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saintsofwarding · 8 months

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BURIAL

A dutiful daughter is a useful creature indeed. When Elena Lupu falls under Mother Miranda's notice at a disastrous tithing festival, she proves too valuable for the prophetess to kill. Lady Donna Beneviento has been keeping secrets from Miranda, secrets she can't abide, and Elena is the perfect cuckoo to send straight into Beneviento's nest. Spy on her, report her findings back to Miranda, and Elena- and her ailing father- get to live.

But Lady Beneviento's secrets, and her powers, prove more nightmarish than Elena could ever have dreamed. Even as she falls deeper and deeper into Donna's web, she can't help but wonder- who is she really, under the veil?

Chapter 1

Lady Donna Beneviento no longer remembered her life from before. Before Mother, before Claudia, before the gift.

(Before! Donna, you idiot, there is no before, that's the crazy talking, if there was a before that means I wouldn't have been there and that's not even worth thinking about! Stop being stupid and remember us, just us, I'm with you now and that's what matters most of all)

She'd taken that life in both hands and smothered it, like a mouse prised from a trap, its broken leg dangling, its eyes aglisten with pain, its fur wet with blood. Jewels in the candlelight, a handful of rubies against her corpse-white skin.

(A mercy killing, Donna.)

But if she did remember- if she tried, hard, and looked deep, she could- well, a mouse could never be un-smothered, it remained dead, but- a dark place could be rummaged around in. If she searched and searched through the dust and through the mold, she could almost see it again. This was winter, like then, and she was young, a child, her thin shoulders shivering under her fringed woollen shawl as a woman- her mother- urged her, gently, to the edge of the parapet.

The waterfall thundered, spray filling the air with haze, and the wind numbed young Donna's face to wood, but as her mother's hand smoothed over the neat braids of her hair and she told her to look, sweet girl, look down there, the darkness of the valley bloomed with light. It filled the night air, painted the haze with shades of fire-gold and vivid orange, and Donna could nearly taste it. The barley-sugar and the fried dough, the sweetness of mucenici and the rich, salty grease of roasted pork, so much of it it sizzled and spat in the flames as it dripped from the carcass's ribs. White hogs, legendary for their prized fat-marbled meat, were slaughtered for the birth of the cold, the coming of the dark months and the worm moons and the wolf nights. These were bonfires, dance-fires, and they lit up the frozen mountain valley like a reflection of the stars. Donna imagined the whirl of silk ribbons through the flames, the bells jangling, the music and the laughter and the songs.

And the people! Saints, the people, peasant farmers and craftsmen and hunters with their silver-chased guns, merchants hawking wares from caravan and saddle-bag and pack, telling tales of the strange, wondrous beasts they'd seen in the deep forest, the monster wolves, the stags with antlers that branched like a witch's tree and seemed to shift and move on their heads as if alive. Girls Donna's age, faces ruddy in the firelight as they stuffed themselves sick with sweets, whispering about books and embroidery and how much they hated gutting fish for the ciorba. Donna imagined herself, a pale little girl creeping in at the edge of the circle to display her own embroidery, a handkerchief she'd spent the last week perfecting, its design of crow feathers and holly so perfect, so fine, the individual stitches could not be detected, not even by touch.

They would love her. They would love her! If she showed them she could do things, make things, nice things, they would love her.

"Why can't we..." she started, and her mother cut her off with a shake of her head. In the crook of her arm, baby Claudia snuffled, sleeping in her fur hood, ignorant to the cold and the celebrations below.

"Every year," her mother told her, with a click of her tongue. Lady Beneviento looked as she always did, dressed in embroidered blouse and woollen shawl and softly-chiming ornaments that honored the Saints and Mother Miranda alike. She was thin and wan and gaunt around the edges, a great beauty gone to the edge of the grave, her black hair coiled at the nape of her neck like the knot of a hangman's noose-

(You wish she'd just hanged herself like some kind of normal person, didn't you? Instead of what she and Papa did for realsies. The way they looked at the bottom of the falls-! Ooooh, makes me shiver, doesn't it, Donna! The crows found them long before you did, didn't they? And the rocks found them first, and the water, lapping up at them so soft and gentle, you thought they were big dolls at first, big dolls all broken, because how could those faces be Mommy and Daddy, how could the rocks have treated them so badly, smashed apart like porcelain dropped from such a terrible height-)

"Every year you ask me," Lady Beneviento chided her. "Do I have to answer you again?"

Donna said nothing. She turned slowly back toward the valley below, watching the firelight through the mist. The force of the falls vibrated under her slippers, and she could almost feel the house behind her, a looming weight pressing on the surface of her mind like a stone against water.

Don't let it through, Donna.

But she'd been born here, up in the tower room that stared disconsolate over the mountainside as if waiting for something. Her father had taken her afterbirth in Berengario's great silver chalice, in the way House Beneviento had for so many sister centuries, only this time, for her and for Claudia, later, it was not delivered to the monster wolves- holy creatures- at the edge of the woods. It was taken down, down, down the long winding path, over the bridges and through the lych-yard and down and down the mountain to the glow of candles and the click of gilded talons, to a smile with teeth and the taste of mold and incense on the back of the tongue.

To Mother Miranda, who, if Donna's father was to be believed, had taken it from the chalice in his upraised hands as he'd knelt at her feet, had slid her claws deep into its pulpy mass, and had smiled as she sank her teeth into the bloody flesh and tore a chunk out.

Affinity, she'd whispered, and even telling it years later Donna's father smiled like the sun was on his face. Donna had nagged at him to tell her the story as she perched, legs swinging, on a chair by his workbench while he carved his pretty dolls and clever puppets.

House Beneviento had ever been full of silver tongues and quick fingers, ever since the great Berengario had brought his famed silver automata to life within sight of this mountain place, animated by their glowing crystal hearts. It was said ghosts lived within the crystal, that they were what gave the automata life, were what had made them write and preen and dance, all in eerie, perfect silence save for the faint click-click of their mechanical innards. Now, centuries later, his descendant's creations dangled on strings from the rafters around them, paint drying, glue setting, gilt fresh as snowfall, newborn things like Donna had once been.

"What made that so special?" she'd groused. "She ate it? So what?"

"So," Lord Beneviento had said, mocking her insistent tone, "It means you could be special, too, poppet. You could be her child. Her special child."

She'd grabbed at her father's coattails, and when she spoke it was in a high, keening whine, pathetic with anxiety. "But I'm already your child. No one else's. Don't say I'm anyone else's, please, please, please-"

"Donna," her father said, low in his throat.

But her grip tightened, sweaty on the fabric. "Can't you just show me how to carve the hands, how to paint the faces again, please?"

(Oooh, Donna, but that made you excited, didn't it? Not just a princess but the prettiest princess! Miranda's pretty princess. Special, special, cakes and tea, a dress for every day of the year. Those golden talons stroking your hair. Everyone in town not being scared of you and your dead face anymore. They'd bow before you! Shower you with devotion! So much love you could choke on it! But you were too scared, weren't you, and that's what ended up doing this to you, twisting you and maiming you, little mouse in a trap with a broken leg. Maybe if you'd been braver, been bolder, the gift would have given you abilities good enough for Mother. It's all right, I get it. I do. I'm no portrait myself, ha ha ha! I know how it feels. We're a team, you and I. A matched set. You're too scared and too broken so just do as I say, and we'll be just fine)

"I just want to go see," little Donna whispered to her mother.

"What was that?"

"The...the festivals. It's holy, that's what the gardener says. A holy night and it's lucky to dance," she said all in a rush. She huddled deeper into her shawl; the cold had tightened, bitter against her teeth. She barely felt her toes. "Maybe...maybe we could be lucky, I mean me and you and Papa and Claudia, we could all be-"

"No," her mother snarled. Donna shut up with a flinch. "You don't leave. You can't. Never!"

"Just one time couldn't hurt," Donna muttered.

Her mother's hand snapped to her face and pinched it, pinched her cheek so hard between her thin fingers the pain felt like a needle through her, hot and throbbing and so sudden she gasped. Her eyes snapped wide as her mother yanked her close, as she bent to Donna's level, as she stared into Donna's face with eyes so huge her colorless irises were ringed in white. She radiated panic, bitter and awful; Claudia stirred in her arms and began to fuss, but Lady Beneviento ignored her.

"You can never go down to the village," she told Donna. "You set foot past the gates alone, you even think of crossing the bridge, and I'll break your legs myself. I'll take a hammer to you like Lord Heisenberg and break them so badly you shall never walk again. Do you understand?"

She gave Donna a shake, nails biting deep into her flesh. "Do you understand me?"

Tears streamed from Donna's eyes; she tasted blood, tasted the acid of fear. "I-"

"Do you?"

"Y...yes-"

"Good." She released Donna and began to rock the baby in her arms, little Claudia grumbling and twisting her small newborn face. Their mother settled, serene, a pale figure in the night, like nothing had happened, but the light had not left her eyes, bright with mania, with a terror that touched madness.

Donna's heart raced. Her face ached, hot and pulsing in time with her heartbeat. She couldn't move, not even when the cold reached her knees, not even when bursts and pinwheels of color lit the night, the smell of saltpeter reaching them through the gloom as the fireworks spiraled higher and higher toward the moon.

(And you stayed that way a long time)

Donna, Donna, Donna, quiet as a mouse. Little Dolly Donna, creep about the house!

I should have run-

(But if you had I would never have been born! And you'd miss me, wouldn't you?)

I can't miss what was never there.

(But I am here, Donna)

The dark closed in. Claudia was a child, bright and sunny, laughing in the garden amidst yellow flowers. She raced ahead, pigtail whipping over her shoulder.

Come find me!

Donna covered her eyes, then peeked, and Claudia was there, face bright with mirth. She took after their father in that way.

Don't look, Donna!

She covered her eyes again, and the darkness grew closer until it was all around, until she smelled the damp and stone and unbroken cold of a place far belowground, that had never, never seen the sun.

And when she took her hands away, Claudia was gone.

She sat on a spindly chair on an uneven flagstone floor, chair legs rasping against grit each time she shifted her weight. The house above crushed down against her, another sense honed by time.

A pale figure glowed before her in the darkness, lace and silk petticoats and porcelain grin, perched on the stone lip of an old, old well.

(I am here, and you are here, and we are never,

never,

never

going away.)

#re8 #re8 fanfiction #resident evil village #donna beneviento #elena lupu #angie beneviento #mother miranda #re8 oc #re8 fic #karl heisenberg #resident evil #chapter 1 #cw child death #cw body horror #cw gore #gothic horror #gothic romance #wlw #claudia beneviento

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koyla-07 · 1 year

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The oath

The fire flames dance in the cavern's sultry air. Arya has to admit this is a great hiding place, as if the Sisterhood had built their own castle inside a mountain. Only the gods know how all the corridors were built, where anyone who is not set can get lost forever in this stone labyrinth, and the spans of the most varied sizes, heights and depths, which became rooms, kitchen, forge and even a temple.

Thoros took advantage of the largest, brightest, and most ventilated space to build a huge bonfire, where prayers to R'hllor take place and trials by combat, like that of the Hound, that no matter how many moons have passed, Arya is still sulking at the injustice of that fight. "They just let him go. As if the fact that the Hound is a good swordsman exempts him from his guilt and being an asshole."

Since that day, Arya has not been very fond of attending R'hllor cults. She admits that it's very interesting how the flames actually seem to talk to Thoros and take on different forms, but there is an aversion to the Lord of Light and his priests, like the red witch who tried to take Gendry a few weeks ago. Despite that, she's grateful for the flames that foretold the betrayal of the Freys and Boltons. If not for R'hllor's revelation, the ravens and doves sent in droves by the Sisterhood, his brother and mother would be dead and Winterfell would have been taken. Fortunately, that didn't happen, but it distanced her even more from Robb's troop, which lengthened her stay with the Brotherhood.

Arya only attends the rituals to keep up with Gendry, who genuinely seems fascinated by it all. "The Seven never did anything for me and, no offense, but I feel like a fool praying to a tree. At least R'hllor is something I can see. And shit, he raises the dead and does premonitions!" That's what Gendry told her when they talked about it one sleepless night. She can understand that, but at the same time it sparked a fear inside her that Gendry might be so fascinated as to abandon her and join the Brotherhood.

Not that she depends on Gendry for anything. She might as well do anything herself, but after years of traveling together, he's become part of her pack, taking the place of her broken family. The truth is that Arya loves him, although she still doesn't know what kind of love it is or how it affects their relationship, but she knows that this love is the reason for her fear of being abandoned. He promised that he would take her to his brother and Gendry never broke a promise or lied to her.

Besides, it's not like Arya needs that bull head or anyone else to survive. She knows how to use a sword better than most grown men, knows survival techniques, hunts extremely well and even learned how to take down a man twice his size, thanks to his fight training with Gendry. So there is no reason to be afraid of being alone, in fact, she is much more agile alone, others slow her down in many ways. But she still wants Gendry around.

– I still don't understand why they are consecrating this guy. – Gendry grumbles in his usual bad mood.

Arya looks at the man who swears his knighthood. He is a new member of the Brotherhood, terrible with a sword and even worse with a bow, but he is obedient and seems very convinced of his sense of justice. Arya likes the consecrations, they are one of the few rituals that don't make her angry or bored, because of her childhood dreams, when she ran after Bran with a wooden sword and told her father that she wanted to be a knight. He laughed. They always laugh.

– He'll get better with time. – Arya says just to piss him off. He is a stubborn bull who hates to be crossed. – When I was little… – Gendry regards her with a playful smile. "You're still little." She can almost hear him thoughts. – When I was a child, I dreamed of being a knight.

– You are a lady. – Gendry says in that mocking tone that she hates. – You can't be a consecrated knight, but you can own a castle and have your own oaths.

– I also dreamed of owning a castle, but that's impossible in this shitty world. – Arya's voice takes on an irritated tone and her nose wrinkles into a frown. – A woman can be the lady of a castle, but who manages it is the lord.

– Fuck that shit. – Gendry mutters, imitating her grimace. – You would still have knights.

– Actually, they wouldn't be sworn to me. - She says with a discreet laugh. Sometimes she forgets that Gendry didn't have a formal education like yours. He is not stupid, he knows very well how the world works apart from the privileges of the Great Houses, but he does not understand how the hierarchies and protocols of the nobility work. – Knights are not sworn to a person, but to a House and an estate. For example, Dad died, but the knights are still sworn to Winterfell and House Stark, which is to say, sworn to Robb.

She sees that Gendry is still looking at her, although his face has taken on a bored expression. Arya fixes her eyes on the consecration again. They are in a more isolated place and a little higher, so the view is privileged. Another man takes his vows and Baric consecrates him with his sword, as Thoros presents him to the flames of R'hllor. In the old days, that would ignite desire in her heart, but after what she's experienced on the Kingsroad, at Harrenhal, and with the Sisterhood, Arya no longer feels like dedicating her entire life to a single cause. There's a free and untamed spirit inside her, that wants to travel and see the most remote places in the world.

– I would give you a castle to rule, if I had one. – Gendry says softly, in that friendly tone that just exists to her. – You are smart and fair, you would be a fine ruler of Winterfell or anywhere else.

– Then it's a shame you're a bastard. – Arya jokes about the recent discovery that Gendry is King Robert's bastard son. – You could give me Storm's End.

– If I were legitimate, I wouldn't inherit Storm's End. – Gendry says with a shrug. – I would inherit the Seven Kingdoms and they would all be yours, my lady.

Arya feels her cheeks heat up. It's too much to hear that kind of thing from Gendry's gravelly husky voice, especially when he's speaking so low it's like a whisper. It almost feels like a statement and Arya doesn't know what to make of it.

– I wouldn't make a good queen or a good lady. – She says after a few minutes of silence. – It would be like being bound in golden chains. It is pretty, but it is still chains. – Arya smiles softly, feeling relieved to finally express her feelings aloud to the only person she trusts, who won't judge her and who understands her point of view perfectly. – I don't want the stability of a castle and the responsibility of a lordship. I want to be free, to know every remote place on earth and sail the sea to the edge. – His eyes remain fixed on the flames, but she can feel Gendry's gaze burning into her skin. – That's why no one would ever be sworn to me. Knights don't serve women, much less a free woman.

Silence settles between them for a while, but it's not uncomfortable. Gendry isn't much for talking, but he was always good at listening to her, especially her quirks and her weirdest thoughts. Sometimes she gets some response or they get into some argument, other times Gendry just absorbs her words and stores them somewhere inside him, in a place that not even Arya has access to. She feels as if his deep blue eyes are as mysterious and wild as the sea, whose waves resemble their color. "It's okay, I hide things inside myself too."

– This place is sacred, isn't it? – Gendry's question sounds strange and random to Arya. – Is what is said here valid, legitimate and blessed?

– I think so. Thoros practically turned it into a temple of R'hllor. – She replies with her eyes still fixed on the consecration. – If there is any sacred place in these lands, it is this place.

The three men, now Knights of the Brotherhood Without Banners, are lined up facing the fire. Baric hands them each a sword, and Thoros begins to pray to the flames, requesting for R'hllor's blessings. The fire churns, throwing sparks into the air, which crackles around it. The flames from the bonfire lighten the hall, forming shadows at its edges, making Arya and Gendry practically invisible. It was at that moment that she felt the body beside her move. She tilts her head in his direction and her eyes widen into glittering silver balls when she sees Gendry on his knees, his sword stuck in a crack in the stone floor.

– I, Gendry Waters, a bastard blacksmith from Flea Bottom, without titles or possessions, swear my loyalty and my life to you, Arya Stark of Winterfell. – His voice is a whisper in the darkness, serious and firm, at the same time soft and affectionate, twining itself in Arya's heart. - This sword does not belong to me, but I swear to be at your disposal, as well as any other weapon that my hands wield. I swear to forge your swords and your armor, I will wear your colors and your shields and I will follow you on land or sea. – Gendry's heat grows more intense. Arya can feel him closer and her body turns towards him on its own. She can even feel the cold blade of the sword touch the exposed skin of her ankle. – If you accept me, I will be your knight from this day, until the last of my days.

Arya stands completely still for a few seconds. She absorbs Gendry's words, which echo and curl inside her, filling voids in her heart that Arya didn't even know existed. This warms her inside in a sweet, delicious way, like warm mead. A flare of fire momentarily illuminates them. Arya can see Gendry right in front of her, still on his knees, his hands tightening around the hilt of his sword, his tanned skin bathed in the golden light of the flames and his blue eyes full of affection, anxiously awaiting her answer.

The shadow swallows them again. Between the many thoughts that bubble in her mind and the chaos of feelings that flood her heart, a certainty takes hold. Arya chooses to believe that this place truly is sacred and that the oaths they make to each other will stand true before the gods. She fumbles with her belt until she finds her dagger, then searches for Gendry's shoulder. “ As if it's hard to find someone that big.”

– I accept your oaths and make my own oath. – Arya touches his shoulder with the dagger, imitating the gesture of consecration of the knights. – I swear to put you under my protection, my colors and shields covering your shoulders, my swords will always be by your side and never against you. – Arya lifts her dagger and touches Gendry's other shoulder. – I swear to take you wherever I go, on land or sea, in the shadows or in the light. I swear to be your lady from this day, until the last of my days. – Arya collects the dagger and reaches for Gendry's hand, which wraps around hers at the feel of her touch. – Arise, Sor Gendry, Sworn Knight to Arya Stark.

– As my lady commands. – Gendry says raising her hand to his lips.

Inspiration: The accolade, by Edmund Leighton - 1901.

obs: English is not my native language, so this could contain a lot of errors.

#Gendrya fanfiction #arya x gendry #gendrya #Arya Stark #Gendry Waters

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how-masterful · 1 year

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31 Fics of Fright

Day 26- Set The Night on Fire

Delgado!Master X Reader

Prompt: Nightfall

Notes: And today on Masterful writing fics about situations she wishes were real. If only fireworks were eco-friendly, didn’t scare dogs, and also were alive with alien capabilities... a girl can dream.

Warnings: None

The Autumn on Mulcero was a thing of legend, according to the Master’s delighted description as he walked you down towards the perfect viewing spot. He’d been insistent on bringing you here, framing it as a reward for your dedication to him, but you knew otherwise. You’d taken a cheeky look at what he’d been reading up on in the TARDIS- he’d tailored this to your most perfect preferences. He’d been planning this for weeks.

The hill was a short incline, the Master keeping a gentle hand to steady you as you made your way down to the clearing. It was positioned high above the bay, overlooking the views of the swirling, glimmering waters and the bustling streets below. The village was decorated for the harvest season, streets lined with banners and lanterns, pumpkins hanging freely in the trees, shop windows decorated with cartoon witches and vampires.

You’d enjoyed a slice of pie from the largest pumpkin that year, washing it down with a glorious warm apple cider, the hot liquid sliding down your throat like liquid gold. Apparently, the bounty had been incredible this year, the soil producing the most incredible produce they’d ever seen. The Master looked awfully proud at that, raising your suspicion at his knowing grin. You suspected he had something to do with it all, the way he was encouraging the villagers in their celebrations.

The village was alive with energy, the celebrations taking over what felt like the majority of the land. You couldn't help but smile at the wonderful stands of artisanal goods, the joy that flourished in the air. You could always appreciate somebody enjoying the Autumn. It was your most beloved season after all.

The Master had kept to a schedule, guiding you up the hill to the beauty spot with enough time to see the last wisps of twilight. The sky had melted into a vivid rainbow of warmth, the gorgeous blue shifting into a richly vivid orange, the deep red bleeding into a deep and potent violet, then purple, then the most comforting shade of navy. The sky was alight with power, the shimmering stars of the distant galaxy poking through the atmosphere, twinkling and blinking like rhinestones in the velvet of the night. Down below the villagers had lit a great bonfire, burning wood and carving pumpkins, laughing in merriment, tipsy on wine. You leant against the Master's shoulder as you sat on a blanket up on the hill, pointing down at the celebrations curiously.

“Master?”

“Yes, my dear?”

“I know you have a plan but… can I ask why we’re not down there?”

The Master smiled, taking your pointing hand into his own and patting the back of it fondly. He gazed at you with the same knowing expression. It spoke of trust, in both the plan and himself.

“Because this is the position we need to be in tonight, my dear girl. The last of the celebrations should be observed from the highest of places.”

“Why?”

He tapped the back of your hand, your curiousness inspiring. You relented, sinking into his side and following his hand, gazing up at the sky.

“You’ll see.”

After a short while more of celebration and small talk, you noticed the villagers had begun to sit in circles, laying back and staring up at the sky in anticipation. You did the same, laying back down against the grass, hand intertwined within the Master's grip. You watched the sky, waiting in mystery, for whatever it was that had excited both the Master and the villagers to appear.

It started slowly, the last of the purple sky slipping away behind the horizon, giving way to the blanket of navy and the pitch black of the night. From where the purple had disappeared, small tendrils of orange and red began to snake their way through the sky, dancing around every twinkling ball of gas, aiming right into the heavens.

Your eyes widened as the tendrils began to circle and spark, more and more appearing in the night sky. They twirled and exploded before merging together, the colours setting the night aflame as they separated into the most incredible shapes. The tendrils had taken new form, pumpkins and leaves and crops, the purple weavings its way into the shape of bats and broomsticks, a slither of green shaping itself into a witch’s hat, a shooting star of white creating the most wonderful shape of a ghostly apparition.

The colours continued to manifest within the sky, swirling and jutting and sparking into shapes and moving pictures. They seemed to you like the northern lights, colours gliding like fireworks across the sky, painting themselves into still life's and portraits of seasonal fun. You couldn’t look away, the incredible sight before you engulfing your vision. The Master was chuckling, his attention occasionally slipping to peer at you from the corner of his eye. You were transfixed, amazed by the natural wonders that were currently making a vampire in the sky.

“How… why…” You whispered, reaching up towards the sky in awe.

“It’s the planet,” the Master replied. “It’s celebrating the season.”

“The planet?” You gaped, eyes following the flurry of bats across the horizon.

“Yes, the villagers have had a successful harvest. The planet is celebrating, thanking them for their good work.”

“The planet is alive?”

“Of course. It’s been like this for centuries. Although I must admit, they’ve never been this successful. A new fertiliser, I heard a chap in the village square say.”

Slowly, the pieces began to fall into place. The successful autumn, the harvest, the celebration, the Master’s knowing look. You’d been so curious why the Master had travelled somewhere and insisted you not leave the TARDIS. You thought you finally knew why.

“Did you do this?”

Your voice was soft, almost a whisper. The Master turned to meet your eyes; your attention finally pulled from the glowing lights in the sky. He seemed apprehensive, as if he was unwilling to say what was about to pass his lips. You smiled, so genuine and adoring, your hand reaching to caress the side of his face. Your thumb brushed against the scruff of his salt and pepper beard, his eyes so old and wise and powerful. This was a man who had changed a whole world just to make you happy.

“Thank you, Master.”

You saved his breath, already knowing what he wished to say. The Master nodded, before turning back to face the sky.

“Ah, what a wonderful skeleton. How striking.” He mused, pointing at the sky.

You giggled, sighing contentedly as you turned to watch the light show, your heart filled with a new and indescribable feeling of warmth. You inched closer to the Master's side, gaze following his fingertip.

He was right. The skeleton was indeed wonderful and striking.

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jays-cave-of-rp-memes · 1 year

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𝕎𝕚𝕥𝕔𝕙𝕪 𝕊𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕟𝕔𝕖 𝕊𝕥𝕒𝕣𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕤

"Clean up your own mess!"

"Double double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble!"

"This must be a gummy spell..."

"Are you sure you know what you're doing? That's not how the book says to brew it."

"This'll change your fate, alright!"

"Anyone seen a black cat running around?"

"That's my familiar! I mean pet!"

"I put a spell on you!"

"What? Did you expect me to fly here on my broom?"

"A plague! A plague upon both your houses!"

"Every witch was someone's princess/prince in some other once upon a time."

"I believe you owe me a favor."

"I am not the villain in this tale!"

"I'll get you, my pretty!" *cackles maniacally until they start coughing*

"I can totally hex that person for you, if you want."

"Invitation's still open! We're gonna dance naked under the full moon and light a massive bonfire. You in?"

"I...don't think it was supposed to turn that color..."

"Why is _____ a frog? Again? This is the third time this week!"

"Oh, please. Get a better go-to curse! Something more original!"

"What is this, The Craft? Are you gonna make Skeet Ulrich fall deliriously in love with you?"

#𝕁𝕒𝕪'𝕤 𝕡𝕣𝕠𝕞𝕡𝕥𝕤 #rp prompts #rp meme #rp memes #rp prompt

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lis-likes-fics · 2 years

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A Witch Life | Chapter 4

There was a small get-together that night at the Residence to welcome Y/N, Jasper, Celene, and Anthony. As she sat in front of the bonfire with Jasper, she set up a magical video call with the coven.

When everyone picked up, they waved eagerly.

"Hey!"

"How is it?"

"Is it cool?"

Before they could ramble on, she stopped them, "Hey, guys. I sent some pictures. They threw a gathering for us, look it." She showed them what was going on around them, the dancing, the bonfire, the magical shows. It was a classic witch party.

Carlisle pulled up the pictures she sent him and showed everyone. They watched the interest over their faces as they saw them.

"I want to go on the train!" Althea eagerly said.

"I know, baby. We'll take you some day," Jasper told her.

"We came to see how you were enjoying the party. It seems I'm interrupting something?" Veda's voice announced.

They shook their heads, "Oh, no. Come meet my coven."

She did just that as she sat on Y/N's side. Everyone introduced themselves to her, saying their hellos as they met the famous coven leader. "It's wonderful to meet you. I hope to one day meet you all in person. Until then," she said. "I'll leave you to it."

"So everything is okay so far?" Carlisle asked. Y/N nodded, her head instinctively going to lay on Jasper's shoulder.

"Good," he said. Esme leaned forward with a large smile, "Go have fun. We'll be fine here."

"Are you sure?" she asked. They nodded and waved at them. "Bye! We'll see you soon."

They both waved at them before the call ended. Y/N looked at Jasper, who offered his hand. "May I have this dance?"

She smiled at him and took his hand, standing as she went to join the company dancing around the bonfire. Celene and Anthony were having just as much fun playing with some of the kids and the familiars.

The night continued on into the early hours in the morning. They ate good food, danced to good music, and even drank. Jasper was really comfortable as he enjoyed himself, relishing in the light, happy atmosphere of the witch gathering.

Maybe everything would turn out just as well as it needed to. Y/N's anxieties calmed and allowed her to have fun and party.

Y/N groaned as she woke the next morning, Jasper holding her to his chest as she slowly woke up. Her head immediately started lightly throbbing, and she squeezed her eyes shut. She turned around and buried her face in Jasper's chest, shielding her eyes from the light that began to pour through the windows.

Y/N mumbled into his chest, half incoherent. "Hangover."

He chuckled and kissed her forehead. Freya hopped onto the bed where she walked over to her, lying across her face as if she were a pillow.

She grumbled again but made no move to push the fox off of her. She was too tired.

"Come on," Jasper chuckled again. "We have things to do today."

"Don't wanna," she whined.

"Too bad. Get up," he said as he lugged her over his shoulder like a sack. He got her in the shower as he got everything in order for the day.

By the time she was out, Celene walked into the room, completely unbothered by the fact that she was wearing nothing but a towel, and handed her a small bottle.

"Got these. Their potions master has been giving them out to everyone, should help with the hangover," she said. She thanked Celene as she took it from her.

"Thank Merlin," she muttered before opening the bottle. Y/N held it away from her nose suddenly as the terrible smell invaded her senses. "I hate potions sometimes. Why do they always smell so terrible?"

Jasper laughed at her, and she rolled her eyes before quickly downing the potion. It worked quickly to soothe the pain and, before long, she was back to herself.

"Better?" he asked. Y/N nodded and hummed, giving him a quick kiss before getting ready to start the day.

Their day was long and exciting. They got to go around the village and actually see where everything was. The tour was wonderful, and they met many wonderful people. They met the potions masters, the animal keepers, the healers, the metal workers, craftsmen, and so much more.

The small town was vast and beautiful, keeping to its elements of old and new, modern and antiquated.

When Y/N was asked about her scars by the healers, she unveiled her illusion spell for them to see. They went crazy as they looked around their small building and vast interior. They scrambled for potions and scrubs, ointments and books that held certain spells. She assured them she did not want them healed, as much as she used to hate them, they reminded her of where she came from to where she was now: from a scared little girl to a strong coven witch.

Instead, they geeked out over the many potions and spells and healing techniques they had picked up and learned.

Many of the witches and warlocks they met were practically geeks. They enjoyed what they did, and it was clear in the way they behaved.

At some point, they found a shifter warlock. He looked to be in his late twenties, but turned out to be nearly fifty. He was very experienced in his work, but very humble about it as well. They inquired with him about his work, hoping to gain more information about it so that she could bring it back to Charlie to help her learn more about her trade. He even gave her one of the many grimoires he had either collected or made himself. They thanked him kindly.

As they continued to explore with Veda and Gia, Veda introduced a few witches and warlocks who had been to war, older witches who traveled. Jasper got caught up in talking with them, and Y/N had to escape in order to allow him to keep talking, so he did not try to leave with her. She wanted him to be able to talk with other people.

It was not long before she was ditched by Celene and Anthony in favor of hanging out with other animal keepers and fire workers.

Which left Y/N with Veda. They walked with one another before coming across Veda's home. It was small on the outside, as the others were as well, but large on the inside with two stories, an underground level and vast rooms.

They went down the stairs to her work space. It was large, the walls were of wood and soil, creating a burrow feel. With a snap of her fingers, Veda lit up lanterns and candles scattered around the room and lining with walls to provide light. There were books all over the place, some with letters that glimmered with bright ink.

There were artifacts and some Potion bottles on shelves or lying around on desks. Quills, pens, pencils, and notebooks all over the place, pages of paper lying carelessly on the floor. It was really the workspace of a witch. Organized chaos.

"This is... amazing," Y/N marveled. "I've never seen anything like it."

Veda looked around with a smile. "This is my office of sorts. Perks of being a divination witch."

Y/N hummed as she continued to look around, amazed at everything. Her fingers brushed over a book with shimmering purple ink that glowed with magic. She opened the book, observing the first page, which read something in Archaic Latin. She read it with ease before closing the book again.

Veda picked up an old fashioned pocket watch, "This belonged to the Great Ernest Frederick."

"A time warlock," she finished as Veda handed over the watch with a hum. As she tilted the watch for a closer look, she saw that the hands and numbers encased in the glass were formed with sand that continued to tick away the seconds. "This is so cool," she mumbled.

Veda then picked up another book, "This was the grimoire of the coven's last leader, Godric. It has been passed down to the leaders for hundreds of years." She showed you the cover of the black, leather bound book, the writing silver and gold.

She set the book down and went to a glass casing that displayed a wand. "This one is mine," she said as she opened the case and took the wand in her hands. "It's ash wood with a combined core."

"Combined?" she questioned. "That's so cool." Combined cores were rare, as the substances hardly ever got along together. Wands that had combined cores were thought to be extremely powerful wands envied by most.

But those cores obeyed only the master of the wand, and had no problem with randomly self-destructing. They were temperamental, but extremely loyal if the cores are mixed correctly.

"It's witch tear and crow feather," she replied. Oh, yes. A very interesting wand indeed. "I hardly ever use my wand, hence why it's down here. I stopped using it a long time ago."

"I hardly ever use my wand anymore," Y/N nodded. "It's a black walnut wood. The core is my husband's venom. Weird interaction, don't get me started."

They both laughed together, spending another long time talking and looking at interesting artifacts. They talked about their covens and families, even bringing up their pasts and some challenges they had to go against.

Y/N's story about facing the Volturi in Italy intrigued Veda. She, herself, had not had a direct interaction with the Volturi and had only heard of them.

Gia and Jasper soon found the two as they migrated to the living room to talk more. Eventually, their group was expanded as Celene and Anthony arrived. More people from the coven sat in and soon, everything was moved to the center of the town where another get-together was formed.

They had fun swapping stories, playing with the children, eating more food, and avoiding drinks. Y/N sent a few letters through Cami back home to tell everyone how the trip was going. It was not long before Althea sent one back, a couple more from others in the coven. They could even make out some scribbles that were Emrys' attempts at writing. It was all gibberish-some simply balls of scribbles-but it made them smile.

Soon they decided to go back to the little homes they were provided with for their stay before going back to bed.

The trip went on similar to this for weeks, happy with the new relationships they had successfully formed.

As Halloween passed, they had to return home to keep their promise to their daughter. Hopefully she would not be upset that they were gone during Halloween. But, as a witch kid, she probably would be a little grumpy.

They arrived home after their train ride on the first of November, greeting their family happily. Althea grumbled at them at first but decided she was not too angry when they gave her gifts from Veda and her coven.

They sent letters back and forth between Veda to keep connections, happy that their meeting had gone well and they were now allied. She was eager to share the news with Romina, who expressed how proud she was of Y/N's first partnership as a leader.

She planned to travel again to Africa soon to visit a warlock and his coven as their next relation trip. But that would not be until January.

Until then, she intended to enjoy her family.

#jasper hale #jasper whitlock #jasper hale x reader #jasper hale x y/n #jasper hale x you #twilight fanfic #twilight fanfiction #twilight #the twilight saga #reader insert #female reader #fanfic #witch au #fanfiction #twilight fandom

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litfeathers · 2 years

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Well, here is a surprise to celebrate season three: I decided to record a scene from my Caleb/Wittewife fic, Damnation!

The music: Jigs: Eavesdropper's/Both Meat & Drink/Off We Go by Great Big Sea.

The fantastic album art was drawn by @magicwormonastring. It's part of a set they drew special for this fic! The set is absolutely phenomenal and you can find it here!

The dialogue is under the cut if you'd like to follow along!

Enjoy! 🪵🔥

PS Major apologies for my Caleb voice lol.

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Caleb would always remember the first time he ever danced.

It had been around a bonfire, at a party hosted by an older gentleman who had agreed to sell some of Caleb's better carvings in his shop. There was music, and merriment, and brightness, and feasting, and noise, and he had almost had to leave several times due to the sensory overload.

A young witch had taken pity on him, and dragged him towards the dance floor, ignoring his feeble grunt of protest.

“Oh, you are the human Father told me about!” she said, finally noticing his round ears. She flipped one of her long, red braids over her shoulder and grinned carelessly. “You look lonely. And lost.”

“I am neither!”

“Well, what are you then?”

“Independent and omniscient!”

She cackled, a warbling piercing shriek that made Caleb practically jump out of his new boots.

“Oh Titan, you’ve only said six words to me and I like you already.”

For one of the only times in his life, Caleb didn’t have a quick retort.

“So, Father failed to tell me your name. Mind giving it to me yourself?” She asked, staring up at him through thick eyelashes.

His heart skipped a beat.

“Caleb,” he finally said, sticking out his hand awkwardly. “Caleb Wittebane.”

“Right. We’re closing in on ten words, and I’m still invested,” she said, staring at his hand curiously. “Hmm.”

“Oh! That isn’t a…thing you do,” Caleb said, retracting his hand in a hurry. “My apologies, I forgot-“

“No, please show me if you have a strange human gesture you would like to perform!” the witch said, her green eyes glowing in the firelight. “I’m intrigued.”

“Oh, well, it’s…shaking hands? You…you hold your hand out and we shake them together.”

He stuck out his hand again.

The witch copied his movements, and allowed him to grasp her hand and give it a quick shake.

“It’s a greeting,” Caleb explained.

“Ahh! Human greetings! Fascinating!”

Her eyes twinkled.

“Do humans dance?” she asked.

“Oh…I…not the group of humans I belong to. We don’t. Dance, I mean.”

“Why ever not?”

“We…are not allowed.”

“Not allowed? Are you serious?”

She made a show of looking all over the party, shielding her eyes with her hand like she was peering from a crow’s nest on a pirate ship.

“Well, Caleb Wittebane. I don’t see any other humans here. And I’m assuming other humans are the source of that rule. Soooooo…”

She grabbed his hand and struck a pose, her cloak and skirt swinging around her small frame.

“I think if you would like to dance, no one will catch you. And I’ll certainly never tell on you.”

She winked.

“Hazel Clawthorne. Figured you should probably know the name of your dance partner for tonight.”

Caleb, almost in a trance, allowed her to drag him the rest of the way to the dance floor.

He started copying her sweeping, energetic movements to the best of his ability, and the music started to pulse through every vein of his body, and the fire threw looming shadows over the trees, and and before he knew it, he was twirling her and losing himself completely in the frenzy of sound and movement.

“I am cavorting in front of a bonfire with a witch,” Caleb thought faintly. “Does that make me a witch, too?”

He had the time of his life.

#Caleb Wittebane #Wittewife #The Owl House #this makes me want to find a Caleb so i can actually record a proper scene with them 👀#Wait is this my voice reveal on this blog? I think it is!#Witteclaw

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daisy-dearest94 · 6 months

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Witchy Wardrobe: Infusing Magic into Your Everyday Style

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Welcome, fellow witches and fashion enthusiasts, to a magical journey where personal style meets the mystical. Witchy fashion isn't just about aesthetics; it's a way of expressing your inner power and embracing the enchanting world of the occult. In this post, we'll explore ways to infuse magic into your everyday wardrobe.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

1. Embrace Colors and Natural Fabrics:

Colors can represent many of the elements. Start by incorporating earthy colors like deep greens, rich browns, and rustic oranges into your wardrobe, if you want to connect more to the Earth element. These colors resonate with the natural world, connecting you to the energies of the Earth. Opt for natural fabrics like cotton, linen, and hemp, as they enhance your connection to the Earth, as well. Other elemental connections can include blue for water, white for air, red for fire, and even blacks for shadow work. Depending on your witchy type of magic, these different colors can help.

2. Symbolic Accessories:

Adorn yourself with jewelry and accessories that hold symbolic significance to your work. Incorporate pentacles, crescent moons, and other magical symbols into your earrings, necklaces, and rings. Each piece can carry its own unique intention, from protection to wisdom.

3. Crystals and Gemstones:

Why not wear your crystals as well? Crystals aren't just for your altar; they can be worn as jewelry or placed in pockets or purses for their energy. Amethyst for spiritual growth, rose quartz for love, and obsidian for protection are just a few examples.

4. Flowy and Bohemian Styles:

Flowy, bohemian clothing not only looks magical but also allows for freedom of movement, perfect for dancing around the bonfire or connecting with nature. Flowing skirts, bell sleeves, and maxi dresses capture the essence of the witchy aesthetic.

5. Hats and Cloaks:

Witchy hats and cloaks are iconic pieces that add a touch of mystery and elegance to your wardrobe. A wide-brimmed hat and a flowing cloak can transform your everyday look into something straight out of a fairy tale. You can even wear a veil, as both hats and veils do well in protecting your energy.

6. Incorporate Vintage and Thrift Finds:

Vintage and thrift stores often hold hidden treasures for the witchy wardrobe. You can find unique, timeless pieces that resonate with the past, adding a layer of nostalgia and mystery to your style. Just be sure you do well to cleanse them before use! As you do not want any negative energies from past holders to remain.

7. Handcrafted and Personalized Items:

Consider investing in handcrafted and personalized items that reflect your unique magical path. Seek out artisans who create custom pieces like embroidered patches, hand-painted jackets, or personalized charms.

8. Intentional Dressing:

Each morning, set an intention for the day, and choose your clothing accordingly. Select colors and symbols that align with your intention, whether it's for protection, love, abundance, or clarity.

9. Anointing with Oils:

As a finishing touch, anoint your pulse points with your favorite essential oils. The scents not only enhance your overall aroma but also serve as a subtle magical statement. Choose oils that correspond with your intention for the day.

10. Confidence and Empowerment:

Ultimately, the most magical aspect of your witchy wardrobe is the confidence it instills. When you wear clothes that resonate with your inner self, you radiate confidence and empowerment, and that is the true magic of witchy fashion.

Remember, there are no strict rules when it comes to infusing magic into your everyday style. Your fashion choices are a personal and creative expression of your unique path. Let your inner witch shine through your clothing, and may your style reflect the enchanting and powerful being that you are. 🔮🌙✨

#Witch #witchy things #Fashion #witchcraft #witchblr #witch blog #witch community

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mccullough15stiles · 2 years

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#ORIGIN PRO

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aurumacadicus · 3 years

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For the pairing + title - Bucky/Tony/Sam - Dance with the Devil

Summer I was gonna make it so sexy but instead I made everyone so dumb :((

Dance with the Devil

"So you're..." Bucky began hesitantly.

"...A witch," Tony confirmed for what felt like the hundredth time, raising his eyebrows at him. "Again, yes."

"And you're..." Sam started as well, clearly searching for words.

"...Not malevolent," Tony finished for him, crossing his arms and leaning back in his seat. "It's like you guys have never seen a witch before."

Sam and Bucky turned to stare at each other. Bucky shook his head minutely. Sam shrugged one shoulder, uncertain. Finally, they both looked back at him, and Sam said, "We haven't seen a witch before."

"That you know of," Tony scoffed, mostly to himself.

Sam and Bucky could not tell whether this statement terrified them or not. On one hand, the idea that they’d been walking past witches without knowing filled them with unease. On the other, what business was it of theirs and why should they be entitled to know that someone walking past them could do magic? Curses weren’t even that bad anymore, what with regulated curse breakers available at most emergency rooms now and several clinics that accepted walk-ins. It was probably more likely that they had met a witch, and the witch just hadn’t felt the need to tell them.

“Have you really met the devil,” Bucky finally blurted out.

Tony might have been offended, but Bucky immediately looked like he wanted to die, and Sam did not even pretend to be subtle as he rammed his elbow into Bucky’s kidney. He waited until Bucky looked like he wasn’t about to throw up before he answered, “We’re not devil worshippers. That’s a very...” He paused to come up with a word, then continued, “Old? Old. Belief.”

“My parents immigrated from eastern Europe,” Bucky admitted. “They said that on full moons, witches would dance naked with the devil in the forest.”

Tony stared at him, speechless.

Luckily, Sam was there to give him a very skeptical raised eyebrow as he asked, “Are you sure what you just described was not a euphemism for going out and having sex out of wedlock?”

Bucky opened his mouth, but nothing came out except a vague squeaky noise as he realized that that could be the truth and his entire world turned upside-down.

“...Are you insinuating that witches are slutty?” Tony asked, more out of curiosity than offense.

“...Aren’t you?” Sam replied after a moment.

Tony opened his mouth to tell him no, he wasn’t, realized it was a lie, and closed his mouth again, shrugging. “Eh. I mean, I am. There are celibate witches, too. Just like non-witches.” He reached out for his mug of tea, which they’d been surprised to see him order, considering he mainlined coffee. “Does this mean you’re not interested in dating me anymore? I have to admit, it’s not the first time someone’s dropped me once they found out.”

“I mean, it would be kinda shitty if we dropped you just because of that,” Sam muttered. “Considering Bucky goes all wolfy on the full moon and I can talk to birds.”

“...Bucky’s a werewolf?” Tony asked after a long pause.

Bucky pulled himself out of going through every memory of his parents telling him something as fact and trying to figure out if it was a euphemism. “Yeah, I wasn’t... really trying to hide it? Is this a thing? Like werewolves and vampires? I’ll have you know Steve and I only get into arguments over pizza.”

“It just... makes a lot of sense now,” Tony said after another moment. “Full moons are good for many spells, and many covens evoke more magic by dancing around a bonfire.”

“The fire is the devil because wolf brain says it’s dangerous and human brain equates fire with hell,” Sam gasped.

“You made me think my parents thought witches were sluts I can’t believe you’d make me think about my parents and sex in any capacity!” Bucky wailed, and both Sam and Tony covered their blushing faces when the rest of the coffee shop occupants turned to stare at him.

#aurumacadicus answers #ask meme #fic title meme #winterironfalcon

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ramblesanddragons · 3 years

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Every year around this time the town hides. No one dares to go out at sunset for fear of hearing the call. They say it sounds like sweet music. They say you smell savory foods cooking over the fire. They claim you can feel sin in the air.

This gathering is to be avoided at all costs. Those who fall for the call wander into the woods and never come back. Official records always say they pass in their sleep. Small quick private funerals are held for the gone because they must be dead. Why would they leave the haven of our community? A town with righteous people who live righteous lives. No one would leave of their own accord. It would have to be magic calling them into the woods, but that can’t be so, we’re too pure for magic to affect us. Our pastor can repel such evil spirits. Yes, there are witches and demons out there, but no good citizen of our community would be pulled in by such wickedness.

That’s what we all say when asked on the matter. Of course, mothers still warn their children of this night, especially young girls. They are weaker spiritually so they could be swayed. Yes, this was a night to stay home and work and pray.

Not for me.

I stood at the edge of the woods. I could hear the sweet music and could almost taste the meats and pies and other goods cooking. It pulled me forward and I let it. My choices were to try my odds in the woods or be married in a week to a brute of a man. I tried my hardest to be happy with my match, but I couldn’t. I was scared of the woods, of the witches that lived there but I dreaded my wedding more. Maybe the witches would help me. Maybe they’d kill me. Whatever the outcome, the woods felt like my only choice now.

I followed the sound of music. The shadows of the trees grew longer with each step until I could no longer see the lights of the town. I was scared but too terrified to turn back now. How my father would react if I were seen coming out of the woods that night, I don’t want to think about. I came to a large iron fence that stretched as far as I could see in the dim light. As I tried to figure how to climb it, I heard rustling in the trees, so I hid in a nearby bush.

It was a local man, Toby. He was walking the fence with an iron rod in his hand. Earmuffs covered his ears. I knew some men in town had a special summons on this night by the pastor, was this what they were asked to do? Try and stop people from following the call?

I waited for him to pass, my heart pounding in my chest so hard I though he was bound to hear it. He always had an interest in me and when I was first matched with the man who was to be my husband, I was relived it wasn’t him. That relief didn’t last long.

Once I was sure he was out of sight I climbed a nearby tree and used the branches to reach a tree on the other side. I could hear the branches cracking under my weight, but I made it to the other side. Then I broke into a run towards the music.

Firelight flickered through the trees as I grew closer to the noise. I stopped on the edge of the wood. Just beyond was a large clearing, a bonfire roaring in the middle. I’m certain my jaw hit the ground as I took in the sight.

Women were dancing! They danced freely with each other or by themselves or with men! I could see their shoulders and legs and even a few of their stomachs in the clothes they were wearing. Some of the men were shirtless!

I was so distracted by the dancing I didn’t notice the small dog come towards me. It began to bark at me playfully, wagging its tail. It wouldn’t listen to my commands for it to shoo and a woman followed the barking to my hidden spot in the woods.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” The woman called into the night.

I froze. What would happen to me? A thousand images of what they could do to me ran through my mind, but I knew I had no other choice. No turning back, only forward. I stepped out from behind the trees.

“Oh! You must be from the other town. Goodness you must be so tired and cold it’s a chilly night. Come. Let’s get you something warm to drink. Don’t worry, Sugar doesn’t bite.”

The dog I assumed was Sugar barked happy again and ran around my feet as I stepped out. The woman took my hand and led me closer to the fire. It was a welcomed warmth on my cold skin. She sat me on a log as other members of this dance waved to me.

She left and returned with a drink in hand. Steam floated gently out of it. I took the cup with shaking hands and stared at it.

“It’s not poison. I promise,” she said with a smile.

“A-Are you a witch?” The moment the words left my mouth I regretted it. Luckily the woman laughed.

“No, I’m not. Some of the people here are. Some of them are of other faiths. Some have none at all. Nobody will hurt you here though.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered lowering my gaze in my shame. The woman gently tilted my head back up to meet her eyes. Her wrinkled smile was gentle.

“It’s okay. Believe me when I say you’re okay now. You’re too young to remember me but I was just like you once. Running from that place. Things aren’t perfect here but I’m freer than I ever was there. You will be too.”

My eyes widened and she laughed again. “Come enjoy the harvest festival. We’ll worry about getting you settled later.”

A harvest festival. That’s all it was. No magic or demons. Just people celebrating. I sighed and took a sip of my drink. It was warm and sweet.

The streets are empty and there are whispers about a gathering in the woods. Have courage and follow the sounds of the sweet music. This gathering may just save your life.

#hauntober returns #I took the prompt and made it wholesome again #My writing #writing

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primordialsoundmeditation · 2 years

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"You look like a witch," he said.

-If only! she replied.

-If only? What is the merit of being a witch?

-I'm going to tell you:

A witch is a woman who is connected to nature; knows the power of plants and understands the language of animals.

She travels between the worlds and communicates with the great spirit.

A witch loves herself and all living beings, respects and is able to listen without judging, and heal a broken heart.

Being a witch is knowing the power that is inside you, enjoying who you are without belittling anyone. The witches dance and sing without complexes, they decipher the messages of the moon and the wind and bathe naked in rivers and seas.

They do magic in their homes. With a good pot, they warm your body and soul. There are witches who sing and witches who write. Others make bread or sell their creations. You find them in all professions. Some gather around the bonfire on new moon nights, others invent rituals at home and put candles out. And do you know why? Because they are not afraid. They dance and sing in honor of invoking the ancestors who unjustly died. They raise their voices to wake up women that still suffer the spell of centuries of repression. Incantations of self-love are whispered, They pass them from one to the other and record them in their cells.

Witches, wizards, and sorceresses roam the four directions healing the world with their gifts.

I hope I am a Witch !!!

~ Author Unknown ~

Art Julia Jeffrey

The Celtic Witch

Red's Safe Haven

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gellavonhamster · 3 years

Text

ghost stories

Suicide Squad (2016) || characters: El Diablo feat. everyone else || post-canon, sort of a fix-it

ao3 link eng || this was first written and published on ao3 in Russian in 2016 but I didn't attempt to translate it into English back then.

Harley is the first to see him.

She catches the smell first. Something appears to be burning, and she checks cautiously if there is something wrong with the coffee machine. She doesn’t find anything suspicious – not that the appliances about to flame up smell like that anyway. Could it be that there’s a fire starting? That would be funny, but seems like there’s hardly a chance. It is the smell of a bonfire at the beach, of the fallen leaves being burned in the yards in fall, of a melting candle in the church; weirdly, all this at the same time. A smell that seems too pure for Belle Reve, for Gotham, for everything that makes up her life these days.

Harley looks around once again – and springs to her feet like she’s been stung.

Chato Santana is standing next to her cage.

“Diablo?” she whispers, unable to believe her eyes. She would’ve thought she’s lost her marbles if there were any left to lose.

“Harley,” says Diablo, and it’s his voice, his shy, sad smile, his eyes and his tattoos, and Harley squeals in delight as she rushes to him. The bars of the cage are live, so she only dares to stick out the tips of her fingers. He touches them with his hand – certainly alive, certainly not a product of her mind being tortured by boredom and monotony – and she laughs.

“You’re alive, alive, alive! How did you survive? And how did they let you in?”

“It’s a long story. And I don’t think I have much time,” Diablo looks guilty. He’s still holding her hand and looking at her so earnestly it’s almost worrying. “Harley… don’t go with him.”

“Huh? What do you mean, honey?”

“He’s coming here. Don’t leave with him, Harley, stay. It sounds strange, but this would really be for the best.”

“Don’t leave with whom?” she can’t follow him. He gives her a melancholic look – and suddenly disappears. Without any smoke or flames or any other special effects. She can’t wrap her head around how it happened – it’s just that he was here a moment ago, and now there’s no one beside her, and she’s reaching out towards nothing.

“Diablo?” she calls, and when she gets no answer, she decides to get things straight by asking the guards. What kind of cruel joke is this? Only one person is allowed to joke here, and that person is her. “Hello there! Mister jailer, yoo-hoo! Where’s my friend?”

No one is in a hurry to respond. Finally, one of the armed-to-the-teeth guards approaches the cage.

“Why are you yelling, lady?”

“Where’s my friend?” Harley asks petulantly. “He was here just now, and we didn’t finish talking. Where did you take him?”

“There was no one here.”

“What do you mean ‘no one’? I just talked to him!”

The guard examines her from head to foot. Looks like he’s chewing gum, which, combined with his empty apathetic stare, makes him look like a cow.

“Definitely crazy,” he sums up, and leaves. Irritated, Harley forgets to take caution, hits the bars and falls down on the floor right away, writhing in pain.

“Well, well, well,” she whispers, playing the recent events over in her head. Chato was very much corporeal – not a ghost, then. Yet the guards didn’t notice him, and then he vanished into thin air. Harley thinks about the being Chato transformed into by the end of the battle – an ancient one, as if straight from the walls of some Aztec temple. Could some petty bomb kill such a being? Could the Enchantress’s brother have survived too?

“I am friends with a god,” she informs the ceiling. “Incredible.”

About an hour later, her Puddin’ comes for her, and she forgets the advice Diablo gave her.

Croc sees him on the night of the same day. He knows for sure that it is night thanks to the TV listings – the only reference point for time and days of the week that he has. Not that it was bothering him too much, truth be told. Monday or Sunday, every day in Belle Reve is a carbon copy of the day before. However, Croc doesn’t complain. He has a roof over his head, water, food – even better food than he used to have in the sewers in days gone by – and a TV, and it is honestly not too hard to do without such extras as companionship and fresh experiences. Still, he is glad to see Diablo. Even though first he lunges at him with his fangs bared, because he doesn’t immediately recognize him and supposes that Waller and company are sick of feeding him and decided to kill him. Or to put someone else in his quarters, which would have been no less audacious.

“Croc, it’s me,” Diablo hastens to say, and lights up a flame over his left palm – so unusual and out of place in the dampness of Croc’s cell. Croc freezes and watches the flame for some seconds. That must really be Diablo; there are hardly many people in the world capable of such tricks.

“Hey, man,” Croc says. “Whatcha doing here?”

“Just checking up on you.”

Well, that must definitely be Diablo. Croc knows that there are hardly many people in the world who’d care to check up on him, but that sounds like something El Diablo would do. Back then, during the mission, he was friendly, asked “You okay?” after each skirmish, and could clap him on the shoulder without shuddering. And there are definitely even less people in the world that would touch him willingly.

“Did they just let you in like that?” wonders Croc. Diablo gives him a slight smile.

“They don’t know I’m here.”

“So you’re, like, a ghost?” Croc asks. It occurred to him from the very beginning, but it sounds particularly joyless when said out loud.

Diablo gestures vaguely. “I’m still figuring it out myself, to be honest.”

“Hmm,” Croc glances over his cell. A bag of food on the cot catches his eye. “You want a burger?”

“Nah, I’m good. Save it for yourself.”

“They’ll bring more today, I’m telling ya.”

“Then I want one.”

“Then you’re not a ghost,” grins Croc, and the fact that Diablo doesn’t flinch or try to look away also proves that this is the real Chato Santana, because most people don’t like seeing Croc smile.

And so he and Diablo, who kind of is a ghost but kind of isn’t, sit there eating burgers and watching some crap on MTV. Life has taught Croc not to be surprised by anything, so everything’s fine.

“So what happened after the bomb went off?” Croc asks. Diablo opens his mouth, and then closes it again, apparently at a loss how to explain.

“I was smoke,” he speaks finally. “Then I was flames. Then I became myself again.”

“I see,” Croc replies, although, of course, he can’t see shit.

“Who are you talking to?” comes the guard’s voice from behind the door. “Hey, scum!”

Croc puts the burger aside.

“Wait a bit,” he tells Chato, gets up, and heads for the door.

When he comes to the bean hole, the guard already looks like he regrets calling him.

“No one,” Crock smiles as widely as only he can, and the guard, who isn’t among the people able to watch him smile without blinking an eye, steps back reflexively. “But come inside, and I’ll talk to you if you wanna. How about that?”

When he turns around, Chato has already disappeared, and Croc could have assumed he has dreamed it all, but there are two half-eaten burgers on the cot, not one.

Digger sees him next, and he isn’t even amazed. The bastards keep drugging him with all sorts of shit to calm him down. Usually after the shot he just lies there, feverish, and can’t even move, let alone stand up, but who knows, perhaps they’re testing some new poison on him. Or they’ve started using something stronger because they noticed that a couple of hours after the usual stuff he’s already able to yell, bang at the door, and do everything he can to get the best of them while cooped up inside. Or it’s simply that there’s already so much of this shit in his blood that it’s impossible not to have any screws loose, try as he might to keep them in place. In any case, he’s not exactly shocked when, as he tosses and turns on the floor after another injection, he turns his head and sees El Diablo, large as life and twice as ugly.

“Fuck me sideways,” Digger says. He doesn’t have any energy to be mad yet. “I must be tripping.”

“You’re not tripping,” Diablo objects.

“You died. So I must be.”

“I didn’t die either.”

Diablo sits down cross-legged on the floor next to him.

“Has it crossed your mind that if you stop getting on their nerves, they might start treating you better?” he asks.

“Go to hell.”

“Message received.”

There’s a footfall outside; a whole bunch of people must be running somewhere.

“They’ve turned the entire joint upside down,” says Digger, because it’s been ages since he has spoken to anyone who’d at least pretend to listen, so a hallucination will do. “Blondie escaped.”

“I know,” Diablo replies gloomily. “I tried to warn her not to go with the Joker, but she didn’t listen to me.”

“Why warn her?” Digger asks. Harley Quinn is no bosom friend of his, but she kind of tore out the heart of the witch who kind of tried to end the world, and anyway, teammates probably should take interest in each other’s lives. Probably. He’s never really made sense of that teamwork stuff. “What’s he gonna do to her?”

“At best, what he always does.”

Two tiny figures of fire appear on Diablo’s open palm – a man and a woman. The man backhands the woman across her face, and she falls down. Digger watches the dancing flames with fascination, and meanwhile in his head, bit by bit, stroke by stroke, a plan starts to take shape. He wouldn’t be Captain motherfucking Boomerang if he fails to use any opportunity that turns up – even a ghost of one.

“Listen, mate,” he begins cajolingly. “If you’re really here and it’s not just me tripping… help an old friend out, won’t you? I’m fed up with being stuck here, you know.”

“I’m not gonna help you escape,” Diablo says calmly. “How do you imagine that would even happen?”

“Can’t you just burn the entire Belle Reve to the bloody ground?”

Diablo smiles.

“I can,” he admits. “But I won’t.”

The next thing he knows, the son of a bitch is gone without a trace. Anger and offence must be giving Digger strength, because he manages to leap to his feet. Like a lunatic, he thrashes around the cell, looking for at least some kind of proof that someone else was here a moment ago.

“Oi!” he shouts, knowing damn well that the guards have long stopped listening to what he has to say. “Grab the devil! A convict escaped! Hey, wankers!”

But he’s feeling lightheaded, and this shit must be really strong, and he collapses, badly hitting his head.

Tatsu sees him next – late at night, in her apartment. She’s a light sleeper, and wakes up as soon as she hears footsteps. The sword is close at hand, and she grabs it instantly, blade swishing through the air.

“Who’s there?” Tatsu asks, and then repeats in English. “Who’s there?”

There is nowhere to hide in her bedroom. The only furniture is the mattress and the pair of chairs she uses to hang her clothes on. Everything is on the floor or on the windowsill – weapons, her laptop, the book she tried to read before going to sleep but could not concentrate on. It is an ascetic, comfortless dwelling that does not look permanent and is not supposed to become so. Fate and Amanda Waller, though, seem to have other plans in this respect.

There is nowhere to hide in her bedroom – but someone’s definitely walking in the antechamber; she flings the door open – and sees El Diablo, standing by the entrance and looking around. In a blink of an eye Tatsu is next to him, and the blade of the Soultaker is pressed to his neck.

“Katana, it’s me,” Diablo says, unfazed. “Chato Santana.”

“Chato Santana is dead,” she says through her teeth. Chato Santana was a gangster who killed, albeit by a tragic accident, his own family – but she fought side by side with him, he sacrificed himself to save the world, he called their squad his family and died for them. That is enough for her not to let anyone use his name as a cover. “Who are you?”

“I’m alive,” Diablo replies. He puts his hands up to show he’s unarmed, and forks of flame appear on his palms. “Or sort of.”

Sort of.

Tatsu lowers the sword and looks warily at the man standing in front of her.

“How did you…”

“You’re gonna have a new mission soon. Demand that Waller tells you everything.”

“About what?”

“I couldn’t overhear that,” he says with regret. “But…”

Something knocks on the window. Tatsu turns around quickly, but that must’ve been just a tree branch hitting the windowpane. When she turns back to Chato, he’s already gone, and her apartment is silent.

It’s just four in the morning, but she can’t make herself fall asleep again. Having poured a cup of tea, Tatsu sits down on the mattress and thinks, think, thinks about what just happened. Tatsu believes in ghosts – her sword is teeming with them, so she wouldn’t say that her worldview is shaken. Still, this is strange, very strange. What did he want to tell her? Why did he disappear so abruptly? Like… a broadcast was interrupted.

Colonel Flag calls her at daybreak and tells her that there’s a shoot-out between two gangs on the outskirts of Gotham, with metahumans on both sides. When Tatsu arrives at Belle Reve, it turns out they must have considered it to be not enough to ruin her Saturday morning, because she is asked – more like ordered, actually – to escort an inmate from his cell, an inmate who attacks anyone who tries to enter and has already injured three guards with his bare hands, and it’s not reasonable to sedate him before the mission, and “he’s likely to obey if it’s you, Katana” – the last is Rick’s argument, and if he told that to her face and not on the phone, she would have had to strain every nerve not to hit him with something.

No one tries to attack her when she enters the cell of Captain Boomerang – Harkness is sitting on the floor quite still, his arms around his knees, and when he notices her, he even smiles with bruised lips.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he says. “Am I hallucinating you too?”

“No,” the question is unexpected and confuses her. “Why?”

“Well, they keep injecting me some crap, and lately I’ve been seeing things,” Harkness explains peacefully, even eagerly. His voice is quiet and hoarse, which, combined with his Australian accent, leads to Tatsu being barely able to make out half of what he’s saying. To hear him better, she crouches down next to him, still gripping the sword hilt – there is no telling if he isn’t just making her come closer to take her down and bolt. “Saw the devil yesterday.”

“The devil?”

“Our devil. Día… de fucking Muertos. Chato Santana.”

Tatsu gives a shiver and, having lost her balance, half sits down, half falls on the dirty floor.

She isn’t the only one to have seen him. She isn’t the only one he wanted to send a message to.

“Hey, luv,” Harkness frowns and reaches out to touch her knee lightly. “You all right?”

“Same as you, more or less,” she wants to reply, which of course would mean she isn’t, not at all.

“What did he tell you?” she asks him instead.

When Floyd sees him, he is hardly surprised, since the others have already warned him. Boomerang, Croc, and Katana tell him everything while they’re waiting for the helo, and had it been just Boomerang, who believes inexplicably that he has a sense of humour although he certainly doesn’t, Floyd most likely wouldn’t have believed his ghost stories, but it is even harder to believe that Croc, let alone Katana would agree to take part in such pranks. Which is why he listens to them closely and takes note: okay, then he doesn’t have to worry about his mental heath if the late Santana suddenly appears out of nowhere to give some advice or share some news or simply ask how he’s doing. So the four of them keep whispering to one another like kids at the back of the class until their transport arrives – just the four of them, which is a pity. If there is anyone on the team that he had missed a little, it’s Harley. Floyd knows some things about the Joker, for it isn’t possible, as they write in the papers, to belong to the criminal world of Gotham and not know anything about the Joker. Floyd knows what Flag had spilled to him when visiting him in his cell or escorting him there after a visit to Zoe. Floyd thinks that in his entire lifetime he hasn’t understood a thing about love – is it even possible to understand it, on the other hand? – but he feels like the mad and brilliant Harley, Harley the whimsical, Harley the loving deserves better.

“What’s with the gossiping?” Flag inquires suspiciously.

“Nothing!” Croc and Digger answer in unison, in unison, and Floyd facepalms because seriously, are they in some cheesy movie or what? They don’t tell Flag anything yet, but Floyd is almost sure that sooner or later Santana will visit him as well, because Flag is one of them too, after all. Not that he’s even trying to deny it; no one’s making him drop by Floyd’s cell every other day to chat about some nonsense through the steel door.

So Floyd is hardly surprised when, as he makes his way behind the dumpsters loading one gun after another, he notices a familiar, head-to-toe-tattooed figure standing nearby.

“There are snipers on the roof over there and around the corner of the shop,” Chato says instead of greeting. Floyd nods.

“I noticed.”

“Eight men in the drugstore on the other side of the street. Each with a machine gun.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve just been there.”

“Got it,” there’s no time for lengthy conversations. No time to say: glad you’re alive, man. No time to ascertain: are you alive, though? So he thinks over the plan of action, making a mental note to ask all these questions later, when there are no bullets whistling past their ears.

People like them deserve no guardian angels, frankly speaking, but they may have managed to earn one for all of them.

#suicide squad #el diablo #harley quinn #killer croc #captain boomerang #katana #deadshot #rick flag #dc #talk talk talk #my fic #gella talks skwad #this might have been the most challenging to translate so far #i'm so used to bookish slightly outdated speech and most of my fandoms allow that #and then bam modernity. ugh #also i know nothing about the geography of the dceu!united states. sorry about that.

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tra-sh · 4 years

Text

Paul Lahote x reader (Twilight)

Request from Anon: “Hi, could you maybe do Paul from Twilight where you're friends with the Cullens and Bella makes you meet the wolf pack and Paul imprints? Maybe gets jealous too? Female pronouns please xx"

Full disclosure, don't hate me, I've never read the books. I saw the first movie when it came out but I' a bit rusty on the characters, so I hope I did them justice!

Part 2 Here

In the eyes of the world, you were a curious thing.

Well, maybe not the world, but definitely the people around you. After all; not just anyone gets to sit with the Cullen siblings at lunch. Not just anyone can make Rosalie laugh or Edward crack a smile.

There was no doubt that in the eyes of the teenagers of Forks, you were an enigma. There was no shortage of rumors about the strange girl who had wormed her way into the exclusive clique of ethereal beauties. But as frustratingly mysterious as you appeared to be, no one could hate you. You were far too kind and trusting to attract negative attitudes. This is why when Bella made the executive decision to force the Cullen’s into the wolf pack's good graces, she brought you.

Though the Cullen’s weren't allowed in the vicinity, Bella figured that if the wolves could trust you, maybe they could begin to trust your close friends. You were extremely adept at social gatherings and made a point to introduce yourself to everyone in the room. Your general attitude is warm and inviting-- surely this meeting would go smoothly if you were there, Bella hoped.

Because of this, you found yourself sitting shotgun in Bella's truck as it rattles down the old dirt road. You stole glances at the brunette every so often, noting her tense features. "Relax, Bells," you say after a moment of silence. "I'm sure it'll all be fine."

You hadn't known her for very long, but any friend of the Cullen's was a friend of yours. The two of you really only spoke when she was at their house looking for Edward or at school. You'd made a point to try to get to know her better over the past few months, to bring her out of her shell ever so slightly.

You watch as her shoulders relax slowly, her eyes never leaving the road. "I'm more worried about Jake's friends," she mumbles. You've never met Sam Uley's gang, but you knew what they were. Or rather, Alice had explained to you what they were.

You hum quietly as you look back out the window at the passing trees. Bella veered off down a slightly overgrown path that barely passed as a road, save for a worn trail of tire marks in the weeds. A wooden house came into view and you could just barely see the glow of a bonfire flickering from the backyard.

You smile to yourself as the truck comes to a halt a few yards away. Bella turns to unbuckle her seatbelt and gives you an anxious smile. "Here's to a good night," she says hopefully. You give her a reassuring grin before turning to exit the vehicle. You couldn't wait to meet everyone.

You sidle up to Bella as the two of you make your way to the white front door. You take in the peeling paint of the house and garage as you walk. The house is old but gives off a cozy and inviting feeling. The surrounding pine trees almost hide it from view and make you think of a witch's cottage or something from a fairy tale.

You hear the hinges of the door squeak as a tall boy with dark hair and tanned skin greets the two of you. "Hey, you made it!" He looks between the two of you, slightly skeptical of your presence.

You smile and step forward, your hand outstretched.

"Hey, you're Jacob, right? I'm [Name]," you say politely.

Jacob seems pleased and reaches over to shake your hand. "Any friend of Bella is welcome," he says after looking you up and down. He turns away and opens the door wider, allowing the two of you to step inside.

The house smells of sage and sandalwood and has numerous artifacts lining the walls. You can't help the grin that dances over your lips as you take in your surroundings. Jacob leads you and Bella through the kitchen to the back door.

"Everyone's waiting around the bonfire."

There's a twinkle in his eye when he looks at Bella, and you can't help but wonder if there was something between them at one point. No wonder Edward didn't want to come, you muse.

As you step outside into the lush backyard you're greeted by a few nonchalant 'hello's and silent nods. You're not sure if they're directed at you or Bella, but you smile all the same.

Five boys are sitting around the bonfire, not paying attention as you walk down the steps. One boy stands next to an older man outside of the circle, with two girls.

"Emily!" Bella passes by you to go greet one of the girls in question.

Jacob stands by your side and points at each member of the pack, listing them by name. "The ones sitting are Jared, Quil, Embry, Seth, and Paul," he begins. "The girl with the permanent frown is Leah, Emily's with Bella, and Sam is with my dad."

You nod as he relays the names and hope you can remember all of them. "Are they all..?" You trail off, unsure of how to ask. "Wolves?" Jacob interjects. Your face flushes lightly and you nod. "Emily isn't," he clarifies.

You suddenly feel like the odd one out all over again, the same way you felt when you'd first met the Cullen’s.

The boy standing away from the fire, Sam, makes his way over to you. You straighten your posture and try to not look too intimidated. "Hi, are you Sam?" You ask. He nods in response but doesn't make a move to shake your hand.

"Sam Uley. I assume Jacob introduced you to my pack."

Your hand falls limp at your side and you try to pluck up a friendly smile. "More or less. I've yet to actually talk to them," you joke. Sam gives you a curt nod and turns to look at the other boys. "I wanted you here tonight to make sure of something," Sam begins. He turns back to you with a firm stare, and you frown. "What's that?"

Sam exchanges a look with the boy standing next to you, and you can feel Jacob shift awkwardly under the scrutiny of the stare. "I'm not sure how much you've been told, but our ancestors and the Cullen family have a treaty," Sam states. You nod slowly. You knew the basics of the treaty; they weren't allowed to bite humans or trespass on the wolves' territory unless invited. "We wanted to ensure that treaty hasn't been broken."

You freeze and stare at the boy before you. Surely, he isn't suggesting what you think he is?

"Are you asking me if I'm still human?"

"Please understand where I'm coming from," Sam says calmly. You study him carefully, before letting out a small sigh. You should have known there was an alternative motive for this meeting.

"The Cullen’s wouldn't harm me, and I can assure you I'm still painfully normal."

Sam seems pleased with this answer and nods to you before turning around and assuming his place by the bonfire. "Sorry about that," Jacob mutters. "We just needed to be sure." You give him a reassuring smile and place your hand on his arm. "It's alright, really," you promise. The boy cracks a small grin and leads you over to the bonfire to properly introduce you to the pack.

As you approach the bonfire, one of the taller boy's scrunches his face in mock disgust.

"It smells like a leech," he says in a loud tone. The other boys snickered amongst themselves.

You roll your eyes and sit down in a lawn chair as Jacob takes the seat next to you. The boy who made the joke was smirking like the cat that ate the canary until his eyes met yours.

His snarky follow-up comment died on his tongue as he stared at you. Your brows knit together in confusion, wondering why the sudden change of heart. He looked at you like a desert traveler would an oasis. You tear your eyes away from him to look over at Jake.

"I didn't think I smelled that bad," you joke lightly.

"Paul didn't mean anything by it," one of the boys speaks up. You think this one is Seth, if you're not mistaken. Another one of them, Quil, nods in agreement. "You smell good!" You snort at his affirmation. "Thank you?" That was certainly one of the stranger compliments you've received.

Paul suddenly growls at Quil who then shies away in fear. The boys fall silent as they stare at Paul, but no one dares to speak. You look over to Jacob, who only shrugs. "So," you begin, drawing their attention once more. "What do you guys usually do around here?"

"You're looking at it," Embry pipes up, gesturing to the bonfire. You raise a brow and lean forward in your chair. "Sit around a fire and make fun of people?"

Paul seems to shrink back at your comment.

"The mocking is optional," Quil says with a smirk, jutting out his elbow to bump Paul. The taller boy sneers but makes no further comment. "What about you?" Embry asks as they turn to look at you. "I didn't take those bloodsuckers to be the nurturing type."

You purse your lips at him and he smiles apologetically. "They're nice when you get to know them," you say.

Paul scoffs, causing you to look over. "As nice as monsters can be, sure," he mutters. "Excuse me?" You ask, frowning. What was his problem? As far as you knew, the Cullen's hadn't done anything to earn such biting words. Paul avoids your gaze and crosses his arms over his chest. "I think you heard me."

His words hang in the air and poison the atmosphere, making the yard fall silent. Sam and Mr. Black are glancing your way with disapproving looks. You glance around at the other boys as they shift awkwardly in their seats.

"Right," you mumble under your breath. "I'll leave you alone."

Paul's head snaps up as you stand from the chair. He gives you a kicked puppy look, as if he wants you to stay. You're beginning to get whiplash from his changing moods.

You turn away from the bonfire and make your way over to where Bella and Emily stand, next to the back door of the house. "What did you do to Paul?" Bella asks, brows knit together. You let out a huff and fold your arms over your chest. "I didn't do anything," you say defensively. "He was being rude, so I left. I'm not going to stick around and listen to someone insult me." Emily gives you a knowing smile and peers over your shoulder at the bonfire. "You know what they say about little boys who pull pigtails," Emily begins. "It means they like you."

You're about to attest her suggestion when you feel a warm hand grab your shoulder. You look over to see Quil standing next to you, offering a small smile. "Hey, sorry about Paul. We really do want to get to know you better," he says. He nods politely to Bella and she gives him a small wave.

You let your arms relax and fall back to your sides as you turn towards the boy next to you. "I'm not mad, Quil. I just didn't feel like he wanted me there." Quil gives you a tight-lipped smile and glances nervously over his shoulder. "Well, that's the thing," Quil starts. "He might want you there a little too much."

Before you can ask him to explain, a familiar growl echoes through the yard. "Quil!" You feel the hand on your shoulder stiffen as you peer over at the bonfire. "Move your hand or I'll rip it off," Paul seethes.

You clench your fists and move so that you're standing in front of Quil. "What's your problem?" You ask, glaring at the angry boy before you. Paul ignores you, his eyes trained on the boy behind you. "Don't defend me," Quil hisses. "It'll make it worse!"

Paul takes a step forward and you instinctively reach back, your arm stretched across Quil's chest in a protective fashion.

Paul did not like this one bit.

His body shudders and his nostrils flare as he fights the urge to transition. Quil reaches over and grabs you before calling out: "Sam!"

Sam rushes forward, using a demanding tone to order Paul to calm down. Paul winces, but you can see his muscles rippling still as his anger keeps him teetering on the edge of shifting. Quil pulls you back toward the house with Bella and Emily close behind.

Paul bares his teeth and roars, sending a shiver down your spine. What was going on?

Quil shuts the door and turns to you. "You need to leave, now. He's not calming down." He throws nervous looks at the white door as he speaks. Bella paces the kitchen, her brown eyes flitting between you and the backyard. "He didn't, did he?" She asks.

The silence that follows is all she needs as a response. Bella looks at you with newfound shock, and you suddenly feel left out.

"He did what?" You ask. Did they know something you didn't? "What did he do?" You ask again, stepping forward.

Emily stands next to you and places her hand gently on your back, rubbing small circles. "It's hard to explain," she begins. Suddenly, Sam comes barging into the house. "Where is she?" His head whips around until he spots you. "You need to call the Cullen’s and have them pick you up from the reservation line," he demands. His tone gives you no room to argue and you fumble to get your phone from your pocket.

"What's going on?" You ask, your hands shaking. Why was no one telling you?

"The pack is keeping him at bay, but we don't have much time. Quil, make sure they get out safely," Sam instructs, ignoring your question. Bella hurries you to the front door as Quil follows.

You run to the truck and watch in shock when Quil shifts into a large dark grey wolf with brown streaks dappled in his fur. He shakes his head, his ears on high alert.

Bella slams the truck door shut, snapping you out of your trans. You shakily strap yourself in just as a splitting howl echoes through the air. You and Bella both look back at the house anxiously. Quil runs behind the truck, on the lookout for what you could only assume was Paul.

You nearly forget the phone sitting heavy in your hand as your eyes scan the passing forest. Your heart hammered in your chest as you turn to look at Bella.

"What's going on? Why is Paul so angry?" You ask quietly. You were growing sick of not knowing what was going on.

Bella glances nervously in the rear view mirror, her eyes trained on Quil. "The wolves, they have this thing called imprinting," here she pauses, trying to remember the way Jake had explained it. "It's like finding their soulmate."

You stare at the brunette, confusion written on your face. "Are you trying to tell me that a man I just met imprinted on me," you pause to gesture wildly at the woods, "And is now on a murder spree because Quil touched my shoulder?"

Bella would have laughed at your word choices if the situation were different.

"Like Emily said, it's hard to explain. Some of them handle it better than others."

You look out of the windshield and stare at the road. The sun is setting and the old truck's headlights do very little to illuminate the coarse dirt ahead of you. Before you can ask her what you're supposed to do with this sudden information, a silver wolf steps out into the road. "Bella, watch out!" You screech, fingers grasping for the handle to the right of your head. Bella slams on the break and the truck shudders to a sudden halt. Dust kicks up around the vehicle, momentarily clouding your view. Your heartbeat pulses in your ears, drowning out all other sounds. Your eyes search the road frantically, trying to spot the wolf.

"That," your throat constricts as you try to speak. "Who was that?" You're afraid to know the answer.

"Paul," Bella whispers, voice hoarse.

You see a large form dart out from behind the truck and loud snarls begin to echo from the road before you. "They're fighting!" You say, feeling panic bubble in your chest. Bella doesn't move, but instead fumbles for her phone. "I need to call Edward," she mutters. You stare back at the road as the dust blows away slowly, revealing the dueling animals. You can't sit by idly and watch as they all but destroy each other.

Your fingers tremble as you unbuckle your seatbelt, much to Bella's dismay. Before she can stop you, you're hopping down from the cab of the truck and stumbling towards the hulking wolves before you.

"Paul? Quil?" You ask, your voice betraying your fear.

As you push forward, you get a clearer view of Paul. His fur is a dazzling shade of silver and almost shines from the headlights. You would have been amazed if his teeth weren't digging into Quil's shoulder.

"Paul," you repeat, trying to sound more authoritative. This catches his attention and his head snaps up to look at you. Oh god. Well, you didn't think this through. Quil takes this chance to limp backward, giving the two of you space.

Paul's eyes are trained on you, calculating your every move. You swallow thickly and step forward, inching closer to him. "Paul?" Your voice is softer this time. His ears twitch as you approach, signaling to you that he was listening. "I'm not sure what all of this means," you continue. "But I'm not going to lie to you. I'm scared," you pause to gauge his reaction. If a wolf could frown, you were sure this is what it looked like. He looks almost upset at your confession, and you quickly backtrack.

"I think it would help if we could talk," you add.

He steps forward, and you do your best to not shrink back in fear. His nose presses against your arm and he snorts lightly. Your hand trembles as you bring it up, resting it on his head. "Good dog," you joke. Paul snorts again, giving you what you can only guess is an unamused look.

"Can we talk?" You ask gently. He seems hesitant to leave your touch, but after a moment he steps back. You glance over to Quil, who slinks away into the trees. The wolf before you shudders, and the sound of bones popping fills your ears. You cringe at the noise and look away as Paul slowly returns to his human form. Before you turn back, Paul stops you. "Give me a second," he says a bit awkwardly. He shuffles away into the woods before you can respond. Curiously, you glance over to his fleeting form before turning away with wide eyes. He was naked. Very, very naked. And you saw everything.

You try to shoo the thoughts from your head and focus on the dirt beneath your shoes. You hear soft footsteps and turn back, seeing a now-clothed Paul approaching you nervously. He scratches the back of his head as he makes his way back over to you. "Can we go somewhere private?" He asks in a low tone. You glance over at the truck sitting in the road and nod. "Sure."

You follow the boy down into the woods, stopping at a fallen tree. You note a neat pile of clothes tucked away in a little crook of the log and chuckle lightly. They must leave these around for when they phase.

Paul sits beside you, his eyes darting over to you every so often. He looks like he has so much he wants to say to you, and maybe he does. After everything you just experienced, you could use a bit of an explanation.

"I'm sorry," he mutters finally. "I didn't mean for any of that to happen." His leg bounces nervously as his eyes refuse to meet your gaze.

"I have anger problems, and I just didn't know how to handle all of this."

You nod slowly and turn to glance back up at the road. Bella's truck was still in view, and she was no doubt waiting nervously to see if you were alright.

"This is all really sudden," you say quietly.

"It usually is," Paul says, thinking back to when Sam and Embry first imprinted. He couldn't explain his feelings to you; he couldn't even explain them to himself. All it took was Quil laying a single hand on your body and all rational thought flew out the window. He just wanted-- needed-- you near him. "So, what happens now?" You ask, bringing Paul back from his thoughts. He wanted to hold you, to cradle you in his arms and kiss you. But he knew this was just the imprinting part of his brain talking. The two of you had met less than an hour ago, and he didn't want to scare you off. He settles for a brief, "Whatever you want."

You hum quietly as you stare at the leaf-covered grass beneath your feet. This definitely was sudden. But there was a sort of calming presence around Paul that pulled you in and left you wanting more. Which was ironic given his lack of control. Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing-- the concept of soulmates and all. It would definitely take some time to get used to, but you didn't feel repulsed at the idea.

"We could take this slow," you offer quietly.

Paul's body language oozes relief as he finally looks over to you. "We can?" The hopeful lilt to his tone almost makes you giddy.

“Is that alright?" You wonder, looking up to meet his gaze. His warm brown eyes are captivating and he gives you a boyish grin. "More than alright," he assures you. He inches closer to you and you feel the warmth pooling off him in waves. His fingers brush yours lightly, looking for silent permission.

You lift your hand and allow him to cradle it in his large, calloused one. His touch is hot, but not uncomfortable. It warms you to your core and you can't help but lean into his side. Paul brings your hand up carefully and places a light kiss to the back of your hand. This was definitely going to take some getting used to.

But in this moment with him, you couldn't see yourself anywhere else.

#paul lahote #twilight #twilight saga #paul lahote x reader #reader insert #fanfic #twilight x reader #wolfpack #cullens #request

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skepticaloccultist · 4 years

Text

The Mirror of the Landscape

I thought I would offer this article on landscape magic from the first issue of FOLKWITCH as a public offering this Solstice. May the sun burn bright and the bonfires burn brighter on the hills of your ancestors.

"The Mirror of the Landscape" Eldred Wormwood

The realm of the witch is defined by their interactions with that natural world in which they exist. From the dawn of mankind’s attempts to harness the power of magic we have relied on the subtle web of our interactions with the world “beyond the veil.” That mirror of the landscape in which we read our fortunes and prophecy our circumstance.

Yet little direct attention has been paid to the role that the landscape plays in the practice of witchcraft in the annals of so called occult scholarship. Much has been said about the how of practical magic and ritual, but very rarely do we hear of the why or where.

The landscape, that terrain in which you exist every moment of the day. From the dew covered foggy mountain bottoms to the industrial park urban sprawl the landscape surrounds us. It is the plane of reality in which we live.

You bleed into the ground. Feed the soil with your sweat and tears. Drink from the well that fills from its water table, your body becomes one with the place you inhabit. The landscape and the body are part of the system, the inextricable network of interrelated particles that make up evolving life on earth.

Most humans, mundanes without the perception to see the world for what it is, simply go about the actions of living life in survival mode. Take what they need, give what they must, eat, sleep and eventually die. But the witch sees the world at a resolution differently than most, looks at those shadows that others ignore, sees the light through the trees as more than random, holds on to the language of pattern.

The witch reads the world like a book of secrets, the landscape a story of evolving ideas that we grasp and understand. The clouds like a language, the whisper of the wind through trees, the way that puddles of rain reflect the sky - a signal we come to understand.

Your nose knows the way it seems, a deep sensor of quantum mechanics it feels like a finger into the cloud of potentiality that is the future, guiding you through the fog of possibility until you reach your goal along the path. The nose knows, if only you could speak its subtle language.

Mankind has always existed in the landscape, even in our futile attempts to control it. We are primates, who lived among forests and grass plains so recently that rivers remember when there were no cities. We are part of the natural world, whether we realize it or not. The witch is merely aware of this fact, and that knowledge creates an open state of knowing.

The landscape itself is a sound system, filled with the reverberations of not merely the events that have unfolded in this river of time, but the echos of other rivers descending in a swirling madness of never and always, meting out punishment when needed to teach the seeker a lesson in humility.

The mass of forms on the surface of the earth create chambers that capture the sounds and energies created by living things. These echos are the ancestors, speaking across the illusion of time to teach us the way toward the future. The beat in the echo of space like a drum in a forest, like a stolen P A in a Detroit warehouse.

From the time before written words we had strove to gain a foothold in this primordial state. Abrahamic religions even cite our fall from this world of perception, though go on to ban anyone who would seek it out for themselves.

In the ancient Greek Magical Papyri it is documented our relationship with the spirits who inhabit this physical world around us. While they rarely have corporeal bodies these spirits wield incredible power over the forces of the natural world.

These ‘genius loci’ tend to a static place, inhabiting features in the landscape full of energy. Rivers & streams, mountain valleys, ancient forests, those places where the nexus of being affords them a comfortable habitat.

Yet even in the urban world that we have carved they have evolved to function. Certain forms of building, areas of great human traffic like crossroads, material places we have created for sometimes other reasons that the abode of these spirits have come over time to find ‘genius loci’ of their own. Instead of teeth of thorn and stone they bare teeth of glass and steel.

Not all seekers can walk a path of pure natural landscape. Many are stuck in the sprawl of urban decay, watching ruins of man’s 1970s bad design decisions be polished into glass and steel turds of prefabricated corporate enclaves. Startup incubator hellscapes that shine in the rain like a b set on the Blade Runner story board artwork.

The city is haunted by these corridors of steel, the shades that stalk the streets are those of the dead homeless, of working girls and deranged ex bankers tossed out of their office after breaking down in a fit of anti- capitalist rage and destroying the spreadsheets through which mankind must continually consume.

We work our magic at these crossroads of manmade forms, concrete covered in tar and piss, the smell of car exhaust thick like incense of copal, the steel and glass become an altar at which we sacrifice lives to the deities of consumption and avarice.

In the 1950s a group of modern thinkers created the philosophical genre of psychogeography. The Situationists, primarily under the influence of Guy Debord, outline this critical analysis of the landscape in a series of articles published in the “Internationale Situationniste”.

Debord would publish his seminal work “Theory of the Dérive” originally in Les Lèvres Nues #9 (November 1956). In this short piece he outlines a form of practical divinatory landscape magic (though he does not make reference to magic directly) he dubs “dérive” which translates roughly as “drifting”.

“The ecological analysis of the absolute or relative character of fissures in the urban network, of the role of microclimates, of distinct neighborhoods with no relation to administrative boundaries, and above all of the dominating action of centers of attraction, must be utilized and completed by psychogeographical methods. The objective passional terrain of the dérive must be defined in accordance both with its own logic and with its relations with social morphology.” - Guy Debord, “Theory of the Dérive”

While Debord was primarily preoccupied with the urban environment, these ideas being born out of creative theories of the urban dwelling surrealists and eventually the situationists, they hark back to various forms of wandering and coming to know one’s environment through intimate journey common in rural areas throughout history. The “riding” of Scotland, the “walkabout” of the Australian native tribes, many cultures have a prescribed method of coming to know oneself via the land. Yet rarely do these cultural ideas of landscape exploration delve into the nature of the landscape in any scientific way.

The witch walks as well among the ruins of capitalism as we do the forest floor. We smell the stench of mankind’s death lingering on the horizon, a literal forest fire shouting in hisses and belches “I can’t breathe.” But even the urban witch needs time out away from the designed landscapes of man’s continual betrayal.

Out of the city, into the remaining forests and plains, to the mountains and beaches bereft of human indignities. Here we recharge ourselves, listen at the lectern of that parliament of birds, meditate in that complex drone of bees in a flower covered field. The wind through various trees speaking to us in a tongue we have always known but have no name for, only the sounds that tell us things we have always wondered but were simply afraid to ask.

This is the sabbat, this return to nature. This is the revelry for which we must escape even the most dreary urban existence, this soil from which our blood is fed, these waters to cleanse our spirit in preparation for the journey we must take along the path.

The “land” is itself the surface of the Earth’s crust, an area created by the shifting of the tectonic plates. This thin skin of cooled material harbors and incredibly diverse ecosystem. Yet it is not just above the soil that life lives. Deep into the earth we find an enormous quantity of complex lifeforms existing at depths we have only recently come to understand.

That earth, a particle itself screaming through naked space. A vehicle we inhabit, a space station ringing out dub frequencies into the cosmos. The electromagnetic field of the sun, its orbiting particles/planets shifting over the empty space in the radiant aura of that star at the center of the solar system.

When we look up into space we see nothing more than particles. Screaming suns that ring out just like every atom in your body. Interrelated electromagnetic fields pulsing in waves like haunted sound-systems. Singing that tune your soul needs, urging you on to the sex beat of reproduction. The pounding drums of interstellar rain inhabiting your abode, shining out of your eyes and your mouth like the burning of a salamander born under a blackened sun.

The surface of the earth we inhabit is not merely the geographic variables we perceive, nor is it only the organic film that clings to the upper layers of the outer crust. The earth is inhabited by more beings than can be accounted for with mass and electrons. Beings of light and gravity, magnetism and electricity. They inhabit rivers, mountains, crossroads. They ring out the tune you seek, dance to the beat you need but if only you could see with your ears and hear with your eyes.

Throughout this region there is an electromagnetic field of complex forms, irradiated by material objects (including the earth itself) yet influenced by shifting patterns of energy in space beyond the biosphere. Like a tapestry made of energy this electromagnetic field contains forms of life long known to the witch, yet hardly understood by common society.

These entities exist in ways both dimensionally and frequency shifted from our own plane of existence. While we are able to bridge the gap between our realm and theirs, and these dimensions do share a common fabric, it is only through practice that we can become accustom to their existence.

Spirits; whose names and forms are as varied as the names mankind has given to shades of colour and light. These beings we refer to as ancestor, kith, and elemental are but part of an ecosystem we have little knowledge of, and what rare knowledge we have is occulted.

With various forms of offering, pacts and rituals we have come to learn how to coax them into allegiance. How to work with them and communicate. Though much of our ritual action is not for them, it is to prepare us as practitioners for the mental and emotional toil of interaction with beings whose existence is obscure. This is why our offerings must come from our possessions, must have meaning to us. Our mental desire projected into the value of an object enriches its value in our trade with those who inhabit the landscape.

As old as it is in the realm of practical magic that concept we have been referring to as “landscape magic” is long overdue for a more accurate descriptive terminology. We have relied for centuries on the designations of various religious authorities to give form to our understanding of these beings, even in the days of ancient Greece, where the witch’s perception was shaped by the everyday culture and beliefs of the ancient Greek.

The secularization of witchcraft, particularly in the practices of the folkwitch, leaves us a framework that can adopt to a practitioner’s own religious beliefs, or be parallel to them in the practicalities of magical practice.

Yet the terminology of “landscape magic” is limited through lack of direct dialog between the disparate practitioners. When we turn to those authors whose work have touched on landscape magic beyond the psychogeographers, (historians like George Ewart Evans, folklorists like Katharine Briggs) we see a pattern of understanding in the practice of common folk magic throughout the world of interaction with a class of spirits whose form and function are shaped equally by the physical manifestation of the geographic landscape in which they inhabit, and the socio cultural framework of the practitioner in their understanding of the shape of the universe.

When we have considered the language of magic and its history of cultural appropriation we have tried in many ways to find a terminology that best represents the broader ideas encapsulated in “landscape magic”, in particular relation to the folkwitch.

Jake Stratton Kent, in his landmark text “Geosophia”, outlines the history and origins of grimoiric magic through the concept of Goetia, a body of knowledge whose origins are derived primarily from the ancient Greek Magical Papyri. While he doesn’t dissect the name of his volume the term “geosophia” is a Greek compound derived of “geo” for earth and “sophia” for wisdom.

The relation of goetia, though distinct and historical, to landscape magic is apparent in that many of the concepts related to spirits we as magic practitioners have come to understand find their origins in the goetia.

I have proposed the term “geotia” (geo sha) to give a broader modern terminology to the idea of landscape magic. It takes the reverse of two vowels in goetia and alters its meaning to one more rooted in the land itself and less tied to a specific massive historic body of knowledge.

Geotia is the state of being within the land itself. The total perceptual elimination of the culturally perceived boundaries between oneself/ species and the natural world. The prerequisite state of the practice of folk witchcraft.

Thus the intersection of geotia and witchcraft is a shared understanding of the form that reality takes when stripped bare of our projected ideas of consensual (culturally acceptable) reality. When we embrace the seeking of that state of geotia we begin to see more widely the potential of energy that exists in the world around us. The folkwitch comes to work a specific patch of land, one that is tended to and looked after by the witch.

The landscape that you make your patch is populated by a wildlife beyond physical form. Not just in the echo of your ancestors, but beings who have lived as long as there have been homosapiens, often longer.

You bleed into the ground, it drinks of your essence and it knows you. You feel outward into the landscape. In some places on the earth it is calm, its hills and valleys having long settled with history. But in others it is marred with the darkness of bloodshed, disease and war. Haunted landscapes that linger still because we refuse to let them settle, they instill us with that dread of our species past.

The words of your ancestors echo down the dna line, reverberate in the sound chamber of the landscape. They teach you who you are and who you are meant to be. They guide you on your path, but like a willow-the- wisp there is no catching them, only a journey further and further into the endless forest of self discovery.

The witch is the link between the ostracized humanity of the late 21st century and the natural world. We are the walkers who can hear, perceiving the true structure of the world we inhabit, beyond the illusion society teaches is “real.” We have been to the other side of the hedge, and have ridden the night winds. We fear not death, and often flirt with its sweet caress. The witch is the guardian of the land, but what we guard it from is humanity.

Bibliography:

Guy Debord. Theory of the Dérive. Les Lèvres Nues #9. 1956.

Jake Stratton-Kent. Geosophia. Scarlet Imprint. 2013.

George Ewart Evans. The Pattern Under the Plow: Aspects of Folk-Life in East Anglia. Faber and Faber. 1966.

Katharine Briggs. Pale Hecate’s Team. Rutledge. 1962.

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This article originally appeared in FOLKWITCH vol 1, 2019.

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