#Rosie's brambles
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Bramble Buckler
#mithral canvas#bramble#buckler#magic armor#shield#shields#rare#rose#roses#rosy#floral#plant#plants#nature#movement
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Given how Feathertail dies in this AU, I'm guessing Sharptooth the mountain lion is either a cop or a really violent war hawk in this?
Also, where does Sasha and her kits fit in?
(This is such a cool AU I love it so much)
yep, i think it makes more sense if sharptooth was a war hawk which allows fetaher to more realistically be the cause his of death after the fight they have (he dies suddenly that night due to the brain injury he sustained), while other “sharptooths” are cops and such.
sasha and her kits are tiger’s affair family. she was an aspiring actress that lost her home after her elderly father passed away, his estate being ripped out of her hands and thrusting her out onto the streets with very little to her name. tiger took a liking to her - unfortunately she would find out he was married and purposefully hid away their oldest son tad from him, but still kept in contact. golden and tiger never divorced but golden did disown her husband, and tiger went back to sasha. he had fallen hard for her and weasled his way into her good graces, meeting tad and getting her pregnant two more times. tad would end up drowning during flood season.
in the meantime, tawny would end up in her father’s care (he pulled some strings. she was always a daddy’s girl and turned her against goldenflower for a few months) and she would meet her younger half siblings. she and sasha did not get along well.
tawny would stay with them even after tiger got arrested for his crimes (murder, some other things) since she already got set up to attend a university close by. sasha was relieved when tawny moved out, but didn’t know what to do with her own two children and struggled a lot being a single mother. tiger was still stringing her along and making promises he likely wouldnt be able to fulfill and she was too lonely to leave.
eventually, she found solace in leopardstar and the two became good friends. leopardstar was like an aunt to moth and hawk. sasha’s depression wpuld get worse, though, and for the sake of her children she entrusted leopardstar to be their guardian from then on. sasha would disappear for a while to find herself and get away from tiger. she’s reappeared once every few years, but after a certain point they just stopped hearing from her entirely.
moth had felt abandoned by religion and her family, resenting them for leaving her this way and having 0 control over anything in her life. pushed into it by her brother, she put all her energy towards studying medicine and becoming an army nurse. she served for a few years before resigning and studying to become an emergency surgeon instead - a familiar high stakes environment without the danger of herself being killed. she chopped her hair short in the 70s after returning from her military service.
hawk meanwhile served in the vietnam war. he had been in the military since he was in his late teens, inspired by his father and leopardstar (who was one of many rosie riveters for WW2). he would meet ashfur from thunderclan and hear about his half brother brambleclaw through him (“you remind me of someone back home” ‘really?’) and mudclaw. hawk was lucky enough to return home, keeping in touch with tiger snd bumping into bramble, who came up to visit tawny and figured he’d show his face while he was here. the two got along pretty well after the initial shock, but eventually a rift was put between them when (i have yet to decide what about) and they stop talking, much to squilf’s relief.
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More art of some sillies!!
More about the new characters below:
Tarta (uses they/them pronouns) is the parent of the little baby birds: Redd, Blu, Rosie and Violet and partner of Opila!! They help around the kindergarten and love their wife very much!
Ernie, Minnie and Moe (The Naughty Ones) are little orphaned kids adopted by Brenda and Bramble! They can be a bit of a troublemaking force but they are also a lot of fun to be around!!
+ Seymour with a little Brenda
+ Fiddles and friends!!!
#garten of banban#opila bird#tarta bird#nabnaleena#captain fiddles#queen bouncelia#sir dadadoo#the naughty ones#teddy's artwork#teddy's art#digital art#smiles so big#I’m having fun with these honestly#I might draw some more but we will see
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PART TWELVE - Replaying King's Quest, Chapter Three (2016)
You know they're the one when you can both fall down the entire length of a mountain together, bumping into boulders, trees, and foot-long thorns at 80 kph, and you both just brush it off and get on with being kind to wolves together like it's no big deal.
I'm not all that fond of the crossing the gorge puzzle.
The litter problem in this forest is abysmal.
So we're caught in the net trap now, and I observe that Graham must have picked his most recent hairstyle because it keeps his hat in place when upside down much better than the old one did. (It's another very funny looking hairstyle when the hat's off, but better than the slickback.)
Aw! YES! I did save Bramble from prison! And it's awesome to hear it acknowledged! Actually I saved everyone this time and I am delighted. No need to guilt Graham out this time, Princess Madeline.
(Purely fanonical observation here, but I propose that the name Triumph suggested for Miss Coatrack at the beginning was "Madeline." Because that would make for three Madelines in this small world.)
Graham speaks squirrel very well, and so does Neese. This Graham has absolutely no need of the... was it a white snake scale from Crispin that made him able to able to understand animals. But then again, original Graham doesn't really either. He was talking very ably with Cedric prior to meeting Crispin, and I am not sure he ever listen to/talks with animals again in that game, unless you count harpies and Manannan the cat.
Navigating so high in the treetops that there's mist down below. What kind of forest is this? A forest for adventurers, to be sure! Maybe another reason why the date with Vee feels more right in its way. There's nothing necessarily more adventurous about a forest than a beach - we can have our Robinson Crusoes as well as our Robin Hoods - but the forest fits with the fairytale-inspired quality of KQ better, and the beach is played more as a tropical resort destination. So the woods just feel more right to me as a memorable place for Graham and his beloved.
Rosy evening with floating, twinkling, golden lights! Lute serenade time! The smile they give each other as they realize, yes, it's time for a kiss. Their relationship as an adventure. Two goofs in love. :-)
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Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked
Pt. 2
(Still angsty, but a draft of where I might take this)
Azriel closed his eyes. He was so, so tired.
As soon as he had stepped through his shadows and reappeared in the townhouse, he had collapsed in a winged back chair in the living room.
It was strange, the townhouse being empty. The residence was no longer home to any of the Inner Circle, although Azriel occasionally met with Nuala and Cerridwen there. Each time he did so, he couldn’t help look out into the garden.
He sat there for some time, in the dark, in the silence. Willing himself unconscious, but to no avail.
His eyelids only flickered open when he heard the creek of the heavy wooden front door, and nearly silent bootsteps approach.
A cool breeze swept in the room, bringing with it the sound of faint music from the Rainbow, spices and scents of all kinds filtering in from the outdoor diners braving the chilled evening air.
Elain entered, her cheeks windburned. They were flushed rosy pink, and a slight sheen of sweat highlighted her brow. Her chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, as if she had run the entire way across Velaris from the River House to to the townhouse.
Maybe because she had.
She wasn’t even wearing a coat, her gauzy, lavender dress full of brambles at its hem, sheer sleeves draped over pale flesh covered in goosebumps.
Neither of them said a word as Elain entered the room, which was still dark, lit only by the crescent moon and the stars above them.
Elain merely looked at Azriel in that all-knowing, all-seeing way that made even the spymaster question if she could read his mind. As if she was a daemati herself.
The blood was still dripping from his hand, staining the carpet below in crimson. Shards of glass still puncturing his scarred skin.
Elain inhaled slowly, eyes widening as she scented his spilled blood.
“You’re still bleeding?” She asked, shocked that he hadn’t yet cleaned himself up. Hadn’t allowed himself to start to heal.
“Isn’t that painful?”
“There’s always blood on my hands,” he replied in a low voice, expressionless. Flexing his fingers as he looked down at the mangled skin.
A pause.
“Let me help,” she finally said, and left him to go into the kitchen. Drawers rattled as she gathered supplies, still exactly where it had been left when she had last resided there.
She reemerged with arms full of tweezers, bandages and clean clothes.
Azriel did not move, but merely watched her from under hooded eyes. The liquor and pain had made his senses dull.
She knelt down at his side, setting her supplies on the rug next to her. Azriel tried to breathe through his mouth. Lucien’s scent, their mating bond, was ingrained on her skin, in her hair, like smoke.
Elain gestured for his hands, not meeting his eyes. Already inspecting the damage he had done to himself.
He was only worried about the blood staining her dress. Worried about how she would be repulsed by the bruises, the callouses, the blood, oh, how his hands were soaked in blood that she couldn’t even see.
Meticulously, Elain pulled piece by piece of glass from his hands, depositing it on the floor in an old rag to be thrown out. As the pile grew, so did Azriel’s shame.
Not a word was exchanged as she took care of him. Cared for him with the gentleness in the way she held his hand, the strength in which she pulled each shard from his scar tissue.
It had always been this way between them, not a syllable needed to communicate their longing, their sadness, their joy.
When she was finished, Elain set down her tools and straightened, reaching up with a steady hand, spotted with his ruby blood.
She traced the circle under Azriel’s left eye with the pad of her finger. The purple bruise like a half moon above his cheek.
It was all he could do not to close his eyes at the comfort of her touch.
“You haven’t been sleeping,” Elain remarked in a soft voice.
Azriel said nothing, his heavy-lidded gaze not leaving Elain.
Elain continued, “I’m not worth it, you know. I’m not worth this pain.”
Azriel reached up his bandaged hand, and Elain winced at the pain he must have felt when he grasped her own, his fingers easily wrapping around hers.
“Yes, you are,” he affirmed in a voice as deep and expansive as the night sky.
She left her hand in his, but pressed her other one to his cheek.
A featherlight kiss in the middle of his temple. One to the right of his brow, then the left. Making her way across the panes of his face, the sides of his jaw. Along the pulse beating wildly in his neck.
Azriel let his eyes slowly close, letting her warmth in, his shoulders relaxing with each touch of her lips.
She was light. Everything he had ever dreamed of, lying on the floor of that cell he grew up in.
Then she moved on to his hands. The hands that had led her into the garden, had carried her away from Hybern. The hands that had taken heavy dishes out of her hands, helped her with the worst of the ivy on the side of the townhome.
Taking great care, she brushed a kiss against every single knuckle, starting with his good hand before moving on to his bandaged one.
His shadows crept forward to investigate, curious that their master was letting someone touch him so intimately. When they met the warmth of Elain, they skittered back, bashful at the pure heart they encountered.
Azriel opened his eyes only when she paused.
Elain stared back at him, so close that he could admire the amber ring around her pupil, a sun flare nestled in her deep brown iris.
A life flashed before his eyes. Not his. Her life, if she chose it. Raising red-headed children in eternal autumn, or ever present spring. Chasing after toddling children, blessing upon blessing on their home. Cauldron-blessed.
A male’s unblemished hand reaching out to cradle her neck, to pull her in to his orbit.
Elain must have seen it too, seen the light that she had painstakingly restored with each kiss leave his eyes like a snuffed candle.
She let go of his hands, and rose, standing tall before him. Lifted his chin so that he would be forced to look her in the eyes.
“Azriel,” she breathed, her voice singing a song to his weary soul. “I am yours.”
He couldn’t force himself to speak, couldn’t do anything but choke on the words, the apologies, the declarations of love and endless, life-ending devotion that she deserved to hear.
Even in the moonlight, she shone brighter than the sun.
Shaking her head, Elain smiled down at him. Indicating that she knew. She knew what he would say, if he was the kind of male to deliver the kind of speech like Rhysand would, or even Cassian.
But their love went beyond that, went beyond the need for explanation, or rationale, politics or logic.
She took a seat, curling into him across the chair. He moved to pull her in closer to his chest, starving for every inch of her.
Once they were settled, Elain pressed a single kiss to his neck and commanded, “Now, sleep.”
Azriel nodded, exhaustion settling in his bones like weights in water. He closed his eyes, letting the sensation of her on top of him ground him in what still felt like a dream.
And then he slept.
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Love, love, love the birds worldbuilding in Himring.
I've actually been digging through links looking for birds that occupy Nan Elmoth and the surrounding area - Himlad, northern Estolad, the banks of the Celon.
Any thoughts about the flying critters living around there?
I’ll start with Himlad!
Flora, fauna, geography and environment masterlist
Himlad was a realm in Eastern Beleriand, bordered on the West by the river Aros and on the East, its tributary, Celon. It means ‘cool plain’ in Sindarin and was described simply as a cold region, likely due to its proximity to the March and thus to the Iron Mountains, the cold fronts of which extend throughout the surrounding regions.
I have imagined it as a steppe environment with an ecology similar to Mongolia. We have little information on environment other than the description of cold but some speculation can be done due to the habitat and through looking at similar real habitats, mostly in Northern Europe and temperate parts of Asia as well as parts of North America which Tolkien was inspired by the prairies in (source: The Flora of Middle Earth)
As always I include world building notes at the end so it’s not just a list of species! And as always please consider the list incomplete! There are so so many birds and I often go back to add more. Feel free to request a more specific prompt to focus on or a more specific family of birds
In the plains and steppe: tawny pipit (migratory, traveling west in the winter), David’s snowfinch, brown accentor, Siberian stonechat (also found in shrubs), rosy starling, swan geese, steppe partridge, pallas’s sandgrouse, great bustard, common cuckoo (migratory), cornrail (migratory, avoids the more arid parts), bearded vulture, crested lark, golden eagle, steppe eagle, imperial eagle, grey faced buzzard, ring necked pheasant, hazel grouse, black grouse, blue rock thrush, common quail, horned owls, gray partridge, desert warbler
Roosting in the sparse trees and shrubs: Yellow browed bunting, common rosefinch, fieldfare, stock dove, common nightjar, little owl, pine bunting
River shores: snow bunting (migratory), red necked crane (migratory), greater painted snipe, osprey, coturnix quail, grey heron, hen harrier, white throated dipper, bank swallow
Other: fork-tailed swift (migratory, mainly aerial), white headed duck, house sparrow, brambling (migratory), song thrush (migratory), black billed caper, northern wren
World building notes:
-Hunting with eagles and other birds of prey is more common than in the other Fëanorian realms (though most utilize birds at least sometimes). Golden and steppe eagles are used primarily by Celegorm and his loyal servants; these are huge and beautiful birds whose use is in some ways a boast of the skill of their handlers
-Celegorm’s knowledge of the language of birds is highly utilized for the defensive and offensive projects of Himlad. Though his followers do not for the most part have this gift they are highly skilled in using tracks, traces and conditions to understand the presence of local birds and the implications thereof. They know what to make of the stray tail feathers of a steppe partridge versus the presence of molt. They know the difference between the tracks of
Of course this applies to other creatures besides birds but as this post is about birds…
-Grouse and quail are sometimes kept for meat and eggs though different species of quail then are kept by the Marchwardens of Doriath. Some of the species are brought from Estolad, Ossiriand or Western Beleriand. The birds are housed in large open pens with small nesting boxes. 
-There are also domestic species of chicken, peacock and quail like birds that are kept for similar reasons. Hybrid species, sometimes with native species, occur naturally and through planned breeding projects during the Long Peacd
-The camouflage of steppe creatures including birds is often used in the fashion of Himlad’s soldiers.
-The various sections of archers among the army and scouts are distinguished by varying types of feathers used in their arrows. For example, Swan goose feather is used for the scouts that patrol the borders and rivers, swift feathers are used among the smaller more specialized groups and golden eagle feathers are reserved for the archers who will be first in the lines of offensive movements.
-Game birds are hunted for meat though all parts are used. Bird bones are actually highly utilized by the host of Himlad, in jewelry and headwear as well as whistles and other tools.
As always please feel free to ask more!
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For clan lore asks!
Do the members of the scavenging party alternate who takes lead dependent on who's 'area of expertise' they're currently working in, locale wise, or does everything tend to fall on Jithor to keep things running?
I need to know about Kyuu, Rosie and Cherian I am enamored with them they're all so so so cute.
Oooh thank you so much for the ask hehe, it’s awesome to have others mention and ask about my dergs!
You’re right on both points about the scavenging party- when they travel as a group, the dragon who knows the area best will lead. They each have a single region they know better than any, having spent a lot of time there for whatever reason!
But it’s up to Jithor to decide where the next expedition will be, how many dragons are needed for each journey and for how long, et cetera! He travelled solo for a long time and knows a lot about the regions of Sornieth, but also relies on Spectre the scout to determine current areas of interest.
Also!! I’m so glad to be asked about those three cuties too! Kyuu and Rosie were some of my very first dragons :D i’m going to put this part under the cut since i got a bit carried away ^^;
Kyuu and Rosie’s story is, essentially, Sornieth’s take on a cheesy rom-com. Rivals to lovers, real hallmark movie type thing.
They started off as two young artisans each running their own business, in a rather fashion-forward town in the sunbeam ruins. Kyuu a tailor, Rosie an upholsterer. Their initial rivalry stemmed from them both having a very similar taste in fabrics, and the existence of only one local merchant selling textiles. They were constantly trying to outdo each other with works using the same fabric, or trying to beat one another to the purchase of some fancy new silk. Because of course in this town, after buying a fancy new coat, you’d simply never consider buying a cushion set in the same fabric! And vice versa.
That familiar back-and-forth was disrupted when the town’s denizens decided it was all the rage to have their garments and homewares *imported* from the farthest reaches of Sornieth. The further and more ‘exotic’, the better. Kyuu and Rosie each tried to stick it out, but when their one merchant stopped stocking textiles altogether, they were both simply out of business. They had to look for somewhere else to set up shop and, for better or worse, decided to take up the search together.
It was along the road that they began to grow close, realising how much they had in common and how aligned their dreams were. The search led them to the edge of the foxfire bramble- not somewhere they really wanted to end up. But it was there they met my progens, who invited them both to rest in Refuge; a small, hidden village with rather dreary scenery, full of rather underdressed dragons. They stayed to recover and eventually decided to stay for good- these terribly unfashionable dragons NEEDED their help! Thanks the clan’s head of trade they were able to establish a connection with a new textile vendor, and this time, work together to unify the look of this clan instead of compete with one another.
Cherian came years later, after the pair had become mates and had both made a name for themselves in Refuge. He’s their only “canon” offspring really- as well as the most spoiled little tyke in the whole clan xD
He’s still very young, but he’s quite the little creative himself, and likes to gift his friends with his art projects from time to time!
Again thanks so much for the ask!! I’ve not had a chance in quite a while to ramble about my dragon babs :’)
#this was so fun hehehehheeee tysm#and my net is back!! I’m gonna go thru lairs and send some asks!!#wheee#ignore my painful writing style too its not my strong suit lol#hence the unwritten clan lore#refuge#chattering#flight rising lore
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He flounders and she turns her gaze away as she sits up, hair delicately obscuring those crimson hues that gaze out to the grass that sways softly between them. No reaction chips that alabaster visage, but her silence is attentive as his words catch in her snare of a heart, the weight of them pressing into the tender tissue till it ached heavy in her chest. Melancholy seeps in as the snare tightens: the quiet sense of inadequacy that his words reflected was achingly familiar, but what truly harrowed her was the space she occupied, however big or small, in his mind, that he would even wonder or care what she thought of him. She, who was nought but a specter in the peripheral of life, to which any consideration was utterly wasted ! Her chest tightens again, but the pressure is warm despite the twist in her gut — guilty that her lacking self made him worry, so.
A copper tang blossoms on her tongue as her teeth gnaw blood from her cheek — a bittersweet reminder of this body that hadn't yet atrophied, that was still hers for the time being, however loosely she could claim this possession. ❛❛ I don't talk about you. It shouldn't matter what I say, regardless. ❜❜ Blurted words cut through the tentative quiet, sharpening her usually level tone with clumsy, misplaced haste to reassure him that her quietness around him is never indifference, dripping with bloody sincerity. The simple proclamation clunks awkwardly between them, her struggle to pluck out and dissect what stirred within unseen on the cold surface her still figure. Such was the consequence of these bodies, which restricted and isolated the soul as much as they could grow and connect. Hers was colder than most, as strange and unknown to her as it was to others, but in the face of his vulnerability she's compelled to extend to herself in some way, though language ironically seemed to evade her. Maybe if she liked him less she could talk about it more, offer more sweeter sounding reassurances, but all she can offer is what she finds to be true in herself.
❛❛ . . .But I do think of you often. ❜❜ She murmurs, pulling her knees to her chest, tone softer, tentatively tender. ❛❛ I don't talk to many people, anyway. I am not easy or pleasant to talk to. ❜❜ Rei too had known the sound of scornful laughter and mocking niceties, though they hardly left an indent on her psyche; the gulf between herself and others, between her and herself, far too great for their words to linger in her mind. And yet his did. Stories he told, however mundane, replayed long after they parted, sweet little things snagging in the tangled brambles of her memory ; the way he described how certain colours interacted on canvas, what food he seemed most excited to eat at lunch. Rei picked them out the brambles, turned them over and cradled them in her palms whilst she still could without pricking herself.
She hesitantly looks to him now, pale cheeks painted a rosy pink. ❝ Knowing I get to see you each day makes me. . .happy. ❞ Was that what it was ? The gentle warmth that soothed the cold ache of this shell, that settled over her like a blanket in his unobtrusive yet ever-present company — was this happiness ? ❝I look forward to it. ❞
@dnangelic ♡
#dnangelic#IC ; 零#verse ; rei ii.#((dai: *implies he cares about her opinions and company in the slightest*))#((rei: what the FUCK?))
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15: Roses and Thorns
your friend in the woods often asks for help cleaning up his scraps...and sometimes, for more.
->explicit. contains gore, murder, graphic descriptions of corpses, hard vore, D/s dynamic, sadism and masochism, painplay, self-inflicted injury, bondage, size difference, terato.
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“Thistle would like to see you,” says the fox. She’s sitting patiently outside your door, blinking up at you with big, amber eyes and pricked ears. She’s cute, dog-sized with an orange coat and a white belly, black paws like little socks. She also has blood smeared across her muzzle. Like all of Thistle’s animals, she smells like the meadow, a rosy musk wafting from her fur.
“Now?” you ask.
“Now,” she says, licking her maw.
There’s no point in arguing. You throw on a cloak and start your journey deeper into the forest. The fox trots alongside you, hopping over fallen logs and weaving through the underbrush. You live on the outskirts, an ordinary woodland with chirping birds dappled sunlight filtering through dense foliage. But it isn’t far until you reach the end of the normal, gentle woods and the start of the Creeping Briars. It seems to get closer every day.
Birdsong grows distant. Light chokes and fades. The shadows are thick and shifting. The sky is gray in the Creeping Briars, the trees gnarled and twisted. This place is in the grip of neverending twilight gloom without fire, without the gold of the setting sun. It’s remarkable to you that anyone would find themselves at that boundary, the place where the light dies and the prickling silhouettes of the Briars loom dark and foreboding ahead, and keep walking, but people do it all the time. Wagon wheel scars dig into the ashy dirt, all careening down the same beaten path, never returning. The first few bloodied scraps of clothing start to appear, hooked on the ends of pointed branches and clusters of thorns.
“It’s strange that he keeps asking for you,” the fox says, leering. “It’s even stranger that he keeps letting you leave.”
She wouldn’t hurt you. Not if Thistle asked you to come. Still, you keep an eye on her. “I’m not causing any trouble, as far as I can tell,” you say. The Briars thicken. Your cloak tears in all the spots it’s been mended before, loose stitches and mismatched patches ripped out by outstretched, thorny vines. They sway without wind to move them. When they prick your skin, they shiver in delight.
The fox says, “Everything causes trouble. Every rabbit I chase troubles me because it makes me run after it.”
“Isn’t that the point, though?” you ask. “Wouldn’t it trouble you even more if the rabbit jumped right into your jaws and you never got to chase it at all?”
The fox narrows her eyes at you. She looks angry, and a little impressed.
Your boot sinks into the mud. Red mud—a bloody puddle. The garden must be up ahead, because everything he doesn’t want has been stripped away and abandoned here. A broken wagon, tipped over on its side and infested with writhing, bloodied roots and vines. A chipped breastplate. Shoes and burlap and swords and trowels. They were after the roses, it seems.
The fox pokes her snout curiously through the heap of discarded things. You go on alone. There’s a wall of trees, a brambly thicket that writhes and closes in around you. It scrapes and pricks at you playfully but it lets you pass. Wet, dripping chunks of those who weren’t as fortunate remain trapped in the tangled mass.
The garden is just on the other side. The wall opens, the thorns falling away. You come upon a meadow, a moonlit glade carpeted in roses. Their brilliant colors range from scarlet to lustrous gold and deep, lapis blue. Thorny stems slither up your legs and leave sharp, biting kisses beneath your cloak. A human jawbone crunches beneath your boot. A man or something shaped like one kneels in the center of the garden, a handful of viscera clutched in his fist. Sharp, carnivore teeth dig into the fleshy mass with a burst of blood and he tears a chunk free to swallow.
“I think your fox wants to eat me,” you say. A thorned branch caresses your shoulder, ripping open your sleeve. You step over a severed hand, a half-buried ribcage. Skin and muscle tissue shred between the man’s teeth and blood drips down his chest. Thistle’s skin is rough and ridged like bark, his hair spilling down his back in veined, leafy clumps. He’s all earth tones, browns and greens and the stony gray of the Briars, flecked with moss and mushroom growths.
“She was only trying to scare you,” he murmurs. “She knows you are prey for a much larger beast.” Wood creaks and snaps when he moves. You hear a sick squelch when he finishes the offal in his hand, stringy tissue sticking between his teeth.
You meander through the roses, grazing your fingertips across their velvety petals. “People tell some really fantastic stories about these, you know,” you say, kneeling to smell one. “In the capital, they’re saying you can crush the roots and make a panacea. Or an aphrodisiac, depending on who you ask.”
Thistle stands, as solid and looming as any tree in the Briars. His steps shake the garden. “Humans say the most peculiar things about what they cannot have.” His shadow falls across your back. A large, gnarled hand reaches past you, plucking a red rose from the stem. He threads the thorned branch through your hair, tucking it behind your ear. “Did you see anything you wanted? I have no need for things from the human lands. I will dispose of whatever you do not take.”
“Some of the food, maybe,” you say. His thick fingers stroke your scalp and you lean into the touch like an animal, letting your eyes fall shut. “I could try to start telling people they’re just flowers. Maybe there wouldn’t be so many bothering you then.”
“Humans are a bother no matter what they do or do not do.”
“Your fox said something like that earlier.”
“Did she?” Thistle chuckles. Your cloak catches and drags against his rough palm as he plucks one corner of the fabric, toying with it. “She is right. You bother me more than anyone.”
He seats himself among the flowers and tugs you into his lap. Your cloak comes off with a tug and a swarm of brambles, twining rose bush stems tangled together like a ball of snakes, comes slithering across your body. Nothing is simple with Thistle. No pleasure without pain. No excitement without fear.
He doesn’t touch you himself, allowing his roses to shred through your clothing and loop around your wrists and ankles, sharp and prickling bondage. The slightest twitch drives razor points into your skin but it’s a struggle to stay still. The air of the Briars is cold and Thistle’s gaze alone has you squirming, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable.
His gaze is frightening. Vivid, glowing green swims in black sclera. His large fingers curl beneath your chin and tilt your head higher, forcing you to meet his eyes. “It is bold of you to return here, time and again,” he says.
A fern unrolls along the curve of your spine, lined with sharp barbs, punishing you every time you try to shrink away from him. It nudges forward, pushing you further against Thistle’s broad chest. “You keep inviting me,” you tell him. “No, not even inviting. Ordering me, really.”
“And you keep obeying.”
You wiggle your hips teasingly and that earns you a lash on the thigh. It stings, the thorns rolling across your skin in a fast, tearing motion that leaves a line of bloodied dots across your leg. You hold in a startled yelp but it’s harder to bite back a whimper when it starts to throb and ooze. “I thought you liked that,” you stammer.
“I like it very much,” Thistle purrs. “It makes me want to push you even more. To see what will make you tell me to stop.” He cups his hand between your legs and you let out a shuddered gasp. His palm is hard and solid, the friction satisfying, but the dryness and uneven texture makes it uncomfortable. You grind on him anyway, entranced by the heat in his eyes and the long, black tongue that darts out to lick the blood from his lips.
Another spiny length of rosebush wraps around your waist. Every time you move your hips, pushing against Thistle’s hand, it digs into your stomach. Thistle encourages you, cooing soft praise. “Harder, little one,” he murmurs. “If you want pleasure, you will have to chase it. There you go…as lovely as my roses.” Your arms are restrained, brought together behind your back. Your other leg is encircled and painfully stretched taut, spreading you wide open on Thistle’s lap. It’s hard to find a rhythm. You get carried away, start to lose yourself, and the soft prickle turns sharp and biting. There’s no way to move that doesn’t sting.
But Thistle’s voice is a constant purr, a litany of heated adulation and lust pouring over you. “So wonderfully, perfectly obedient. So soft, so tender. It pleases me to feel you writhe like this, wanting everything I have to give. Harder. Give yourself to me. Surrender to my bite.”
It takes a lot of trust to do this. Thistle’s thorns are his weapons, the maw of the Briars that chews up anything he deems unwelcome. You’ve seen people turned to mincemeat in a sea of brambles. You’ve seen bodies flayed, butchered, reduced to pulp and gristle, swallowed by the forest. You could die painfully here, in his grasp. He could make it last a long time if he wanted to.
There are tears in your eyes as you desperately rub against Thistle’s hand. You’re rewarded for your persistence, his palm pushed firmly against your sex. You scrape yourself raw and bloody chasing an orgasm that’s always a few steps ahead, just on the other side of every sharp, thorny kiss. Your thighs are a canvas of punctures, your chest heaving with quick, shuddering breaths. Blood rolls down your back, heavy droplets inching along your spine.
The thorns around your legs tighten and you wail as you’re torn from the edge again, those little knife points lodging in your skin. “Hush,” Thistle soothes you. “You are so, so close, I can feel it. Harder. Show me how badly you want this.” He makes you an animal, strips away all human pretension with his aloofness, the only tenderness afforded in his words. The thorns around your body constrict and not even stillness protects you from the pain. Thistle’s hand doesn’t move. You have no choice but to lean into the thorns, to wound yourself further for pleasure.
You forget how to speak. All you have left is noise, whining and keening, staring blearily into Thistle’s eyes in search of mercy and finding only cool, calm dominance. You want to cum. You don’t want to disappoint him. There’s absolutely nothing else on your mind but the sensations you’re feeling and the sound of his voice.
“You want to do as I say, do you not?” Thistle murmurs.
You make a wounded sound and nod desperately.
“Then you will cum, just like this. You will find pleasure in the pain. I know you will, my precious rose.”
His certainty is all you need to push forward. Half-mindless with lust and frustration, you strain against the thorns and hump Thistle’s hand like your life depends on it. A pleased growl rumbles in his chest and you shriek when he suddenly starts to work you with his fingers, hard, fast strokes that have you trembling in his lap.
You couldn’t hold yourself back if you tried. Thistle’s voice washes over you, telling you how beautiful you are like this, how perfect, how divine, and you cum on his fingers with a sob. He pushes you through it, his fingers coated in your pleasure. The thorns loosen and slither away, still wet with your blood, leaving only the sharpness and heat of overstimulation.
It’s hard to tell when it stops. You drift, hips bucking involuntarily, your whole body shivering. You come back to yourself once limp in his lap, the bark of his chest scratching up your cheek and one of his thick fingers pumping slowly in and out of you. The time after that, you’re on your back in the garden, rose petals tickling your cheeks. Eventually, you open your eyes and Thistle is gone. Only his thorns remain. They stay out of your way when you leave. A relief, since all you have left to wear is a thin, ragged cloak.
The fox watches you go, her little head tilted in confusion. She still doesn’t get it. Why hasn’t Thistle eaten you yet? You smile and give her a little wave. The jagged limbs of the Briars fall together in your wake, sealing the path back to the garden. It would be easy for them to catch you and never let go.
But they don’t. You doubt they ever will. There are hungers the fox can’t understand, ones that can never be sated by devouring.
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my take on the lavender woodland fairy aesthetic
softly worn dresses, skirts, blouses, and the like in lavender, pale greens, and other colors that speak to your unique fairy heart.
dainty scratches below your skirt/dress from the brambles in the woodland.
loose curls tousled by a wee breeze
skipping stones across babbling brooks rimmed with blackberry bushes
running barefoot across the woodland
collecting wildflowers in a little straw basket woven in with wild grasses and reeds
a gentle hum to whimsical songs
making flower crowns and daisy chains
rosy cheeks, pink lips, and big doe-like eyes.
flowers in hair and ribbons on wrists and ankles
dancing freely 'round the willow trees.
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I just had to make tarot for the rest of our Wild Beyond the Witchlight party!
Right to left:
Osprey Black (tiefling warlock) and his Erinyes patron/grandmother, ofc.
Rosie Brambles (human bard/cleric) Innocent farm girl / Witchlight Monarch! Her 'unseen servant' is the birds and squirrels that she sings to, obviously.
Rhanior Phasmablatz (human wizard Extraordinaire) He was probably once a wizard as powerful as Ringlerun and Elminster but an eldritch horror messed with his big brain so he had to revert to level 1.
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♬ - a friend/best friend memory
"You're sure this's a good idea, Basil..?"
Basil wasn't really one to make and keep friends when she was younger. Her off-putting demeanor, along with her family's reputation and the fact that she was constantly on the move throughout her entire teenage years means her only real best friends before recent were when she was younger.
This was one of her classmates; a slightly older girl named Susie who lived in a villa like Rosie's, though more in the middle of town. The two of them stuck close to each other as Basil's new Purrloin, Corro, lead the way through the tall grass of Route 13.
"Positive! It's super cool! Cool as-" her voice dropped for a moment to whisper, "cool as hell." Susie's eyes widened a little, and she held her Buneary a little closer.
Finally, the two of them got deep enough into the treeline; and Basil pulled some of the bramble away to show off the mostly-eaten corspe of a Pelliper that some Pokemon had hunted down. "I think onna the wild A-"
The rest of her explanation was drowned out by Susie's screech in terror.
#ooc post#ask game#pokemon death tw#((basil what a normal thing to show people))#memories#basilblogging
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In which the nightmares come
Most nights, the dreams didn't come. Most nights, the manor was calm and peaceful, with quiet footsteps on stone stairs and the gentle crackle of firewood in the huge yawning fireplaces. The servants spoke quietly amongst themselves as they cleaned up after the meal and performed the tasks that kept the house a home. The butler conferred with the hunt master about how to plan future meals with future catches, the maids swept through with their feather dusters and brooms, and the old nurse settled into an old chair by the fire with a hot pot of tea. These nights, it felt like a home, and the young lord was soothed.
Some nights were not so smooth. The wolves crept close to the high stone walls and the heavy iron gates creaked ominously as ferocious winds seemed determined to pull the towers down to ruins. The fires seemed smaller and the pools of light cast by the thick taper candles were weak and flickering, barely holding the shadows at bay. On nights like these, the cruel truth of the happy home threatened to tear through the chinks in the drafty walls and the threadbare tapestries. The servants clustered in small groups like pallid, fearful ghosts, unwilling to draw attention to themselves. On nights like this, the young lord of the house stayed by the nurse's old chair in front of the guttering fire, on old blankets and worn pillows pulled from guest beds that hadn't felt a body in a decade.
He remembered the worst night of his life best when the storm and the forest raged around the castle like this. It hadn't been so foul on that day, but this was the weather that felt like it matched his heart and his fear the best, so this was when the nightmares came strongest.
He remembered being in the forest, and being further out than he was supposedb to roam—there were wolves in the forest, but there were also birds and squirrels and baby deer to watch, and patches of berries in the dappled light where the forest gave begrudgingly to a few rays of sunlight. All he had wanted were the berries...and so it was that he had snuck out of the garden, away from his nurse, to where he could feel the leaves and soft loam beneath his paws. He loved being out here, even if it got him scruffed or chastised if he got caught—it was worth it for the adventure, the treasure of sweet bramble berries and warm little bird eggs to hold.
He could hear the nurse calling him as he ran, laughing to himself at his cleverness. He ran and ran through the woods, leaping over logs and diving between twisted tree trunks, squirming his way between dense thickets until they gave way to open clearings—
The child skidded to a halt on all fours and froze. There was something else in his berries today...someONE else. He rose onto his feet slowly, wiping dirt from his fingers onto the dirty red linen of his little suit. He had never seen a man like this before—for it had to be a man, even if it looked nothing like his father. His father was tall and the color of leaves in the fall, with glossy fur he kept well brushed and horns that curled down low over his forehead. This man was smooth, covered in furs and leather and parts of animals.
They stared at one another for a long moment where not even birds sang above them, until the child sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. The stranger sank to one knee slowly, hand extended, offering out a slow smile that warmed his dark skin and made his honey-gold eyes crinkle at the edges. They were beautiful, and his strange dress captured the youth's curiosity enough that he was enticed to step forward in turn, watching warily. One little hand reached out, covered in a fine layer of fur the color of wheat fields in the rosy glow of sunset, each dirty finger tipped with the baby nub of a young claw, and lit slowly on the outstretched thumb. His fur was such a bright contrast to the black leather, even in the dim forest light, and dwarfed by the size of the broad palm.
Their two hands moved carefully around each other's, like two birds each afraid to move too fast lest they startle the other. The softly furred fingers moved over the worn, warm leather that felt so much like the pads of his own toes, and the young lord remembered wondering in that moment what the long fingers looked like under the gloves. The child's wide, trusting eyes looked up just in time to see the kind eyes harden, and before he could recoil the stranger snatched for the boy's shoulder.
The first instinct was to shove the hand away and wriggle out of the stranger's grip, to turn back to the protective thicket of brambles and flee back to his home again. Hackles up, teeth bared in a startled snarl, the lad twisted in the grip that had immediately tightened to a painful iron hold and refused to release him. Now he could see that the stranger held one hand behind his back, hidden under his cloak, and the child's ears flattened against his head as fear made icy prickles run down the back of his neck. He braced his feet and tried again to shrug out of the fierce hand on his shoulder, looking up at the dark smirk with a child's growl--
But what came out of the child was bigger than his body, bigger than the thicket they stood in, and it shook the silent birds out of their hiding places in the trees above the pair. The boy's father burst through the thorny vines behind him, exploding through the brambles to land on all fours with a roar that would have loosened the bowels of weak men. The boy took advantage of the moment to throw himself backwards out of the black gloved grip, hitting the ground with a yelp but never so relieved to be in trouble with his parents before in his life. He would never go so far out of sight again, he would be the most obedient child in the provinces, whatever they asked for.
Another harsh grip seized him by the back of his neck, jerking him off the ground by his soft scruff as his father bellowed "Take him!" The boy's mother clutched him to her chest, and he could hear her heartbeat from the run through the forest and the adrenaline of the confrontation. He dug his fists into her clothes and tried to see around her, to watch the facedown between his father and the stranger. Now there was a glint of metal in the stranger's hand, the one that had been behind his back--a long curved blade that hooked wickedly through the air as the hunter made a feint towards the mother and child. That was all the boy got the chance to see as his mother turned and fled, crashing back through the brush towards home and safety. A crack echoed behind them, ringing sharply through the forest as a whip snapped through the air. The boy had heard whips crack before, but this one had teeth in its sound, a vicious bite that rattled in his ears like the air itself had snapped its teeth in his face. Thunder rumbled behind them--hoofbeats?--but did not pursue. The sound of confrontation faded under the pounding of the boy's own heart in his ears, until his mother paused for a brief moment to release her grip on him and give him a swat to get him running on his own.
And then she stopped, and the frightened boy turned to look back at her. She stood upright, chest heaving with fear and fury, soft honey-golden ears turned towards the fray they had just fled. The thunderous hoofs were far fainter now, but the crash and crack of fighting was still easy enough to hear even at a distance--his father was roaring furiously, and the snapping cracks sounded off like breaking tree branches, and then it stopped too abruptly. Both mother and child waited with baited breath for a long and painful moment, and still his father did not follow.
The boy was startled when his mother whipped around and grabbed him by the face, pulling him close.
"You turn around and you run, do you hear me? You run home, and you run fast, and you do not look back. Run. Run, now!" She pressed a kiss to his forehead and spun him around, and he was too frightened to disobey. What else could he do but run? He dropped to all fours and ran like the rabbit through the trees and bushes, not stopping when he cut his paw on a rock or when briars snagged the collar of his suit and tore. He couldn't hear anything but his mother's order echoing in his ears, urging him on and giving him strength.
He burst into the garden through the gate, scaring the servants nearly witless as he did, but his nurse was there and he ran right to her skirts and clung to them as he gasped for air. They stooped to check his scratches, to ask him questions, but he was panting too hard to answer and could only stare back into the woods, waiting for the trees to yield his parents back to him. They would follow him home, and beat him for his idiocy, and he would be grateful for it because they would all be safe. The hunter wouldn't follow them, and they would have their little forest kingdom back again.
Except the woods were peaceful behind him, and eventually even the birds began to sing again. There were no cracking branches or rustling leaves, no movement save the slow shift of sunlight through the dappled leaves as the household watched and waited. Eventually the boy caught his breath and could tell them what had happened, what he had seen, what his mother had told him. His nurse made the sign of the gods against her chest and hugged him closer, and still they waited.
Light grew rosy as the sun slowly sank into the trees, and some of the assembled servants slipped away to see to the necessary running of the house. There were still meals to make, and surely the master and mistress would not want the house ground to a halt when they returned. Except they did not return, not that night. And not the next morning when the boy woke from where he had fallen asleep in the open window, because his nurse could not convince him to sleep in his bed. They still had not returned upon the following sundown either, and the servants conferred with whispered voices where they thought the boy could not hear them about what they were to do now. With no master or mistress to lead them, it fell to the child to become the Master of the House, although he would refuse the responsibility of it for a long time, certain that his parents had only gotten lost in the woods, and would yet return.
Back in the stormy night, the present time ten years later, the young lord of the house pushed the tangled blankets off of himself and sat in the dark for a long moment, catching his breath from the horror of his nightmares. The warm glow of the coals in his fireplace guttered softly as the winds whipped around the chimneys high above, lighting his path through the room to the window. The crack of the whip and the heavy thunder of hooves still whispered into his ear as the young man settled into the pillows under the window, staring out into the storm and trying to quell the lingering bitterness of his memories.
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Boss Battle
Hey peeps!
A friend suggested that I draw some fight scenes for DnD OCs, and here we are!
Bellator is about to go to town on a motherfucker
Also! I drew Aleira’s magic for the first time! In DnD, no two characters magic looks the same, even if they’re casting the same spell. Everyone’s magic has its own unique style/look reminiscent of the person casting it! So Aleira’s magic looks like a rosy-pink bramble similar to her headband! This effect carries over for all of her spells, and is overall really fun to draw :)
I really love this piece apart from the monster lmao. I’m not very good at animals or monsters unless they’re supposed to look cute, so a big gruesome beast thing like what’s shown here is out of my wheelhouse. It looks decent I guess, but there’s always room for improvement!
#my art#oc art#oc#dnd ocs#Bellator#fight scene#magic#monster#for an improvised monster it doesn’t look too bad I guess#I yearn for the day I can draw gore and monstrosities#neytirix bestow your power of art gore upon me please#Marigold#Marigold Barclay#soulbonder dnd ocs
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Chapter Twenty-Eight
“This can’t be right.” Jude says incredulously. I am directing him off the main road and onto a tiny, innocuous lane with grass sprouting up the middle. It’s canopied by a tunnel of chestnut trees laden with the first fruits of autumn, and the sunlight is dappled through the leaves and over the uneven ground beneath the wheels. A ginger cat snoozes on the hood of another car parked up on the side of the lane.
“I’d say you can pull in anywhere.” I tell him. “It’s probably jammed closer to the house.”
“Where are we? This isn’t a road.”
“You’re in the deep country now. I don’t know what to tell you. A road is whatever we say it is.”
We get out of the car and start walking up the same stoney lane towards the front gates of the Healy farm while he wonders what would happen if somebody wanted to call for an ambulance here, or if they got snowed in, or if they wanted to order pizza. I tell him that nobody delivers to rural houses. You have to actually drive however many kilometres into the nearest town and get it yourself. Then for fun I remind him that he’s a privileged brat.
I don’t bother knocking on the front door, I just bring him around the side and over a step ladder through the wild hedgerow. I remember when Kelly’s dad built this for us, so that we could get in and out of the fields to play with more ease. Back then it was a sturdy piece, solid, wide steps made from planks of pine and stained the same dark green wash that he used on the deck that year. Now the damp has crept in from years of neglect, rusted screws weep down the sides, steps are warped and sagging in the middle from the strain of adult feet. Overgrown brambles snag my hair as I climb over, and when Jude follows the whole structure whines. I wonder how much longer it will be until a step breaks, and it’s all it takes for it to be left to disuse and rot, to be swallowed back into the hedges like it was never there at all.
We are late, but nobody minds. A group of Shane and Claire’s friends have gathered in groups among the blooming hedges and beds of the perfect garden, and the sound of chatter and tinkling laughter fills the space with instant warmth. This place always kind of felt like home to me when I was a child, a place where I could run and play and be free.
Caroline herself sees us first. She’s on the patio with Rosie the dog and is sneaking her bits and pieces from the barbeque that her husband will later say she’s not supposed to have. She downs her cooking tools and waves us over to her immediately.
“Oh, my little beanstalk.” She holds me tightly in her arms for longer than usual, and when she pulls back from me her eyes look a little misty, a little sentimental. “Isn’t it lovely that you came?”
“Of course I did, Caroline!”
She hugs Jude then, which surprises me before I remember that they holidayed on the same beach for years. “Mister Jude Turner, my God you haven’t gotten taller, have you?”
“Do you think so?”
“I think you have!” She shakes her head at him like he’s done something outrageous. “You never stopped growing. Every summer when I saw you, you’d shot up again.”
“I’d say I’ve stopped by now though, do you reckon?” He holds out his arms and does a silly little stomp in a circle for her while she gives him a look over. “Well I certainly hope so.” She says.
They talk a little bit then about his sister and his parents, and how he might go and visit them at the holiday home if he has a chance before the summer is out, and Caroline says that she’d love to be in her mobile home too but with everything going on she just hasn’t found the time.
Then she looks us both over with disbelief and shakes her head. “Of all the young fellas I thought you’d end up with, Evie. I never imagined it’d be this little messer from the beach house.”
“I know.” I laugh. “Me neither, it’s funny how things go.”
“And to think of all of the things that had to happen in order to have you both on the same beach at the same time, sure ye easily could have never met.” An affectionate smile melts over her face and I fear that she might start crying and I won’t know what to do. “Doesn’t it feel like the right thing, all the same. Two fine looking, sensitive artists. I couldn’t have chosen a better pair.”
Shane comes over to say hello, dressed in a light blue shirt and a pair of shorts. A rare sight, for a man that lives in his gym gear and tracksuit bottoms. He hugs us both and thanks us for coming to the party, to which we both reply that we couldn’t possibly miss it. Not his last day in this hemisphere, who knows when we’ll see Shane Healy again.
Or Claire, for that matter. She’s wrapped up in a conversation with some of her old school friends, but as soon as we catch eyes with each other I can tell that she’s begun to tear up. So have I. I can’t believe this is really it, that she’s going. It’s so strange to even be here and to acknowledge that this going away party is really happening, and that there is nowhere to hide from it anymore. We can’t keep pretending that she won’t go. She leaves her friends and comes over to hug me, and then we don’t say anything to each other at all for a while, just cling to each other tightly and try our very hardest not to be the first to burst into tears.
“I’m sorry.” She blurts out. “I don’t know what to say, I just feel-”
“It’s alright.” I say. “I feel the same.”
“It’s horrendous.”
“Yes but it’s amazing too. I can’t believe it.”
She lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Yeah, same. Is it mad? Don’t tell me that it’s mad, it’s too late. I’m already after buying my ticket.”
We giggle softly together. “No, it’s not mad. It’s perfect, you’re brave. You’re going to be so happy there, I already know it.”
“I never thought I’d go away.” She says quietly. “I really thought I’d get married before all the other girls at school to some Tullamore dairy farmer.” She glances at Shane across the garden. “And I got him, a football star, which is unreal, only he wants to drag me across the globe first before he gives me a ring.”
“Very sadistic.” I say, and she laughs, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. I brush them away gently with my thumbs, being very careful not to smudge her perfect makeup. “We can cry later, chick.” I murmur. “You should be enjoying yourself first.”
“How does the apartment look now?”
“Grim, Claire. I can’t stand it, God, whoever moves in next is going to have big shoes to fill.”
“That’s the exact right thing to say,” She tries to smile but she grimaces instead, and fat tears arc over her cheeks. I rub her arm, “Is there prosecco around here somewhere?”
Her spirit seems to lift a little bit then, and there’s a familiar gleam in her eye. “Oh yes, there’s prosecco. Get it over here, we’ll share a bottle between us.” I run inside and grab it from the kitchen counter and we pop it open on the warm patio steps and for the last time in a while, we pretend it’s just a normal day.
Beginning // Prev // Next
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Cacaoooo-
(*Suddenly there is a loud bang followed by a bright flash of red and orange*)
ROsIE! Sorry it took me so long! Magic kept going wild!
B-Bramby...Uh...your ha-hair...
who is this...flaming homosexual...?
This is my Adviser and best friend.
Is my hair on fire again? It's fine. Uh Wild Bramble Cookie at your service, good to know my gayness is very obvious!
Pleased to meet you, Wild Bramble Cookie.
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