose to pull back their hood, revealing well-combed locks of hair and a stare pointed directly at the single other thane in the room.

“Lennox?” Cawdor managed.

“Cawdor.” Had it not been for the acknowledgement, Cawdor would have wondered whether this was some other man who, by magic or by some other means, had come to wear Lennox’s face. This was not the man who, in meetings, enthusiastically supported the king’s every motion, nor was it the young, naïve man who clung to his superiors’ every word.

“I…” Cawdor swallowed. “...was not expecting you.” He wondered what kind of game Lennox was playing. Was it the same one he was? Or could he expect the executioner to knock upon his door the moment Lennox sped back to Forres and sold his information for more of the king’s gratitude?

“You look on me as though I were a ghost,” Lennox said. “Or perhaps you have your suspicions. And I understand. But know that I have no intent to betray you or any man in this room to Duncan. And if my word is not enough…” He nodded slightly toward the crucifix hanging above the altar. “May I receive from His hands what I am due.”

Cawdor could only wonder whether or not he had unknowingly signed off on the same conditions.

#midday reblog

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merciless-macdonwald · 4 days

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I don’t know which author needs to hear this right now but even if you never update your wip i would never regret reading it a time of joy is never wasted

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