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mirkwoodshewolf · 2 years

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Love’s treasure; Kili x reader

*Author’s note*

Okay so this has been sitting in my inbox for awhile but I finally got the inspiration and time to do this fic after getting the boost from another Kili and Fili request as well as my Celestial story. So @sweetpeapod thank you for your patience and hope you see this fic and enjoy it as much as I did writing it these past couple days.

Synopsis: Reader is Aragorn’s older cousin (I imagine by 11 years so she’s about 21). Gandalf knew of her skills as a Ranger for both tracking and navigating and sought her out to be apart of the company.

NO WARNINGS REALLY JUST SOME FLUFF and a bit of angst from parental death/abandonment.

Taglist:

@plethora-of-things

@waddles03

@psychosupernatural

@queen-paladin

@queensdivas

@jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels

@gay-and-ready-to-cry

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I observed the dark blue bead in my hand and pondered just how it had gotten lost. It was a game I’ve always like to play, anytime I would find a lost object or weapon I’d always come up with a good story on why it got lost and whether or not the owner of said object is out there scouring Middle Earth for it’s safe return.

��What are you up to sister?” I looked up and peeking from behind the Elvish statue was my baby cousin Aragorn, or better known for his safety Estel. Yes, Aragorn the future king of Men is in fact my cousin on his mother’s side (she is my father’s younger sister).

“I thought you were to be in your studies with Lindir? He’s taken a great deal of time and effort to educate you little one.” I lectured him with a raised brow as he came and sat down beside me on the bench.

“But I already know of the founding of Rivendell and how to speak Elvish.”

“Then tell me who was the mentor of Lord Elrond?” I replied in Elvish. He looked at me puzzled before he crossed his arms pouting.

“I don’t like you no more.”

“Oh yeah not the first time you’ve said that to me. Or the time after that or the time after that.” I playfully reprimanded him lowering my voice to as deep of a baritone as I could muster while tickling his sides making his squirm and laugh. “What was that you were looking at earlier?”

“What? You mean this?” I said picking up the bead. He looked at it with curious eyes and asked me.

“Where did it come from?”

“Why don’t you answer that question. Where do you believe this bead came from cousin?” he stared at the bead, pondering over it. His tongue slightly peeking out from his lips as he said.

“I believe…..this bead came from some merchants who were on their way to the Blue Mountains when suddenly trolls from the North ambushed them and gobbled them all up, leaving only this bead.”

“Goodness child! You really believe such a cruel fate came to innocent merchants?” he nodded. “Alright, then I’m going to have to speak with Elladan about changing your bedtime stories.”

“No please (Y/n). He tells the best stories don’t make him stop!” I smirked softly and said as I ruffled his head.

“Very well Estel. Now care to help me braid this into my hair?” he nodded as I sat down onto the floor so that he could properly braid my hair before putting the bead on it.

“Where do you think this bead came from sister?” he asked me.

“Well little one I’ve been putting a lot of thought into it. And I think this bead might hold more meaning than meets the eye. I believe this bead was once part of a Prince’s clothing ensemble. My story is that he fell in love with a woman but wished to give her not gold or jewels for her hand, but something more meaningful to him. So he took this bead from his clothing to present to his love. However, when he went to present his gift to his love, he had overheard of his love being taken by orcs while she was out for a ride on her horse. In his haste, he dropped the bead hoping to rescue his love in time.”

“And did he? Did he ever save his true love?” Estel asked me as he paused in mid-braid.

“I’d like to say they did. And the two of them are living together in the comforts of their newly built home hoping to raise a family together.” We both turned around and there stood Kili.

“Prince Kili!” exclaimed Estel as he raced over to the young dwarf prince. Kili smiled at my cousin and ruffled his head playfully before greeting him.

“Hello there Estel, being good for your cousin I see?”

“(Y/n) was telling me of a bead she found while out on your travels.”

“So I overheard. Hope it’s alright if I added a small opinion to your story.” He said turning to me.

“I’m always open to new suggestions. I tend to leave mine in a mist of mystery. Drives this little one nuts.”

“She never seems to want to finish the story with her trinkets and earnings.” He whined.

“One day lad you’ll see that sometimes it’s better when things are left to the imagination, instead of always having a one-sided ending.” Kili said to Estel.

“And speaking of story endings, it’s best that you get back to your studies with Lindir. He’s probably already alerted Lord Elrond of your skipping’s. And you know how Lord Elrond is that you keep up with your studies.”

“Aww! But Kili only just arrived.” Estel whined.

“Tell you what lad, you head back and finish your studies. Then once you’re done, meet me and my brother in the training grounds and we’ll teach you how we Dwarves battle off orcs and goblins.”

“Can I sister please?!” Estel begged me clasping his hands together and looking up at me with those bright blue eyes of his.

“If your mother and Lord Elrond say it’s alright.” Estel cheered before racing off and bidding us goodbye. I playfully shook my head, “I swear that child is more like a rabbit than a boy. Always full of energy and on the move.”

“Ahhh let him enjoy it. He is young, soon he’s going to grow and lose that sense of wonder and joy once he gets out into the real world.”

“You didn’t.” I teased as Kili gawked and softly laughed.

“True, but there are times where I wish I could go back to the days of my childhood. Me and Fili battling out against dragons and orcs and winning without any consequence of the outcome.” I nodded in agreement. “So what was the bead that you and your cousin were discussing the origins of?” I then showed Kili the strand that Estel had braided for me which held the dark blue bead in my hair.

“I had found it just shortly before we had a run in with those trolls. Saw it hidden just beside a small patch of rocks. Figured it was worth keeping rather than letting it be forgotten amongst Yavanna’s earth.” When I turned to Kili I saw that his eyes were widened and his jaw seemed tense. “Kili? Kili?”

“Huh? What sorry I-I was…..I have to go.” Suddenly he turned his back and hastily left the garden. My head tilted confused as to why he had left so sudden without another word? I shrugged before sitting back down to admire the bead.

*Kili’s POV*

She had my bead. (Y/n) had my family bead, not only did she have it but she was wearing it. Could-could it mean? No that’s impossible! There’s no way a Ranger of the North could fall for someone like me? But then why would she place my bead into her hair and have it braided?

“…..li? Oi Kili!” I snapped out of my daze to see Fili and Bofur standing before me in what appeared to be a den area of the Elvish realm. All over the place there were beds and wooden furniture carved to perfection.

“You looked about as lost as a lamb there lad, everything alright?” asked Bofur.

“I—well I’m beginning to question that myself.”

“What is it Kili? You’re not ill are you?”

“No Fili, well not in the normal sense of illness.”

“Ahh-hahaha I think I know.” Bofur said. “You, Kili, have fallen under the sickness of love. And I think I know just who it is that has caught your affections.” Bofur wiggled his brow towards my brother as I let out a groan.

“It’s not like that!”

“So you don’t have feelings for (Y/n)?” asked Fili. I did a double take towards my brother and said to him.

“Wait you—you knew?”

“Your my brother Kili. You may have always been a flirt back home but never before have I seen you act around a woman the way you do with (Y/n).” I felt my face heat up as I said to them.

“It’s not just that.” They both looked at me perplexed. “Remember how I had told you Fili that I had lost one of my beads that mother gave me?” my brother nodded. “It turns out (Y/n) had found it. Not only that but after just recently talking with her, I had seen that she had braided it into her hair.”

At that confession, they both began to understand the gravity of the situation.

“Surely she must not know what it means to us. I mean you see a bead and the first thought is to braid it into your hair. Surely she can’t know what it means to us, does she?” I asked nervously.

“I wouldn’t be knowing Kili, but if I am honest with yah, I think she might feel the same about you.” Bofur said.

“How would you know Bofur?” I snapped.

“You may not know it laddie, but that lass will look at you when she knows you’re not looking. And I see the same loving look in her eyes that you give to her.”

“You’re jesting Bofur. There’s no way she looks at me like that!”

“I wouldn’t be too sure brother.” Fili said. I turned to him as he continued, “Remember back with the trolls? When they were going to put you onto the spit, (Y/n) fought to take your place.”

“But wasn’t that because we’re part of the same company? She’s just looking out for us. That’s her nature. Her kind, caring, motherly nature.” I trailed off as I felt my heart skip a beat.

“All I’m saying brother is maybe you should talk to her.”

“And how should I start it off? How about saying something like, ‘Greetings (Y/n), you know the bead you’ve got in your hair in that braid? It’s actually my family bead and by braiding it into your hair you’ve agreed to be my wife. Will you marry me?’ No.” I scoffed the last part. “I can’t force that onto her.”

“I’m not saying lead on with that. But maybe just talk to her and see if there is any mutual feelings between the two of you. If there is, you’ll finally be happy with her. If not, then at least you’ll have your answer.”

“And if it is a rejection that comes my way? How do you expect me to cope with it? She’ll never look at me the same way again.”

“Even if she does reject your affections Kili, I doubt (Y/n) is the kind of person to make whatever bond she makes feel inferior to how it was before. But like your brother said laddie, you’ll never know unless you talk to her.” Bofur said.

I looked at the two of them, took a deep breath and thanked them for the advice before I left to go find (Y/n) before it grew dark.

*1ST Person POV*

I was at the training grounds with my bow and arrow hoping to get in some last minute training before I would retire for the night. I notched an arrow onto the bowstring, pulled it back, took a breath before steadying my hand and let the arrow fly. It hit dead center and I notched another arrow into the bow before releasing that and it hit the center as well as splitting the arrow.

“Ahh, when did you learn to do that?” I turned to see Kili looking between me and the target in amazement.

“When I was a little girl, when I refused to believe that a bow was just something my aunt would tie to my curly locks.” I said notching another arrow into my bow and fired it at the target splitting the other two arrows. “My uncle agreed. He said learning to fight was essential whether you wore a dress or trousers. He was the wisest man I ever knew.”

“Wish my kin were as supportive at first when I had wish to take the bow and arrow as my main weapon of choice.”

“Thing was he wasn’t just supportive. My uncle he—he was the only father figure I ever had after my own dad walked out on my mother. After she was killed by orcs, my aunt took me in. He took me aside one early morning, taught me everything I know about fighting and said to me, ‘(Y/n), my little raven. If you remember what you’re fighting for you’ll never miss your target’.” I said remember my uncle Arathorn as a good man.

He was not only a good leader to the Rangers up in the North, but he was a loving man who loved his wife. And loved a child that was not his own blood as a father should. Raised her, taught her to fight but also keep a level head. I only wish that Aragorn had the same opportunity to bond with his father as I did.

“He sounds like a good man.” Kili told me solemnly.

“Aye. He was.” I said clasping the necklace he gave me a year after being adopted into the family. It’s not much just a simple silver chain with a raven in flight pendant on it but it’s so special to me and never once have I taken it off.

“Is that why you like collecting small objects?” he asked me. I smiled solemnly and nodded.

“When I was a child and would go with him on patrols, most of the Rangers tired of how I would stop them to find a loose button or a smooth pebble perfect for skipping across the river. But never my uncle, in fact he always encouraged me to keep at it. Said that I’d never know when I might find the greatest treasure of them all.”

We sat there in a comfortable silence for a brief moment (although it felt like an eternity) until Kili finally spoke up.

“I uhh…..” he trailed off softly. “I think you might’ve missed the target.” I looked at him confused before turning to the target where my split arrows were. “No not….” He softly chuckled, “I meant with your story. The one you told your cousin about. For the bead.”

“Did I?” he softly nodded but he refused to look me directly in the eye. “Care to elaborate your theory of this bead?”

“Well it’s not much different from yours. Just some minor details changed. The bead did in fact belong to a prince. But the bead was a part of his family’s heirloom, one that would be meant for a future courting. However, while out on a quest, he had realized that he had lost it. He searched and searched but could not find the bead anywhere. The Prince was heartbroken, not only of the fact he had lost his family bead, but that one day he had hoped to give it to the woman he loves was now gone. Then a few days after the start of his quest, he soon finds the woman he loves wearing his bead into her braided hair.”

He fiddled with his hands before finally looking up at me, his eyes holding both a loving gaze but also a hint of fear and insecurity. I then watched as his eyes soon turned to look at my braid. I lifted it up and stared at the bead only for my heart to stop and my stomach sink.

Wait…..could he mean—

“You don’t have to say anything. I won’t force you plus you did not know that braiding a Dwarf’s family bead means you accept a courtship with me. I know we’ve only known each other for a few weeks now but I cannot deny my feelings any longer. (Y/n), I……” I stopped his rambling by bestowing a small kiss to his cheek.

“My heart feels the same way Kili.” His eyes widened with surprise looked at me and from his stubbled face I could see the faintest hint of a blush.

“Really?”

“Really, really.” I said with a warm smile. A bright smile soon started to show itself on his face as he took my hands into his and bestowed a sweet kiss to the back of my knuckles.

“Mahal’s beard my—my heart is pounding more harder than Aulë slamming his axe upon a mountain of stone.”

“And the very breath within me feels like it has been sucked away.” I said to him.

“Is this what finding my One feels like? If it is, I never want it to go away. Nor do I wish to see you go.”

“I may not know the concept of your One, but if it’s anything to what we call soulmates then yes. I saw it every day with my aunt and uncle before his death. They held the purest form of true love I had only ever read in story books. But never did I hope to experience such a love.”

“Best get used to it amrâlimê, because I will spend every hour of my wakened days giving all my love to you.” I knelt down beside him and cupped the side of his face, brushing away the dark strands of his hair as I felt his hand gently cup my jawline as our forehead softly touched one another’s.

Our noses slowly grazing across the other’s like wind in the grass until finally our lips became one and we gifted our devoted love for each other through each kiss and stolen baited breath.

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heliosoll · 1 year

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should i try LD'ing to shift? LD'ing is cool and all but tbh all i really want is to just shift. but since 2020 i havent even minishifted so should i try LD'ing? my worry is that even if i do LD what if i still dont shift. since 2020 ive had a few LDs where i tried shifting but when i went into the portal the sensations got crazy and it woke me up. but thats the most "progress" ive had. should i pursue this route or is that adding an extra step/more effort needed to try to induce LDs :(

Babe... I mean this in the nicest way possible, but I don't think your mindset toward shifting is very healthy right now.

You shouldn't try to lucid dream if you're only doing it out of desperation. If you don't like ludid dreaming or you don't really want to do it, then you shouldn't. Of course, if you are genuinely interested in it, then go ahead! But really, whatever method you use to shift, should be done because you genuinely want to do it. If you don't want to lucid dream, then don't.

Take some time to think about it.

If you know that you genuinely want to continue lucid dreaming and shifting through lucid dreams, then I would suggest these things:

Make sure you're calm and collected before you attempt the shift. Do some deep breathing, go to your happy place, meditate, do whatever you have to do to chill out!

You can definitely try portals again, but if they're just not working for you, you don't have to force it. Instead, you can try visualizing your DR, affirming that you're shifting/you've shifted, going through a door, or making your portal on the ground and falling through it. You can also try "falling asleep" in your lucid dream and affirming that you'll wake up in your DR! Basically, go with the flow and don't be afraid to experiment!

Practice going to "different" lucid dreams with portals. So instead of immediately shifting to your DR, cycle through different dreams and then shift.

Spend some time in your lucid dream first! I know it can be very tempting to immediately shift, but some people have had more success when they waited a little beforehand. Try doing something you like in your dream first for 30 minutes or so (or however long you like), and then shift.

On the other hand, if you've found that you don't want to lucid dream, I really suggest taking the time to figure out how you do like to shift. And I'm not necessarily talking about "successful" shifts here, I just mean which methods have you tried that you actually enjoyed. Some people like the raven method, some like the estelle method, some like sats, while others like simple intention. Figure out what you like to do and focus on that!! Don't try to force yourself to try out all these different kinds of methods out of desperation. Remember that the methods don't matter, you do.

#letters 🎀

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nemo-of-house-hamartia · 1 year

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yes,your opinion as a content creator yourself whatever media for each assassin is ok I trust your tastes

Well then. I will just share my favourite around here among the ones that are still actively posting content, and in no particular order.

-@susann-noir and @mogruith. Their virtual photography of Unity is truly among the best ones around here. Each time a new photo is posted, I reblog it automatically because it's just SO BEAUTIFUL. And Susie's oil painting of Paris Landscapes are amazing, I could print them all and put them up my wall if I could.

-@rumor-imbris the way she writes poetry dedicated to Ratonhnhaké:ton is something else entirely. She paints emotions with words and I am in awe each time I read one of her poems. Plus, she has a full-on finished fanfic between Ratonhnhaké:ton and Mary, her Original Character, and I highly recommend it.

-@straight-into-the-animus if you want beautiful fanfic about French Fryes (or beautiful AC fanfic in general), Ani here is THE ONE. I had the good fortune of reading all his writings, and let me tell you: I am always always ALWAYS looking forward for the next idea he might come up with.

@tkwritesdumbassassins She is a gem to be preserved because she is doing THE GODS WORK by giving us all the delicious Federico content that Ubi decided to negate us. Canon is a bitch, but TK just beat that shit and wrote one of the most engaging story out there with Federico and her Original Character Tristan. Seriously, that's quality writing right there.

-@brasideios The amount of good fictions set in Ancient Greece with Brasidas and Alexios as protagonist is just top notch. You can see the amount of hours of research and effort that went into each fanfic, and the absolute love for both the characters and the setting. Braisideios truly one of my favourite author around here, and their sideblog, @theforgottenjenn is filled with beautiful VP of AC Odyssey.

-@thatcrazycrowgirl if you want to truly feel the cuddles from Jacob and Arno, my buddy here is the one to go to. She writes the most ADORABLE JacobxReader and ArnoxReader, and honestly, she is one of the reasons I fell all over the heels for Jacob. She truly writes him like no other.

-@kiatheinsomniac has an ENORMOUS collection of fanfiction, AUs, Headcanons and mixed ideas that are truly well written and are ABSOLUTELY a must-read. I highly recommend all that she has written in regard to Ezio, that's truly PERFEZIONE right there. I truly love the way she writes him.

-@sassenach-on-the-rocks Ms. Sassenach here is another reason why I was snatched by the fandom and by Mr. Dorian. She writes Arno magnificently, and I personally spent my early days in the fandom just going through her whole master list because I couldn't get enough of reading all the good Arno content (and the rest of the Assassins too, tbh, but when I went through the master list, I was mainly fixating for Arno at the time)

-@estel-of-the-eyri her fanfiction, "Breaking Mind-Forged Manacles", is truly one of the best JacobxOC fanfiction out there. The amount of research and study that she did in order to write this story, the way the plot develops connecting the present and future is just chef's kiss (won't say much more because I don't want to spoil anything).

-@evievfrye if you want top quality gif-sets for the Assassins, this is the account to follow. The quality of the gifs is just so insanely good and almost "crisp", if it makes any sense, and they are just a joy to see on the dash!

@ramshackledtrickster The talent they have is BEYOND insane. BEYOND. Going through their dash is a feast for the eyes, both in terms of quality (we are seriously talking about Pro Level here, I am not even exaggerating) and in terms of content. Like, their codextober alone is something that is worthy of printing and having on a wall. I highly, Highly recommend.

@stealingpotatoes I definitely love their style. It's peculiar but so intriguing and dare I say adorable too? And the humor, especially when concerning the Frye family is just everything. I also love the way they interpreted the Frye Kids. Definitely worth following.

And these are the people off the top of my head that I mostly see on my dash. But there are a huge amount of great content creators out there :)

thanks for asking, I hope I was of help :)

--Nemo

#anon #replies #and for this is not a top list or anything like that #as I said

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rockybloo · 1 year

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I love all the jokes and stuff that are in your ocs names. Could you explain of few of them because I think people should see just how much effort you put into these characters. My character designer heart is gonna explode cause your stuff is just so uasdhfajs, ya know.

I dunno what names you mean specifically but I'll just spitball some

BEANSTALKED

Jack Dorado - Jack is often a stand in name for "Some guy" and Dorado is spanish for "Golden" so I mentally have his name as "Golden Boy" because he is the goodest boy in my line up.

Nana Hunter - She went through a name change recently but her name being Nana, in canon, comes from her dad wanting to name her Cinnamon for being small, sweet, and red hair even though her mom disagreed. So He chose to name her Nana (cinNAmon). IN REAL LIFE, Jack calls her Nana a lot as a nickname so I just used it as her new real name and in some places it actually is. Plus she is a hunter.

Pinokuni Sylva - Pinokuni is a play on Pinocchio with with Kuni initially coming from the Swahili word for firewood (at least that's what I read but I 200% can be wrong) and Sylva being forest because his body came from a tree his dad cut down from the forest he gets his wood from.

Kai Guirlande - Kai is a name with multiple meanings in many languages which fits Kai being a very peaceful and "easy to get along with" guy. Guirlande is is a wreath often made from flowers and Kai comes from a kingdom that is very much into flowers

Ashe Kindling - Ashe comes from Ashe and how Cinderella is basically named from the ash that falls on her from the fire she sleeps by and Kindling is basically easily combustible items for starting fires aka Ashe and her arson lovin' ass.

Beanstalked is the only story where I kinda freeball the names and just base them off what I think fit the character.

BONDWIDTH

Every character is named off something related to space with my intent for the lethal forces in story to be named after planets. RIGHT NOW there's only Pluto and Sunny (although the sun is less of a planet and more of a star but still-pretty big body to ignore in space) but I am planning on going down our Solar System.

Nova and her friends, Lumi, Aster, and Estelle are named after stars and other space stuff.

GLITTER AND GUILT

Each hero name is based off whatever running theme I have going on with the team. The Beloveds are named after endearing nicknames for partners (Sweetheart, Dear, Baby, Honey, Angel, Darling) with their weapons being named after a phrase meaning heartbeat (Pitter Patter Pistols, Doki Doki Dukes, Ba-Dump Blades, Heartbeat Hold, Cherished are named after types of happiness (Delight, Glee, Joy, Bliss), The Daring are ice cream flavors, and the Gamers are named after the big game of Africa which is why they are named "The Gamers".

The villain names are the same with the Flavor Four and many Monstrum being named after flavors and phrases related to such.

Slayerback is a play on Silverback Gorilla because he is very monkey based. Fairest rhymes with Heiress and she wants to be the "Fairest of them All". And Hail-Raiser is very in your face with the word play.

Decking City itself is based off cards...TBH ALL OF GLITTER AND GUILT HAVE PLAYING CARD SUBLIMINAL MESSAGING! Decking is a play on "Deck King" and is the 52nd state. And each of the major teams have leaders wearing some suit. Beloveds are hearts, Flavor Four are Spades, Cherished are Clovers, and Gamers are Diamonds. The Jollies are joker cards. I'm planning on having more card based stuff with the city like street names and sneaking more casino game based stuff.

As for the monster names, I realize it is easiest to keep them simple and I default to just using the "[insert animal]-like" word. So Lupine are literally "Wolf like" because they are, themselves, wolf like creatures. Meowlings technically should be Feline and that might be an alternate name like scientifically or something....IamnotsmartIhavefunthough.

Sometimes I use latin names like Monstrum because literally is "Monster" in latin and that is what they are meant to be. I know all of the Bride of Bats characters are named something in latin that fit them like Cordula is heart and Gulo is Glutton.

I'm planning on naming Sharks and Kisses characters after marine stuff. Mariana is named after the trench, Donnie is named after the megalodon--

I have no idea who is still reading this at this point. I also know I didn't list all of the name schemes because I have SO many and just tried to focus more on the main ones.

But yeah-lots of injokes

With myself

#ask: beanstalked #ask: glitter and guilt #ask: bondwidth #ask #anon

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aeonianarchives · 2 years

Text

Haunted House

Fotfictober Prompt: 27 - Haunted House

Summery: The combind efforts of Lindir, Erestor, Glorfindel, Haldir, Celeborn, Galadriel, Elladan, Elrohir, Arwen, Gildor and Elrond they managed to make the Last Homely house into the Last Haunted house for Little Estel

Characters: Lindir, Erestor, Glorfindel, Haldir, Celeborn, Galadriel, Elladan, Elrohir, Arwen, Gildor, Elrond, Gil-Galad, Estel, Mentions of Legolas, Thranduil, Feren

Pairing(s): Celeborn x Galadriel, Lindir x Feren, Glrofindel x Erestor x Gildor, Elladan x Haldir x Legolas, Elrond x Gil-Galad

Warnings: Non

Elrohir nugged Elladan "Shh" Elrohir said as he covered Elladan's mouth the two were tasked with distracting Estel while the others got the house ready Elladan had brought Haldir with him.

"Hey I wasn't going to say anything" Elladan said Haldir face plamed

"You are like the worst person to have on this job" Haldir muttered

"How, I am the best" Elladan said shooting his glare to Haldir

"You have no filter and spoil anything and everything" Haldir said

"Thats why you two are here" Elladan said Elrohir sighed and turned his attention to Estel

"What do you want to do today, Ada says we can do anything within reason" Elrohir said

"I wanna see those Centaurs" Estel said

" We can go looking for them, we may not find them but we can try, come on lets go get the horses ready" Haldir said

Lindir watched as the four walked to the stable, and quickly walked into the library "They are leaving to find Centaurs in the forest" Lindir said

"Knowing Centaur that's not going to be an easy task for them, we have the whole day, Haldir brought lunch with them" Glorfindel said

"Everyone knows what they are doing right" Elrond said

"You have covered it countless times Meleth I am sure everyone knows" Gil-Galad said

"And I will go over it more to make sure this is perfect" Elrond said

"You have already done so much for Estel you don't need to do any more" Galadriel said

"Shut up now lets get on with this before we run out of time" Elrond said Glorfindel chuckled to himself as he set up the fake spiders webs which they managed to imitate (they totally didn't take them from mirkwood)

"Where did you even get that, I dread to ask" Celeborn questioned the lord

"Mirkwood" Glorfindel said

"So thats" Galadriel trailed off

"Actual spider webs yes, it very unfortunately is" Gildor said

"He's a dumbass" Erestor said Gildor hummed in agreement

"But our dumbass" Gildor said

"Actually Feren gave them to me, i got Feren to get them with Legolas" Glorfindel said

"I hate you" Lindir said walking off

"And theirs the cranky minstrel we all know and love especially cranky over his lover" Gil-Galad said as he passed Glorfindel fake spiders Arwen made

"I do not know why your alright with this, he also got your son in law involved" Lindir said

"They aren't married yet Lindir" Arwen said

"I think they secretly are but never bothered to tell anyone" Gildor said

By the Time they got back the sun had set, the lights the house gave off were ominous against the fog which had gathered with the dusk, it looked as if orcs had ransacked the place, Haldir glanced to Elladan

"Either they did a really good job or orcs did come when we were away chasing centaurs" Haldir whispered

"I doubt it was actually orcs" Elrohir whispered as Estel ran to the house, Elladan chased him the other two stayed further back they soon heard the screams of the others

"Ada how dare you scare us like that" Elladan said

"I was not trying to" Elrond said Elrohir hmmed

"Says the man with fake blood all over him" Haldir said

"Glorfindel spilled it and it landed on me, Gildor and Erestor" Elrond said Estel was soon in Elronds arms having the elves scared him as he went in search of Lindir who had left to his Talan after decorating.

Elvish Translations:

Ada - Father

Bonus: Estel was very let down as they did not find any centars

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ofwannabees · 2 years

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THE LUX FILES — katherine quinn maddox edition.

In Kitty’s eyes, Lux Lewis was a goddess among the masses. No matter how much she climbed the social ladder, no matter what she did – none of it was ever enough for Lux to give her the time of day. She was untouchable.

She was everything Kitty wanted to be.

Admiration breeds resentment. That’s precisely what happened between Kitty and Lux. The constant running around after Lux to get nothing in return – at least Zahra and Audrina acted like they could stand her! Eventually, Lux’s untouchable nature twisted from something Kitty admired to something she couldn’t stand. Nights spent screaming into her pillows. The more public, more embarrassing breakdowns.

It’s not a surprise that Lux’s death is almost synonymous with relief in Kitty’s mind. The Lewis girl might have kept her at arm’s length, but Kitty could play the role of grieving friend. No one would call out the default HBIC of Cherry ( or Audrina & Zahra’s weird little protégé once they came back ! )

THE SECRET.

Estelle always wanted the picture-perfect family. That’s the only reason she accepted the ring from Isaac Maddox when she found out she was pregnant. It wasn’t the life she wanted for herself. No fancy house or ring, her husband was a nobody. A total fall from grace. It went without saying that Estelle Maddox was never really present in her life or family. She always had one foot out the door and had countless affairs. Kitty knew, but keeping her secret was the first thing that felt like mother-daughter bonding.

When Isaac found out, a big fight ended with him walking out on the family. Estelle Maddox spun a story about illness and going home to be with his family. Then eventually, him passing away. It was better to be a widow than a divorcee!

From things like a free meal here and there to actually being given some money, the town united to help a family known to be struggling following the devastating blow of losing a father / husband. Of course, they never said anything. Keeping the charade up and accepting sympathy still to this day.

CONNECTIONS.

THE BITCH — ½ of kitty's high school idols. the key difference between the idealisation of audrina and zahra was that kitty wasn't drawn in by wealth or assets when it came to zahra. she was powerful and confident. the type of self-assured kitty could only ever dream of being. though she spends more time with audrina archer, kitty respects zahra more. it had taken a little more effort to break down her walls, but it had been just as worth it. zahra had saved her ass from audrina's hissy fits many times. especially when she picked what the redhead would class as 'the wrong choice' during their fights in high school. she's seen zahra rip other people to shreds before and knows that if she genuinely fucked up, the older girl wouldn't hesitate to put her on the receiving end. it almost makes their interactions feel a little sweeter, even if kitty is a glorified errand-runner. zahra lets her hang around, and she's grateful for it. with tensions growing between kitty and audrina, zahra is going to become somewhat of a safe space, whether she likes it or not. all kitty can do is hope that zahra doesn't cast her out in favour of audrina.

THE CLASSIC — kitty hated to call their dynamic a competition. that would imply that libby logan was on the same level as her! no, this was simply kitty carrying on what lux didn’t finish. it was proving her loyalty to audrina archer. it absolutely had nothing to do with the fact libby was little miss perfect seemingly effortlessly. her post-lux spiral was almost therapeutic to kitty. now that she’s reinventing herself for the new school year, kitty’s security is starting to crumble. especially now that she’s spending so much time with audrina. perhaps seeing her all put back together again will remind mackenzie walsh just why he liked her so much. needless to say, kitty will do whatever it takes to tear libby back down where she belongs.

THE FALLEN ANGEL — alice alder is yet another victim of lux pointing and kitty hunting mercilessly. it's a little awkward when you factor in the whole 'your not-boyfriend's roommate' of it all, but kitty is almost a pro at avoiding people. just ask the southsider! there is some residual guilt that lingers as a result of starting the rumour that ended her friendship with lux, but it's all covered up with hostility and anger. it's not like it's one-sided, anyways. fighting is just a part of their dynamic. the day those two start to tolerate each other is when there's cause for concern. the world is probably ending.

THE MANNEQUIN — the other ½ of kitty's high school idols. she admires audrina, the archer's as a whole. it's the life estelle had always envisioned for himself. where she had always tried to direct kitty to go. it was a no brainer that she would cling to audrina when she took her under her wing. sleepovers at her house, working at her mother's shop with her. audrina was the first person to make kitty feel like she was somebody. there will always be a soft spot for the redhead because of that. perhaps that's why she'd go through with any scheme audrina suggested without question. it's not like anyone could actually call her out it. she had protection in the form of audrina archer. like she had once admired in lux, they were untouchable. it even won over mia montoya when she was willing to scheme against belle. she owes a lot to the other girl, which is the only reason she hasn't completely unravelled and told her how she thinks keeping her back in cherry was the worst thing candy girl has done. even being buried alive paled in comparison to being knocked down to an adoring minion once again. things seem to be getting better with the potential of audrina going back to her own school come fall, but things are bound to get messy when they find out they're stuck in cherry together. once she starts letting libby logan hang around? maybe she'll finally entertain the thought of letting harvey give her the attention he's wanted to since she snuck behind audrina's back to see him in the hospital.

THE WRITER — attention from boys came hand in hand with kitty’s newfound popularity. from noah russell, however, it was different. a crush. emotions and all. kitty was convinced that he was just another geek desperate for attention from someone out of his league. why else would he linger on for so long? he was yet another victim of the beautiful facade kitty had built up. no matter how close they got, kitty would always wear up and down that she didn’t rely on him. the weird writer boy was just another face in the crowd. even when she started to let him see through the act here and there. for a brief moment, noah russell knew her better than anyone else in the gang. his opinion of her had worked its way up the ladder of importance without warning until suddenly he was as important as the popular kids she was yanked back and forth by. it was no surprise that kitty lashed out when it was taken away from her. jealousy, insecurity. all those ugly traits that were supposed to go away when she had cherry in the palm of her hand started bubbling to the surface. how else would you react when you let someone see the real you and they turn to someone else? the worst part was that he didn’t go for another perfect blonde cheerleader. the likelihood of kitty being a stepping stone to popularity in his eyes? pretty much nonexistent. not that she could ever admit she was wrong about them.

#cusatask #「 🍑 」 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 » THE UGLY YEARS OF BEING A FOOL. AIN’T YOUTH MEANT TO BE BEAUTIFUL?#the task was actually trying to not make her board 99% hanna marin #no proof reading in this house

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heartofasoldier · 2 years

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status: closed to jack taylor | @qvietinfvrno

time: late evening

location: community school

The woman had practically been a ghost, nothing but a myth within the hunting community. However, upon reaching out to a trusted contact -- an individual that had a certain skillset that included ways of uncovering information that had specifically been altered in an effort to stay hidden, a small slither of intel had been digressed. A photo with a name scrawled upon the back in neat calligraphy; Estelle Jacqueline Taylor. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to validate the very words of his twin sister and to explain the hit that had been put upon their family, all because of one individual, their immortal ancestor. The hunter had noticed her the moment she passed over the school’s threshold but alas he sat back and did what he did best, silently observed while he went about checking in with his fellow hunters. They were after all stood on hunter territory and that was very much apparent given the vast numbers that loitered about the rooms and halls. Finally making his approach he extended a hand with a water bottle toward the woman, expression unreadable as he spoke. Scrawled in neat handwriting was that of her full name. “Figured you could do with some fluids, hydration is important after all.”

#interactions: fletcher #fletcher x jack #starters: closed

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talesofourworlds · 1 month

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(ooc: Something I still find fascinating about Vesperia is something Judith points out on the Heracles when Raven rejoins the party. Raven betrayed Alexei by choosing to help Brave Vesperia after Baction, and Alexei could have shut off Raven's blastia at any moment in response. A literal kill switch. Yet he never ends up doing that. So I have to wonder about Alexei's thought process.

He could have assumed Raven just died at Baction and didn't think it would be necessary. After all, he doesn't see that Raven is still alive until presumably when the party first tries to get to Estelle before getting blasted away. Unless his knights on the Heracles reported back to him that they'd seen the Schwann brigade, and Raven specifically, then that would have been the earliest Alexei potentially knew. But at Zaphias, he clearly thought the party had died during the crash after they got blasted away.

The man is so, so calculated and seems to have everything figured out in regards to his plan. He wants Estelle's power to gain access to Zaude, and then wants to use that power because he thought Zaude was a weapon. But one of his old puppets is freed from his strings and Alexei just... never really tries to do anything about it outside of trying to order Raven back to him before the party fights Estelle at Zaphias. At that point, does he just not view Raven as a threat to him? Is he not worth using the kill switch on? Why specifically decide that Raven wasn't worth the effort after all that effort he went to in order to make Raven his puppet in the first place?

I'm sure someone who understands Alexei better than I do probably has an answer, but for the time being I'll just puzzle over it.)

#ooc #mun rambles #A Weed Tryin' to Bloom (Raven)

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lembas4frodo · 3 years

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If we make that one hobbit movie scene canon...

— someone idk has already made this idea and this is my contribution. Although my Legolas here is tired and just dealt with it.

I was supposed to add Legolas saying: "and what am I supposed to do with him???" but nvm it's internal now.

#and all efforts went to Estels #digital art #tolkien fanart #the hobbit #lotr #legolas #thranduil #aragorn #estel #my art

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wonderingboat · 2 years

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One idea that I got when writing this fic (The light ) is that maybe Eärendil does guide and lead every single white ship that sailing to the West by himself.

In The Silmarillion, we have the below description:

And they taught that, while the new world fell away, the old road and the path of the memory of the West still went on, as it were a mighty bridge invisible that passed through the air of breath and of flight (which were bent now as the world was bent), and traversed Ilmen which flesh unaided cannot endure, until it came to Tol Eressëa, the Lonely Isle, and maybe even beyond, to Valinor,

So these ships will actually fly into the sky and cross specifically the air Ilmen, and Ilmen is “the region of airs where the stars are”, and also the level of the Sun, the Moon. So there is where Eärendil sails every day and keeps watch the Door of Night I suppose.

In the Lord of the Ring, the last chapter:

Then Frodo kissed Merry and Pippin, and last of all Sam, and went aboard; and the sails were drawn up, and the wind blew, and slowly the ship slipped away down the long grey firth; and the light of the glass of Galadriel that Frodo bore glimmered and was lost.……

But to Sam the evening deepened to darkness as he stood at the Haven

The ship that Frodo and Elrond went aboard set sail just at the time of sunset, when the star is about to rise; and though this is very likely to be over-interpreting, but the light of the glass is from the star of Eärendil……so I think it is somehow reasonable to take this as an interpretation that they will be guided by Gil-Estel.

Additionally, Eärendil did have done this kind of “guider of voyage” business before — that is why Númenor is also known as Elenna, 'Starwards'.

Btw, did anyone on that ship actually know the way? None of them have sailed to the west before… I think? So they will definitely need a good guide, or a guard as well, for this kind of unfamiliar traveling.

And I can not think of anyone else to be more suitable for this task (maybe except Ulmo), for this will be a voyage that crosses the ocean & the sky, that will require a lot of skills, knowledge of both navigation and aviation, and a good sense of direction as well, and Eärendil has been doing this kind of sailing twice a day since, like, at least 3000 years ago? Surly capable of this task, and without extra effort as long as they keep setting sail at the right timing ( sunrise or sunset I can not decided maybe both ok)

So it will be super fun to think that all the Falathrim sailor might be quite a fan of the most well-known mariner in history, they will be like “YEAHHHHH” to see Eärendil coming down to greet them ( with “ Eärendil the Mariner, at your service” or sth else) , they could cry out with “ this is the most worth seeing thing for the whole voyage don't you agree”, and Elrond will be like, “yeah, en, maybe, but that is my dad.”

#lord of the rings #The Silmarillion #silmarillion #frodo baggins #elrond #earendil #random though #but makes sense #at least for me

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lets-steal-an-archive · 3 years

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'Golden Girls' Polishes Its Scripts: Daily Revisions Geared to Sharpen Story and Hone Those Laugh Lines

TRUE OR FALSE:

Actresses Bea Arthur, Estelle Getty, Rue McClanahan and Betty White write their own dialogue for "The Golden Girls." (FALSE)

Older female writers write all 25 episodes each season because no one else could understand the problems of older females. (FALSE)

In order to keep the shows consistent from week to week, one writer prepares all the episodes. (FALSE)

Ten staff writers work together to prepare a season's worth of scripts. (TRUE)

It's a Monday morning in early October and on a sound stage at the small Renmar Studios in Hollywood, the "golden girls" have gathered to read a new script. This will be episode No. 60 of the series and it will air about three weeks later — on Halloween.

Everyone in the room has heard about this week's story line: Rose writes a letter to Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev. But apart from the writers, no one has seen the final script until now. It was completed on a Saturday, photocopied 150 times on Sunday and distributed this morning to NBC; co-producer Touchstone Pictures; the show's creator, Susan Harris; the show's lawyers and researchers, and the "Golden Girls" cast and crew.

"Hopefully, they'll laugh," murmurs head writer Kathy Speer as she prepares to hear the "table reading." "If they don't, we'll be here fixing the script for a long time."

The table reading really is at tables — eight of them arranged in a rectangle. The actresses and guest actors sit on one side, facing the writers. To the actresses' left are director Terry Hughes, executive producers Paul Junger Witt and Tony Thomas and co-executive producers/head writers Speer and Terry Grossman. To the actresses' right sit NBC representatives, the show's casting director and props and wardrobe personnel.

They begin. Director Hughes reads the stage directions: Interior, kitchen — day. Sophia is seated at table. She is reading book entitled 'Magic Made Easy.' Dorothy enters.

Bea Arthur, as Dorothy, reads: "Hi, Ma."

Estelle Getty, as Sophia, reads: "Give me your watch."

Another week is under way. As the actresses go through their lines, everyone else listens intently. They laugh (or don't laugh) and take notes. By the Friday-night tapings, this script will need to play at 22 minutes. But Friday is a long way off.

As soon as the table reading ends, the writers, producers, director and an NBC program executive huddle to discuss script changes. Then, while the actresses begin rehearsals using the first draft, the writers rush off to their yellow stucco two-story building nearby to begin rewriting.

"The secret of TV half-hour comedy shows is the revisions," explains Dean Valentine, NBC director of current comedy and also the program executive on "Golden Girls." "What they start out with is 75% away from what they end up with."

"I don't think this episode is going to need much work," co-head writer Terry Grossman announces cheerfully on his way back to his office. "It got a good response at the table. We just have to cut it, smooth out transitions and clarify some story points. New jokes will be the tough thing." He anticipates a few hours' work.

"Early in the first season we were throwing out whole scenes," he recalls. "Now we know what works for each lady and what she does best. That's the advantage of being in the third year of the show. The disadvantage is that stories are harder to come by."

Grossman heads into the office he shares with his wife Speer, who is also his writing partner. They are in charge of the writing staff. "That means we are the two who get yelled at the most when something goes wrong," he jokes.

Also piling into the conference-sized room are supervising producers Barry Fanaro and Mort Nathan and producer Winifred Hervey. Despite their titles, Grossman explains, "We're all writers."

"We are the five most dull people," Nathan insists.

"We're much funnier on paper," Hervey adds.

These five, all in their 30s, met when they worked on "Benson," an earlier Witt-Thomas-Harris series. They have been with "Golden Girls" since the beginning, and every Monday they jointly rewrite the script being taped that week. They jokingly call themselves The Gang of Five.

While they start rewriting, the show's other five staff writers — Chris Lloyd, Jeff Ferro, Frederic Weiss, Robert Bruce and Martin Weiss — go back to their own offices to work on new scripts.

"To keep quality, you like as many writers as you can afford," Speer explains. "This year, we have six 'entities' (writing teams) — four sets of partners and two individuals. And we also use a few free-lance scripts each season."

Approximately 25% of the show's budget goes to the writers, executive producer Tony Thomas says. Staff writers on a comedy series earn a weekly salary plus separate payments for completed scripts. A free-lance writer who does a story outline, a first draft and a second draft can earn about $11,000. (Note: All outside script submissions must come through agents.)

"A good comedy requires a lot of teamwork, a lot of people sitting in a room working together," Thomas emphasizes. "A good team is rare, but it's not extremely rare. It's like winning the NBA title. We had it in 'Soap,' and we had it for some years in 'Benson.' Obviously this is one of the most successful staffs we’ve ever put together."

Both Witt and Thomas deal with day-to-day details on "Golden Girls." Harris, who created the series, is less involved this season because, according to Thomas, "She is working on a feature for Disney with us. But she reads all the scripts and is familiar with most of the stories."

Flashback to the previous Friday, a week when "Golden Girls" wasn't taping. Every fourth week during the season, the show shuts down, giving the actors and crew a rest and allowing the writers to catch up.

The Gang of Five is trying to explain how their writing process works. They insist on telling, rather than showing, because, as they say, they're shy. "At the beginning of the season, even having our new writers in the meeting made me a little uncomfortable," Grossman admits. "It slowed down the process."

"One of the most important things that exists with this group is that the bottom line is making the show as good as possible. It's still very difficult when your script is read for the first time and the material doesn't work. It hurts for a moment. But there's no time to take it personally. It didn't work, and the clock is ticking. You better keep moving and get it right."

Like all sitcoms, "Golden Girls" has a "bible," a book that synopsizes everything that has happened on a series. Thus, new writers don't have to watch all the previous episodes. But there is no master plan of what will happen in the future.

The idea for "Letter to Gorbachev" surfaced last May at a beginning-of-the-season meeting of the writers and producers. "It was one of 20 or 30 story notions kicked around," Barry Fanaro recalls. The obvious similarity to Samantha Smith's letter to then-Soviet leader Yuri Andropov isn't mentioned.

"Most of them didn't work,” adds Fanaro's writing partner Mort Nathan, "but this one sounded amusing. Because Rose is a childlike character, we wondered what would happen if she wrote a letter to Gorbachev about world peace. We started fleshing it out, but we couldn't think of a second act. We went round and round, and finally six weeks later we came up with a way to make the story work."

"The five of us went over it scene by scene and agreed it was workable," Fanaro continues. "Then Mort and I went off and wrote it. It took about 10 days because we were also working on other things."

Each "Golden Girls” episode is written to a formula: "the idea, the act break and the resolution," Grossman explains. "Usually there's an 'A' story and a 'B' story going. It's the natural structure."

Although Fanaro and Nathan, who won a writing Emmy last year for a "Golden Girls" episode, wrote the basic Gorbachev script, the story the audience will see has gone through the usual "Golden Girls" grinder: The Gang of Five read and dissect the first draft, adding new scenes, new lines, new jokes. "It's really a team effort," Grossman stresses.

The jokes can be the easiest part — or the hardest. "They're only hard to write when you've got one that isn't working," Grossman says. "A joke in the middle of a scene can be weak, but the 'out joke' — a snappy one-liner that ends the scene on a laugh — has to be strong."

"We may decide a scene needs a new opening," Speer explains. "There will be a long moment of silence. Then someone will ask if anybody's eaten at some new restaurant. In the course of conversation, somebody will say, 'Wait a minute. I have an idea.'"

"With five of us, at least one of us is paying attention," Hervey deadpans.

"Good writers should be able to write for men, women, old or young," Grossman says. "We all draw on other people in our lives — parents, grandparents. Part of the reason for the show's popularity is that these are very vital people. The very same story you've seen 100 times on every sitcom takes on new light with characters in this age group. That makes life easier for us.

"Also, these four actresses are sensational. To have the entire cast be able to give such high-caliber performances means you don't have to adjust your material. You write the material, and they deliver. If they can't make it work, there's something wrong with the material."

The week goes by quickly. On Tuesday morning, the "golden girls" read over the revised script and discover that one scene has changed considerably. Some lines have been cut, while others have been sharpened. There are several new jokes. A press conference scene has been shifted from a hotel room to the ladies' living room.

On Tuesday night, the Gang of Five works late. During the day's rehearsals they realized that the revised scene didn’t play well so they jettisoned it and added some new dialogue and a few more jokes.

Following Wednesday's rehearsals, they hone the script a little more. Time is pressing. By the Thursday afternoon dress rehearsal, the actresses try to be script-perfect, although they often aren't. By now, the original 52-page script has been reduced to 50 pages, and almost every page has had at least one alteration.

For instance, on Monday when Blanche accidentally spat Coca-Cola on a Soviet Embassy official, he responded by saying, "No apology necessary." Now he says, "No need to apologize. In Moscow, we have to stand in line four hours to get this."

Late Friday afternoon, the audience files into Renmar Studios to watch the first taping. The writers are standing by, just in case a last-minute problem occurs. During the 90-minute dinner break, while a new audience is arriving, the cast, writers and producers calmly discuss how to improve the second taping. A few lines are cut, the taping is completed, and it’s on to the next week.

Source: Mills, Nancy. 1987. 'Golden Girls' Polishes Its Scripts: Daily Revisions Geared to Sharpen Story and Hone Those Laugh Lines. Los Angeles Times, October 30, https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1987-10-30-ca-11702-story.html

#the golden girls #how the sausage is made #from the archives #tv writing #i just thought it was neat #long post

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honourablejester · 3 years

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Domain of Dread: Harrow’s Rock

A homebrew Domain of Dread, because I’m in raptures about Van Richten’s Guide to Ravenloft. I. LOVE. HORROR. FANTASY. Ah. You may have noticed. I went for a more classic New-Englandy, Lovecraftian sort of nautical/cosmic horror, because the two suggested cosmic horror domains lacked a little something for me. LONG POST, to warn you. I got carried away. So:

Domain of Dread: Harrow’s Rock

Domain of Salt and Sleeping

Overview:

Darklord - Aloysius Carroway

Genre – nautical horror, ghost stories, gothic horror, cosmic horror

Hallmarks – maritime ghost stories, cycles of vengeance, eldritch dreamers

Mist Talismans – glass floats full of strange mist, tarnished bronze discs, strange whispering shells

Rage, bitterness and despair endlessly ebb and flow like a wine-dark tide against the salt-stained, hard-bitten coastline of Harrow’s Rock. Ghosts sail the frigid waters around this small, dismal island, and haunt the crumbling manors on its cliffs. Bobbling marsh-lights lure unwary fishers, travellers and smugglers into the depths of Loney Marsh. In the grim hamlet of Harrow Cove, ancient grudges mire the native islanders in endless feuds that not even death can finish. Island legend tells of an ancient, unknown entity that lies slumbering in a vast, flooded cavern beneath Harrow Cliff, its dreams washing out across the island from time to time, bringing fear and horror in their wake.

Harrow’s Rock is a battered island domain of ghosts, blood feuds and grudges, ruled over by a man whose vengeful determination to protect his family resulted in the sacrifice of an entire town, since resurrected by the Powers for his torment. Hope is in short supply here, and welcome even shorter.

Cove Characters – Characters from Harrow’s Rock tend to have a distinctly nautical bent, with few lives that have remained untouched by the waters in some way. They tend towards hardy, weather-beaten folk, stubborn and superstitious, with humans, half-orcs and dwarves being particularly common. Other, more otherworldly lineages (such as genasi, tieflings, and sorcerous lineages) are viewed with fear and superstition, but are more common than most Covefolk would like to admit. Naming conventions on Harrow’s Rock often follow old-fashioned/18th and 19th century British and North American patterns.

Noteworthy Features:

Those familiar with Harrow’s Rock know the following facts:

The four founding families of the island, the Carroways, Merricks, Redmarches and Whitmarshes, control everything of note on Harrow’s Rock.

Pretty much everything on the island or around it is haunted one way or another.

Loney Marsh, Lorn Point Lighthouse and Redmarch Manor are widely considered the most haunted locations on an extremely haunted isle.

The only true settlement on the island is the fishing port of Harrow Cove, where the ‘Harrow’ of Harrow’s Rock supposedly landed. Harrow’s Cove is notably grim and unwelcoming to outsiders, though it’s safer than some of the other areas on the island.

However haunted the land might be, the sea is even more so. It is not safe to sail the waters around Harrow’s Rock. Fisherfolk are the hardiest breed on a hardy island, and ghost pirates are the least of your worries out there.

Islanders do not talk about their dreams. Ever.

Settlements & Sites:

Harrow’s Rock is a grim, rocky island, roughly seven miles by seven miles, with large rocky cliffs to the east of the island and the low expanse of Loney Marsh to the west. Sunshine is rare on this windswept, dismal isle, with mists, rain and furious storms being far more common. The islanders tend to be insular, clannish and deeply suspicious of strangers, a suspicion only surpassed by their abiding and long-entrenched mistrust and hatred of each other.

Harrow’s Rock was known on maps for a good hundred or so years before it was first settled, associated with a person or entity known as ‘Harrow’, but it lay uninhabited until a ship commanded by four adventurers in search of a new home laid anchor there. Those four adventurers were Noah Carroway, Erasmus Merrick, Ervina Redmarch and Loney Whitmarsh, and their families became the four founding and controlling families of Harrow’s Rock.

Harrow Cove:

The port town of Harrow Cove lies nestled in a small bay beneath Harrow Cliff. Historically, the town was controlled fairly evenly between the Carroway and Merrick families. After the death of Ezekiel Carroway, Aloysius made a concerted effort to claim it wholly for his own family, and so it remains today. The town is the heart of Aloysius’ domain, and the Darklord himself still resides at his family’s ancient townhouse on the hill above the docks. Although he keeps largely to himself, having no interest in interacting with the townspeople he loathes, the town is wholly under his control. No one walks the streets and docks of Harrow Cove but that he is aware of it, and no ship enters the port without his permission. Life is grim in Harrow Cove, under the hateful, paranoid eyes of its master and once-destroyer.

Church of the Salt:

Near the docks in Harrow Cove, facing the sea, the stone bell-tower of the Church of the Salt rises above the surrounding buildings. The great double doors of this once proud church have been closed and viciously nailed shut, and while there is life within the walls, it gives a distinct air of a building under siege. The acolytes, priests and priestesses of the Salt know beyond doubt that the Darklord hates them with all his heart, more than anyone else in the town, and only an extremely precarious network of sewers, smugglers and ‘parishioners’ allow them to live and continue their ministry as much as they can. The Church of the Salt fully believe that Aloysius is tainted and empowered by the Dreamer beneath Harrow Cliff, and that as long as the Dreamer and its spawn, the demon child Ambrose, remain alive, no one can truly destroy the Darklord.

Redmarch Manor:

The ancestral home of the Redmarches, one of the founding families of the island, Redmarch Manor overlooks and controls what little arable land Harrow’s Rock can lay claim to. Secure in their control of pretty much all food on the island that doesn’t come from the sea, the scions of the Redmarch Clan are content to stay out of the machinations of the rest of the island. They have, after all, a myriad of their own problems. It takes a lot for anywhere on this island to be considered more haunted, but Redmarch Manor is certainly in the running, the apparent product of an unspecified family curse that may or may not involve the Dreamer. No Redmarch who grew up in its confines comes out entirely sane. The current heir, Rowena Redmarch, more than proves the point, being widely known as a drunk, a vicious fighter who would put Estelle Merrick to shame, and a woman haunted by her ancestors in ways that would also put Estelle Merrick to shame.

Loney Marsh:

Loney Marsh is roughly fourteen square miles of saltmarsh along the western edge of the island. Named for Loney Whitmarsh, the family matriarch who claimed the western half of the island at the founding (and largely wasn’t contested for it), and currently presided over by Eurydicia Marsh, Loney Marsh is known for smugglers, sinkholes, and being the source of roughly every ghost story on the island that doesn’t directly tie to Aloysius or the Dreamer. Of course, that being said, Loney Marsh is also the only place on the island that an enemy of Aloysius’ could conceivably hide, as not even the Darklord with all his powers can fully pierce the mists and morass of the marsh. There are several smugglers in Loney Marsh with ties to Harrow Cove, and perhaps to the Wrack of the Isle as well, and is one of the relatively few safe places to land boats outside of Harrow Cove. Loney Marsh is extremely difficult to navigate without a guide, and is home to any number of haunts and monsters.

Wrack of the Isle:

The Wrack of the Isle is a small islet about a mile and a half offshore on the northeastern side of Harrow’s Rock, wreathed in wooden docks, shacks and shanties, and festooned with the wind-tossed lights of storm lanterns. All the flotsam and jetsam of Harrow’s Rock winds up here, including exiles, outcasts, pirates both living and dead, and more or less the entire remnants of the Merrick family. The Wrack of the Isle is the private fiefdom of Estelle Merrick, so-called ‘Pirate Queen’ of the Wrack, and all who survive on the islet pay their dues to her. It is rumoured, though, that Estelle in her turn pays her dues to someone else. Her cousin, Elias Merrick, the fearsome ghost pirate of Harrow’s Rock and the scourge of all living who sail her seas.

Lorn Point Lighthouse:

High on the cliffs on the northeastern side of Harrow’s Rock, facing out across the waters towards the Wrack of the Isle, stands the ominous tower of Lorn Point Lighthouse, also known locally as Ghost Point Lighthouse. In the early days of Harrow’s Rock, when the Carroways and the Merricks were still on friendly terms, Eochbard Merrick built the lighthouse on Lorn Point to help guide shipping into Harrow Cove. When the Merricks were driven off the island, the lighthouse was abandoned and fell into ruin. Until the night the Mists claimed the island, when a ghostly green light abruptly started shining again from the top of the cliff. Nowadays, it’s widely known on the Rock that the light at Lorn Point does not guide living ships, but ghosts upon the waters instead, and travellers through the mists.

Harrow Cliff and The Dreamer’s Cavern:

Towering over Harrow Cove, dwarfing the town, is the great black face of Harrow Cliff. The highest point on the island, higher even than Lorn Point, the cliff glares balefully out to sea and coldly cradles the town below. The cliff is riddled with caves and carved passages, some by the sea, some by smugglers and townsfolk, and some by the powers know what. Before ever the island was swallowed by the Mists, rumours and legends about Harrow Cliff abounded. It is said that if you follow the passages deep enough, if something guides you through the right twists and turns, you will emerge eventually into the Dreamer’s Cavern. No one knows who or what the Dreamer is, if it might be the ‘Harrow’ for which the island is named, but very few want to find out.

Aloysius Carroway:

Aloysius Carroway was born, the elder of a set of twins, to one of the founding families of the Rock. He and his twin brother Ezekiel grew up in Harrow Cove, at a time when the Carroway and Merrick families were vying increasingly over control of the port, and bad blood had grown between them.

Not that Aloysius and Ezekiel particularly cared. They were focused on their own endeavours. Aloysius, his studies, and Ezekiel, the pride and adventure of the fishing fleets. Though Ezekiel in particular clashed with the Merrick heir, Elias Merrick, a grudging respect soon grew between them, and life was good. Aloysius took over his father’s position as harbourmaster, Ezekiel as captain of the fishing fleet, and between them the brothers earned the respect of Harrow Cove.

Then, one day, a terrible storm swept the seas around Harrow’s Rock, and Ezekiel’s ship was announced lost at sea, with everyone aboard. The Cove was shaken, but Aloysius was devastated. There was nothing in the world he loved more than his twin, and he refused to believe that Ezekiel was truly dead. He dreamed repeatedly that Ezekiel was alive and would return to him, and his adamance, particularly on the subject of dreams, began to make people around him nervous. Harrow’s Rock had long had legends of the Dreamer in the Cavern, you see, and dreams were never a safe subject on the island.

And then Ezekiel did come back to him. In the aftermath of a second terrible storm, nearly two years after the first, a man washed up on the rocky beach underneath Harrow Cliff … with a newborn baby wrapped in seaweed in his arms. It was Ezekiel, and he introduced the child adamantly as his own, as his son Ambrose. He would not say who (or what) the mother had been.

Aloysius was overjoyed. His brother, the other half of his soul, was returned to him, and he had brought a tiny addition to the family along with him, something Aloysius, being not romantically inclined, had never hoped to see without his brother’s help.

No one else on Harrow’s Rock was overjoyed, however. To anyone with even an ounce of superstition, and no one on the Rock would be content with an ounce, everything about Ezekiel’s return reeked of ill-omen. From Aloysius’ dreams, to Ezekiel washing up beneath the Dreamer’s cliff, to the child’s increasingly obvious otherness, it all stank of the Dreamer. Nor did it help that Ezekiel himself was changed, grown as quiet and reticent as his brother after his experience. Rumours and superstition ran rampant in Harrow Cove. Spearheaded, with growing alarm and anger, by Elias Merrick, who could not find the man he had grudgingly grown to respect in this new Ezekiel.

Aloysius would hear none of it. His brother was returned to him, and his nephew, though a little odd, including such details as being able to breathe just fine in the bath, was a cheerful, friendly baby. He would hear no word against them. Not from anyone, for any reason.

Dreams stirred across the island in the wake of Ezekiel’s return. Strange, salty visions, never the same between one person and the next. It could have been nothing more than superstition itself, excited dreams thrown up by paranoia and rumour. But sentiment stirred against the Carroways regardless, and neither Ezekiel nor Aloysius himself were any help.

And then, a year to the day from the moment Ezekiel Carroway had washed up on Harrow Beach, on the day he had claimed for his child’s first birthday, another storm lashed the Rock, fierce enough to dwarf anything the island had seen in a hundred years. And the growing fear and superstition on the island finally flashed to violence.

No one would admit afterwards to having been there when the mob, lead by Elias Merrick, smashed down the door of the Carroway townhouse, while Aloysius was still working in the port, and dragged Ezekiel Carroway out into the street. They searched for the child as well, young Ambrose, but couldn’t find him. Their bloodlust would have to be content with an oddly calm, placid Ezekiel.

And he was calm. Utterly serene. It was said he looked Elias Merrick in the eye, no trace of fear or of the man he had once been as he faced his former friend, and eyed the boathook in his hand with nothing but a small smile. He made no sound and offered no words of protest, even as they beat him almost to death. And no one was there, no one would admit to being there, but still the rumour went that his eyes had been wide open and his mouth still smiling when Elias shoved him angrily off the dock and back into the watery embrace of his ‘lover’.

Aloysius witnessed this. He had been working in the port. He couldn’t miss a mob marching down the Cove’s docks. It took six men, at least two of them Merricks, to hold him back from trying to leap to his brother’s defense. He was almost insane with desperation, with rage. He fought them like a madman, but nothing he did could get him close enough. Ezekiel slipped away.

And when it was done, when his brother had been taken from him, Elias Merrick looked him in the eyes. Elias told him, with the barest hint of remorse, that he ‘did what had to be done’. To protect the island from whatever unnatural force Ezekiel had brought back with him.

There had been no one in the world that Aloysius loved more than his brother. Not a single soul.

He went back to the townhouse. In the midst of his grief and his fury, he found his nephew, Ambrose. His brother’s infant son. Alive, gloriously alive, and hidden in a water tank. Breathing away quite happily to himself, in the gentle quiet underwater. He’d slept through his father’s death. Aloysius, still lost in the serene white seas of rage, could only be glad of that. He retrieved the child. Swore on his brother’s name that he would protect him with his life from that day forth.

And swore, too, that he would not rest a single day of that life until he had driven Elias, the Merricks, and anyone else who might ever be a threat to his family, off the island.

It took almost twenty years. It took every trick and trade, every scrap of fortune and alliance, old and new, that Aloysius possessed. But he drove the Merrick fleet into the ground. Broke their finances. Took Harrow Cove, inch by inch, house by house, back for the Carroways. He took control of vital trade and supplies. Starved the lighthouse at Lorn Point. Drove the family to beggardom or to the sea. Fortune was incidental. The prosperity of Harrow’s Rock as a whole was beside the point. Everything he did from that day forth was to bring Elias Merrick to his knees.

And he succeeded. Beggared and battered further and further back, the Merricks left the island and went to their boats. Went to the sea. And the sea remembered Ezekiel too. Something in it. Whether it was a curse or something else, no Merrick ship could prosper around Harrow’s Rock. Many of them sank. One of them … was Elias’.

Perhaps that on its own would have been enough to draw the attentions of the Powers in the Mists. That single-minded devotion to slow, starvatious vengeance. But grudges were a way of life on Harrow’s Rock, blood feuds as common as bloodlines. One man slowly driving a family into the sea was nothing all that special on the Rock.

But Aloysius loved his brother’s son as well. He loved his nephew. He had taken that oath to Ezekiel’s memory just as firmly to heart. And as Ambrose grew and grew, into a fine, gentle, and terribly shy young man, so the rumours around their family grew in step. Ezekiel had been given back to his lover, whatever monstrosity that might have been, but his son still walked the island, and his brother bent all his powers to protecting him. And Aloysius was different now. He had learned from that day on the dock. He had learned to pay attention. The older Ambrose got, the more desperately paranoid and aware of rumour Aloysius became.

And the dreams swept the island even still. More and more as the years went on. Paranoia. Superstition. The Dreamer in the Cave. Or maybe Ambrose or Aloysius himself. Some taint, of Ezekiel or of the Carroway bloodline itself. Aloysius’ dreams predated the storm, after all. Ezekiel had been his twin. Perhaps the taint had carried, the moment Ezekiel’s ship had first been lost.

Either way, it came to a head once again. The terror on the island, and the fervour of Aloysius’ promise to his brother in response. The Church of the Salt had sprung up, its adherents agitating against the taint of the Dreamer, and Aloysius could see it coming once again. The worst day of his life. The loss of his family and his soul all over again.

He wasn’t going to allow it. Before any man, woman or child on the island dared lay hands on his family again, Aloysius Carroway was going to stop them.

Even if he had to kill each and every one of them to manage it.

There were no dreams, the day a priest of the Salt stood on the docks and loudly denounced Ambrose Carroway as a demon from the deep to be destroyed. Everyone on the island remembered that afterwards. That the night before it all ended, no one dreamed. Of the sea, or of anything. A sleep as deep and dreamless as the dead.

The next day, Aloysius calmly locked his tearful, pleading nephew away. Somewhere safe, somewhere no one on the island would know to look for him. And then he walked back down into town. Down the docks to the Church of the Salt, where he stood patiently waiting until the priests and priestesses came out to meet him.

And when they did, he gave them one chance to repent their words and threats against his nephew. One chance, to stave off his wrath. If they did not, he promised quietly, he would do as Elias had done to his brother. He would return Harrow Cove to the sea. All of it. Every man, woman and child. If they did not leave the island and renounced their threats against his family, then in his brother’s name, for his nephew’s protection, he would sink this town into the sea.

They didn’t listen. Much as the Merricks, twenty years earlier.

That night, for the first time in more than a year, a light appeared at Lorn Point Lighthouse. A green, ghostly light, shining out across the waters. The bells of the Church of the Salt started ringing, moved by no human hand. A thunderous crack echoed beneath the town. A hideous shudder and rumbling shook the island.

And the Mists rolled gently and inexorably across the Rock, as the town of Harrow Cove slumped forward into the sea.

Aloysius Carroway woke up in his townhouse. Exactly as it had been the day before. He stumbled out, dazed, into a Harrow Cove that looked exactly like the town he had just destroyed. Full of the townspeople he had just murdered, though they didn’t seem to remember him doing so. On an island exactly like Harrow’s Rock.

With just a few small differences ...

Aloysius’ Powers and Dominion

Aloysius has statistics similar to that of an Inquisitor of the Mind Fire, though his psionic abilities are either inborn or a potential influence of the Dreamer. His personal prowess pales in comparison to his control over his island and the influence of his dreams, however.

Paranoid Whispers: Aloysius’ awareness of his domain has been heightened by his paranoia. While his perception grows foggier the further from Harrow’s Cove it goes, and holds no dominion whatsoever over the sea and little over Loney Marsh, within Harrow Cove and most of the eastern side of the island, he is aware of all newcomers, and echoes of his dreams inform him of harmful intentions on the part of the islanders.

Wrathful Dreams: Whether consciously or not, Aloysius’ dreams now touch those of all who dwell in his domain. When he dreams of his brother, so do they. When he dreams of his hatred for them, so do they. And if his dreams visit harm upon them, that harm may manifest when they wake. Denizens of Harrow’s Rock do their best to avoid drawing the Darklord’s attention to them, lest he dream of them that night.

Closing the Borders: When Aloysius wishes to close the borders of Harrow’s Rock, great storms whip around the edges of his domain. Those who attempt to sail into those storms are affected as detailed in “The Mists” section in Van Richten’s Guide to Ravenloft.

Aloysius’ Torment

Since the stormswept night when Harrow’s Rock and every soul on it were transported to the Mists, Aloysius has been tormented by the following circumstances:

Since entering the Mists, Aloysius’ dreams of his murdered brother Ezekiel have grown stronger and stronger, tormenting him with the dual convictions that his brother might have survived that day, as he survived the shipwreck before it, and that his brother is furious at his failure to protect his son. Aloysius longs to reach out to and find his brother, but the seas are now controlled by his enemies, and there is no known way to enter the Dreamer’s Cavern, if that is where Ezekiel now resides.

When Aloysius awoke in the newly remade Harrow Cove, he immediately rushed to check on his nephew, but found the locks broken and his nephew nowhere to be seen. He has no idea if Ambrose escaped and hates him too much for his actions to seek him out, or if Ambrose was found and taken by his enemies. None have come forward claiming to have done so, but Aloysius lives in feverish terror that he has failed despite it all and allowed his nephew to be captured or killed.

Aloysius does not and cannot trust a single person on the island. He remembers destroying Harrow Cove and murdering everyone in the town, though he is unsure to what extent it truly happened, and he remains uncertain how many, if any, of the islanders remember that too. His fears whisper that all of them do. They may be right.

While the island and particularly the town of Harrow Cove are his, the waters off the island are a much different story. The seas around Harrow’s Rock are more haunted than they have ever been, and there is one ghost in particular that gladly torments Aloysius by his presence. Elias Merrick sails the seas around the island, and would love to welcome his old friend, should Aloysius ever attempt to leave the safety of the town and his island behind to search for his brother, his nephew, or for freedom. From the light at Lorn Point, Aloysius is convinced that Elias is trying to lure outsiders to Harrow’s Rock to destroy him, and again, he may not be wrong. But outsiders may also be the only people Aloysius could convince to seek the Dreamer’s Cave and Ezekiel.

Roleplaying Aloysius

Personality Trait: “Everyone is out to get me and mine, but not if I get them first.”

Ideal: “Nothing is more important than the protection and memory of those I love.”

Bond: “I will find and keep my family safe, by whatever means necessary.”

Flaw: “Nobody and nothing can be trusted except my family.”

Adventures in Harrow’s Rock:

Harrow’s Rock is the domain of ghost stories, cycles of vengeance, petty feuds, dreaming horrors, and oceanic terrors. It is hostile for reasons both human and otherworldly: the hatred and paranoia of a superstitious populace and a man who watched his family die and seeks to emphatically prevent any potential repeat, and the otherworldly influence of the sea, the caves, and the ‘Dreamer’, whatever the Dreamer may be. If the Dreamer is anything, and not just the frothing superstition of the islanders and the subconscious telepathic powers of some of the island’s bloodlines.

When visitors follow Lorn Point’s light through the mists, or wash up in Loney Marsh or on the rocky beach beneath Harrow Cliff, they are faced with a wild, rocky island inhabited by sullen, paranoid, mistrustful people who want to either get rid of them before they attract attention, or use them for their own ends while trying to hide their own sins in the process. Characters born on the island face nights full of foreign dreams, perhaps vague memories of a great disaster that something tells them they shouldn’t have survived, and the deep conviction that there is a dreaming force on the island that deeply loathes them.

If the characters arrived by ship, they may find that Aloysius has closed the borders and will not let them leave until they help him find Ezekiel, Ambrose, or the way to the Dreamer’s Cavern. Or until they help someone else, the Church of the Salt or the Merricks, to destroy him and end his control over the island and the borders. If they washed up unwillingly on the shore, they may seek out a ship in Harrow Cove, Loney Marsh, or among the pirates of the Wrack of the Isle in an effort to escape again, any of which may embroil them further in the machinations of the Carroways, the Merricks, the Whitmarshes, or the Church of the Salt. Perhaps they might wish to investigate the mystery of the Dreamer themselves, or help individual islanders to avoid Aloysius’ notice, destroy the Darklord, or deal with their own private feuds or hauntings. Or perhaps they might stumble across a shy, fearful genasi youth who is somehow immune to the Darklord’s dreams …

Harrow’s Rock Adventures

d8 Adventure

1 In order to be allowed to leave the domain again, a man in Harrow’s Cove named Aloysius Carroway wants the party to search Loney Marsh for his missing nephew, without broadcasting to all and sundry that the youth is missing at all.

2 Outside the Church of the Salt, a ragged figure implores the party to help her find out what has happened to a shipment of food and medicine destined for the beleaguered faithful inside the walls.

3 While sailing into Harrow’s Rock, following the ghostly light of a strange lighthouse that isn’t on any map or chart, the party’s ship was captured by a spectral vessel, whose ghostly captain demands that they find some way to lure or trap a man named Aloysius Carroway onto a vessel and out to sea to meet him.

4 Waking up bewildered and lost in Loney Marsh, the party are found by a shy young water genasi youth who will not tell them his name, and is adamant that they should leave the island immediately before his uncle realises that they’re there. At all costs, he reiterates desperately, they must avoid Harrow Cove.

5 Landing in Loney Marsh, the party are taken to meet Eurydicia Marsh, who says that of course she’ll help them off the island, if they’ll just do a few little things for her first. Make a few deliveries, to some faithful in Harrow Cove, or her dear friend Estelle on the Wrack of the Isle. A few things like that …

6 While the party attempt to buy supplies in Harrow Cove, the shopkeep’s terrified son rushes downstairs, saying that he dreamt that Mr. Carroway was very angry with him, though he didn’t know why. To the party’s surprise, the shopkeep takes this incredibly seriously, and immediately tells the son to write a letter of apology to Mr. Carroway and deliver it post haste. And to not be seen doing so.

7 Delivered by the mists to a rocky beach beneath a great cliff, the party find that the nearest town distinctly does not welcome them, calling them ‘Dreamer’s get’ and either avoiding them or blackly cursing them off the island.

8 The merchants of the town in Harrow Cove approach the party and ask them to venture further inland, to Redmarch Manor, which controls what little farmable land exists on the island. Deliveries of produce have been delayed lately, and they would be grateful if the party would find out why.

The Dreamer’s Cavern

One of the central mysteries of Harrow’s Rock, the legend of the Dreamer’s Cavern is bound up in the founding of the island, the influence and curses of the families who settled there, potentially the return of Aloysius’ brother at least once and perhaps twice, and perhaps also the origins of Aloysius’ dreaming abilities, if those were not wishful thinking once and an influence of the Dark Powers now.

Who or what the Dreamer might be, or even if there is a Dreamer at all, is something you can decide before running an adventure in Harrow’s Rock. If you choose to have the Dreamer exist and be an active influence on the island, you may wish to draw more heavily from cosmic horror influences as much as ghost stories or nautical elements. If you choose instead to have the Dreamer’s influence simply be a facet of the deeply superstitious nature of the islanders, you might draw more from gothic or psychological horror. If the party seeks an endgame for Harrow’s Rock involving the reveal of the Dreamer, you must decide what influence that will have on Aloysius, the inhabitants of the island, and the potential solution to the Darklord’s curse.

Use the table below to help decide what the Dreamer might be, or come up with your own ideas:

The Dreamer’s Nature:

d6 Nature

1 The Dreamer is an aboleth or a kraken seeking escape from a watery prison beneath the island, and attempting to manipulate visitors or islanders into seeking it out to accomplish this. Slaying it will have no effect on Aloysius or his curse.

2 The Dreamer is a star spawn emissary, the ‘Harrow’ which landed on the island so many centuries ago, and it seeks nothing more nor less than to untether everyone on the island from reality altogether, influencing their dreams, passions and perceptions to shatter their understanding of the world. Revealing its nature may cause Aloysius to question the nature of his actions and his ‘awakening’ in the Mists, but might exacerbate rather than help his curse by further damaging his senses of reality and responsibility for his own actions.

3 The Dreamer is a sleeping atropal, an unfinished, stillborn god, whose wordless, noisome dreams infect everything in its vicinity with hateful emotions. It has infected many of the oldest family bloodlines on the island with its influence, leading to odd powers and a propensity towards violence among them. Slaying it may help Aloysius regain some clarity regarding his willingness to slaughter a town to ‘save’ his nephew, or it may cause him to surrender to his ‘bloodline’ and double down on his actions.

4 The Dreamer does not and never did exist. Aloysius’ dreams were his own powers and attachment to his twin, and Ezekiel’s change of personality was simply trauma from the shipwreck and his imprisonment at the hands of Ambrose’s marid mother. Revealing this may drive Aloysius deeper into his sense of justified power and retribution, highlighting that his brother’s death really was for nothing more than superstition and only Aloysius’ own power stands between his nephew and the same fate. It may have the opposite effect on Elias Merrick.

5 The Dreamer didn’t exist before Harrow’s Rock was drawn into the Mists, but it does now, as a facet of Aloysius’ curse. It is an empty shell, a puppet of the Dark Powers, embodied in the form of Aloysius’ dead brother, Ezekiel. If Aloysius personally encounters this embodiment, he may become completely enthralled and controlled by this puppet, willing to do anything it asks to protect his ‘brother’.

6 The Dreamer is Ezekiel himself, watery and undead, bound to the Aloysius and the island after death by his unquiet death, his bond with his brother, and the oaths Aloysius took in Ezekiel’s name. His death, and the destruction wrought upon Harrow’s Rock as a result of it, echoes psychically back through time to the island’s founding, manifesting as the Dreamer’s dreams. Depending on whether this Ezekiel approves or is horrified by what his brother has done, it may influence Aloysius in either direction, towards further vengeance or redemption. Destroying this version of the Dreamer will have a very personal and dramatic effect on Aloysius.

Finding Aloysius’ Family

If characters wish to gain Aloysius’ aid and approval to leave Harrow’s Rock once more, he will almost certainly either ask or attempt to trick them into doing one or more of these three things:

Find Ambrose for him on the island, likely searching into Loney Marsh and other areas where his perception is limited.

Go to the Wrack of the Isle and seek evidence of whether Ezekiel has been seen in the waters off the island, or if the Merricks have captured, imprisoned or murdered Ambrose.

Find some way to enter the Cavern of the Dreamer in search of Ezekiel.

If the party successfully finds Ambrose and chooses to bring him to Aloysius, or finds reasonably satisfactory evidence that the Merricks at least have not seen or captured either Ezekiel or Ambrose, Aloysius will open the domain’s borders and give them a mist talisman that will grant them passage out of Harrow’s Rock. If the party chooses to seek entrance to the Dreamer’s Cavern instead, the end result of that will depend on what you have decided the nature of the Dreamer is, and what effect that will have on Aloysius.

Destroying Aloysius

If the party wishes to attempt to remove Aloysius instead, in order to leave the island or after learning more of who he is, there are several parties in Harrow’s Rock would like nothing more than to see Aloysius killed, no matter what effect that might have on the domain of Harrow’s Rock.

The Merrick family want nothing more than revenge on Aloysius for what he did to them. If the party can find some way to distract or blind Aloysius to their approach, Estelle Merrick would be more than happy to lead an invasion of Harrow Cove to cut the bastard’s head off herself. Her cousin, by contrast, the spectral Elias Merrick, would prefer if Aloysius would be tricked or bludgeoned onto a vessel and brought out to sea to meet him, that he might ‘return him to his brother’. Whether or not either of these plans would work is a matter for you to decide.

The Church of the Salt would also like Aloysius destroyed, but they firmly believe that the true evil on the island is the Dreamer, and that all of Aloysius’ powers and abilities stem from this creature. They believe that Ezekiel bore the creature’s infection to his brother, that his demon son sustained it, and that Aloysius cannot truly be killed nor the island freed unless some way is found to destroy the Dreamer’s tools, breach the Dreamer’s Cavern, and destroy the dark entity there. Their goals, therefore, surprisingly align with Aloysius’ at least in some part, in that they want the party to find Ambrose and to find some way into the Dreamer’s Cavern. The divergence lies in what they want the party to do with Ambrose and/or the Dreamer afterwards. To that end, they are perfectly happy for a party to also appear to be working for Aloysius towards those goals, as long as they are sure that the party’s final decision will turn their way.

The Townspeople of Harrow Cove, if they do remember, either partially or fully, what Aloysius once did, might be more than motivated to help destroy him also. However, they more than anyone exist under Aloysius’ direct thumb and are more at risk of drawing his dreams down upon them, so the party would have to find some way to ensure their safety and ensure that the destruction of Harrow Cove will not be repeated before the townspeople would be moved to overtly help.

If the party truly wishes to destroy, rather than attempt to redeem, Aloysius, then the main things they will need to find a way around are his psychic awareness of every stranger in the vicinity of Harrow Cove, his knowledge through his dreams of island natives with ill-intent against him, and the terror that most islanders have of acting against them when he can potentially kill, curse or grievously harm them in his dreams.

Inhabitants of the Island

Once the party has landed on Harrow’s Rock, there are several factors and factions that might complicate any mission they might have, from escape, to aiding or destroying Aloysius, to exploring any of the mysteries of the island. Harrow’s Rock is a domain of ghosts and nautical horrors, nightmares and blood feuds. Getting anywhere on this island will not be an easy task.

Eurydicia Marsh, in Loney Marsh, controls almost all of the hidden travel and smuggling on Harrow’s Rock. Any party hoping to avoid Aloysius’ notice, keep certain secrets from him, or get materials to other allies without his notice, will almost inevitably wind up seeking an audience with her. And Eurydicia is always happy to help, for a price. Nothing comes free, darlings. She is a scion of one of the four families herself, and she has ventures across the island, and echoes of old family pride, that she would like the party’s help with as well.

Rowena Redmarch, in Redmarch Manor, seems the most disconnected of the four family scions from any of the driving plots of Harrow Cove, but the fact remains that she controls all land-based food supply to everyone else on the island. If the haunting of Redmarch Manor, her family curse, or the influence of the Dreamer on her, affect the delivery of those supplies, she will rapidly become relevant once again, even to such powerhouses as Aloysius or Estelle Merrick.

Ambrose Carroway, Aloysius’ nephew, may be the one person on the island, if his father is truly dead and gone, who might have a hope of redeeming Aloysius, but that depends entirely on what has happened to Ambrose since Harrow’s Rock was swallowed by the mist. If Ambrose is still alive, he may be a captive of the Merricks, Eurydicia Marsh, the Church of the Salt, or the Dark Powers. He may have no memory of who he is or what happened to him. He may remember all too well, and want nothing to do with the man who locked him up for his own ‘protection’ and then walked off to slaughter a town. He may want to reach his uncle, but be aware that there are influences on the island, such as the Dreamer or the Dark Powers, who would make any successful intervention difficult at best. He may simply be too traumatised and afraid to know what he wants to do without a little help and guidance.

Ambrose’s mother, if she (/it/they) was not the Dreamer and if she has access to or was trapped within the mists, might also wish to intervene on the island, for either Ambrose or Ezekiel’s sake. Or she might firmly respect Aloysius for his response to Harrow Cove, and wish to support him. She may also have been the force which sank Elias Merrick’s ship and killed him, all those years ago.

Feuds and horrors. The inhabitants of Harrow’s Rock tend towards the sullen, the superstitious and the bloody-minded. The party might encounter any number of hauntings, ghost stories, petty feuds or bloody murders simply by nature of the environment on Harrow’s Rock and the kind of people that inhabit it. Undead and aquatic monsters are common on the island and around it, and if the Dreamer’s influence is more real than not, also psychic influences, aberrations and madness. Even those islanders who want to help or be helped might not show it readily, for fear of Aloysius, the Dreamer, or just an islander mistrust of outsiders.

#d&d #homebrew #van richten's guide to ravenloft #domains of dread #long post #cosmic horror #lovecraftian #maritime horror #ghosts #feuds #i had too much fun with this #and yes it is based on that dream I had one time

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theoraclesattic · 3 years

Text

random headcanons

- annabeth and grover would go on walks through camp in the pre-percy days

- reyna and jason would drink hot chocolate and dream about traveling to rome and they would talk about their siblings

- leo went to hazel and asked her about his grandfather and they bonded over sammy

- frank confided in reyna when they were praetors

- reyna considered joining the amazons before joining the hunters

- percy takes estelle to central park all the time

- he also takes her to the zoo and the aquarium and he tells the fish to show off for her

- piper competed in the us open for surfing and placed one year, but she cant surf anymore after jason’s death

- she also talks to her cabin mates and learns about silena, ends up becoming close w clarisse because she reminds her of silena

- will and annabeth are best buds

- will and nico go on a trip to meet wills mom and its the cutest thing ever

- apollo visits the camps regularly and takes meg with him so she can see her friends and family

- piper and reyna and meg bond

- annabeth and percy and magnus and alex have double dates when they’re in town

- speaking of, annabeth and percy always make an effort to see magnus at least a few times a year

- they also travel between camps periodically

- all of the seven briefly considered rioting against the gods after they learned of jasons death

- nico catches glimpses of jason in elysium every once in a while

- grover tried to convince juniper to get a dog

- katie and travis go to college together and are this close to getting engaged

- percy plans on proposing to annabeth the day they graduate from college

#these are so random #heroes of olympus #percy jackon and the olympians #jason grace #leo valdez #piper mclean #hazel levesque #frank zhang #percy jackson #annabeth chase #reyna avila ramirez arellano #grover underwood #magnus chase and the gods of asgard #trials of apollo #riordanverse #rick riordan

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arofili · 4 years

Note

For the prompts: 41 with kidnap dads?

(Also requested by @ilya-boltagon!)

41. Meeting the Family of Origin

Elrond wanted to plan for this. He wanted to have several days to spend with each of his parents, talking them through this meeting, reassuring them that it would be alright, that they weren’t monstrous or uncaring, that he had put just as much work into his relationship with that one parent as he did all the others, that he loved all of them. It would be tense, and he didn’t expect them to become one big happy family, even after all these long ages, but...he hoped it would be the beginning of some understanding. Some softening of hearts, some hope for the future.

Unfortunately, it seemed that was not going to be the case.

Maedhros’ return from the Halls of Mandos, last of all his brothers to be free in Aman, was a quiet affair. Well, as quiet an affair as it could be with six brothers, his mother, Huan, his husband and father-in-law, and lastly Elrond himself in attendance. But it was no grand event like Fingon had described his own release to be, and the celebrations were mostly kept to a minimum when Maedhros himself expressed a fervent desire to be alone with Fingon for a few days. Or years.

Elrond, who had wanted much the same thing when he had at last reunited with Celebrían, could hardly blame him. And even when Maedhros and Fingon were at last open to receiving visitors, he waited awhile to call on them.

But though the readjustment was slow—nearly as slow as Maglor’s reintroduction to society, in fact��it did at last happen. Except, just when Elrond was beginning to entertain the notion of reconciling his foster fathers with his birth parents (which would, hopefully, be made easier since Fingon had made every effort to befriend his great-nephew Eärendil), those two separate parts of his life crashed together unexpectedly.

Elrond and Celebrían were having Maedhros, Fingon, Maglor, and Maglor’s wife Ezellë over for dinner when a knock came at the door. Elladan, not knowing any better (or, not knowing how to turn his grandparents away), let the surprise visitors in—and Elrond’s heart sank as he watched the smile freeze on Eärendil’s face and morph into a scowl on Elwing’s.

“Please,” Elrond said, rising to his feet and ushering this third set of parents into his dining room before he could panic, “come in! You are more than welcome to join us.”

“Are they,” Maedhros said stiffly. Fingon grasped his arm. Maglor looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. Ezellë smiled winningly to Elwing, the only other elleth in the room (Celebrían had vanished with Elladan and Elrohir, her irritation prickling across their marriage bond, though Elrond knew she was more anxious than truly upset).

“We can come back another time,” Eärendil said, still smiling, though his eyes were cold.

“I insist,” Elrond insisted against his better judgement.

Celebrían reappeared, embracing her mother-in-law (whom she knew much better than Elrond did) and pulling up new chairs for the new guests. The frosty mood thawed a bit, and Elrond allowed himself to relax, just a little.

Too soon.

“So,” Fingon said, valiantly attempting to begin an amiable conversation, “who’s sailing Gil-Estel tonight?”

“I do get some nights off,” Eärendil said, pointedly not looking at Fingon’s board-stiff husband. “And more of them, these days, now that my son is returned to me.”

Maglor flinched at the word “returned.” Elrond did not blame him.

“More of them now that there are less elves in Middle-earth,” Elrond offered. “Not many Men recognize the star for what it is, anymore.”

There was an awkward silence.

Celebrían asked Ezellë to pass the bowl of cantaloupe, and offered some to Elwing. She accepted, glaring at Maglor all the while.

“So,” attempted Maedhros, staring into his half-eaten chicken. “Elrond. Has your brother written to you recently?” He grimaced, immediately realizing that was a bad question to ask.

“His brother?” Elwing snapped, turning her icy stare from Maglor to Maedhros. “The one who passed beyond Arda, without visiting his mother first?” Her eyes darted furiously between Maglor and Maedhros, as if Elros’ Choice had somehow been their fault.

“Ereinion sent me a letter a fortnight ago, before he went hunting with Uncle Tyelkormo,” Elrond said, trying and failing to get back to safer waters.

“Uncle...” Eärendil muttered.

“Ereinion is his brother through Russandol and I,” Fingon said lightly. “They were there for each other after...the rest of us were all...lost.”

“The herald position was mostly for formality,” Celebrían added.

Another silence. Then:

“Are we really going to do this?” demanded Elwing. “Sit here and pretend everything is fine, that we don’t all hate each other?”

“Naneth,” Elrond said weakly, but she ignored him.

“I don’t hate you,” Maglor mumbled.

“I do,” Maedhros growled, eyes sparking, and Elrond’s heart broke a little. “Certainly I will admit our wrongdoings at Sirion, but that was Ages ago, and Maglor and I have paid dearly for those crimes—but you have not, for abandoning your sons to us you view as ‘monsters’—”

The table erupted into chaos. Ezellë excused herself as everyone else argued, Elrond and Celebrían trying in vain to calm them down. Somehow Maedhros and Maglor turned on each other while Fingon pleaded for understanding with Eärendil and Elwing insulted everyone including her husband.

Elrond came near to tears trying to settle things between before it turned into a food fight or a Fifth Kinslaying, and he was about to call the whole disastrous dinner off when—

An ear-splitting horn blast caused everyone to jump and turn toward the noise. Ezellë lowered the trumpet, handing it back to Elrohir with a murmur of thanks, and she raised her eyebrows.

“I believe I am the eldest here, surpassing even Maitimo by a year, not counting the complications of rebirth which I was not subjected to,” she said smoothly, “which gives me every right to call the lot of you children.”

They all bowed their heads in shame.

“Not you, Elrond, Celebrían,” she added as an afterthought. “But the rest of you...please. This is like Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë at their...not their worst, but only because that was nearly as bad as the incident that started this whole feud.” She turned to Elrond. “Elerondo. Yonya. Let now the child scold his parents! I am sure you have much to say.”

He shook his head. “Well, yes and no. This is...not the family dinner with my many parents that I had hoped for, but I cannot say I am surprised.” He smiled with no small amount of resignation. “But I love you all, and I know you argue because you love me also.”

“I would say ‘from the mouths of babes,’ but you have been alive much longer than I,” Fingon said wryly. “I apologize, Elrond; we truly have been childish.”

You weren’t the problem, Elrond thought, but Fingon’s apology spurred Maedhros’, and by the end even Elwing sighed and admitted she shouldn’t have shouted— “Though I still think we should not ignore all that has passed.”

“Next time let’s plan an evening like this,” Celebrían said firmly as their guests filed out. “Because there will be a next time.”

“I look forward to it?” Eärendil said, a little nervously.

At last they were all gone, and Elrond sighed, letting himself lean into his wife’s arms.

“That could’ve been better,” he murmured.

Celebrían opened his mouth, but he kissed her before she could speak.

“It could have been a lot worse, too, I know,” Elrond added. “Thank you for taking this all in stride, melindë.”

She smiled into their kiss. “I knew things were complicated when I married you—and to be honest, meleth-nîn, I’ve been preparing for something like this since I recovered and met Elwing and Nerdanel.” She giggled. “At least my parents weren’t here, or the Second Kinslaying and the hair incident might’ve come up, not to mention—”

Elrond laughed. “Your mother is as intimidating as half my fathers combined,” he joked. “Just be grateful that you did not have to ask any of them for my hand!”

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adamantiumdragonfly · 3 years

Text

No Ordinary Time: Part Two “wherever you are tonight”

"...A time when the United States is what we fight for..."

The occupants of the Grisham Hall boarding house were no strangers to the war effort. Brothers, cousins, old flames, and current sweethearts have been wrenched from their grasp, the only contact to their stolen loved ones is military-grade pencils and scraps of paper.

Estelle prides herself on her mind for numbers but a usurper from her past rears his russet head and threatens to steal her thoughts every chance he gets. Bessie has been searching for a home in every patron in that cafe but she's left seeing his face everywhere she looks. Constance hears her lover's voice on the wind, finding quiet in the graveyard shift of the machine shop. Margaret refuses to admit defeat but the distance between her letters and her love grows wider each day. Jeannette has read many stories about tragic heroes. Her childhood friend has told tales of his plans for wealth and ending the war on his own. She just hopes she has a chance to do her part first.

wherever you are tonight

Taglist: @rinadoesstuff @vintagelavenderskies @julianneday1701 @wexhappyxfew @trashgoddess600 @pilindieltheelf @sunnyshifty @rogue-sunday @thoughpoppiesblow @pxpeyewynn @50svibes

Norfolk, VA. 4th of April, 1944.

While some found the adjustment to loved ones being taken from their grasp rocky, Elizabeth Ferguson had the advantage that only a select few possessed. She had already lived through it, making the sting nothing but a fond memory. It didn’t stop stinging though, no matter how many times one felt it. A dull ache would be a more appropriate term, the bruised flesh tender, and the black discoloration fading but the strain of muscles didn’t let the memory fade entirely. It was enough to make a first-timer bedridden for a week but to a repeat offender like Elizabeth, it was a mild discomfort. She had said goodbye before and did her best not to, when given the chance.

She held onto forlorn books, ragged quilts, and threadbare shirts to keep the end at bay, trying to prevent the inevitable ache. Elizabeth tried her best to limp about when the goodbyes were unavoidable. That could be said of everything she attempted. Bessie was a trier, an all-around trier and failer. She didn’t have a wall of degrees like Estelle or a self-assured flick to her head like Vera. She was just Bessie Ferguson, who had clattered and crashed her way through twenty-one years of life. Not that she hadn’t attempted school (she wasn’t the best student) and not that she hadn’t attempted to walk with the confidence that her theatrical friend possessed (it ended in a twisted ankle and a scraped-up knee) but by god, she tried.

She liked to think that her determination was her best attribute, right up there with the dimple on her left cheek that had gotten her more than her fair share of tips when she had been employed at Charlie’s. The real Charlie had said she was one of his best workers and his gruff voice in her head still brought a smile to her lips, bringing out the money-winning dimple.

Even when goodbyes were said, Bess found ways to hold onto the people or things. She still frequented her old place of work long after she was employed in the noble service of her country. Every Friday, like clockwork, she was in the second to last booth, the red vinyl striking against the blue of her uniform.

I look like the American flag, Bess thought, examining herself in the reflection on the glass of the window. Red booths, white mugs, and a blue uniform. How was that for patriotic?

She looked different, hair sleek and uniform pressed. Was this really Bessie Ferguson who knew every waitress and cook’s name in Charlie’s Diner? Or was Bessie older now, with the WAVES blue wool on her shoulder, finer and warmer than anything she had owned in her twenty-one years. 1941 seemed like a century ago, not three years.

“Hiya, Bess,” Angie was still there, her bouffant of pin curls still perched precariously on her brow. “You got a letter from your boy, I see,”

Bess came in every Friday, with a new letter or to write her own. The grease-stained walls had brought her luck and good memories. She thought that she could imbue them into the stationary, sending them across the ocean to him.

“Yup,” Bessie said, smiling.

“About damn time,”

She had been sat without a letter for some two weeks now. The patrons and the staff of Charlie’s had been concerned, fretting more than Bessie had herself.

“He was a dear thing, that Powers boy,” Angie said, tucking her pad back into the apron Bess was all too familiar with. There was no need to take her order, Bess ordered the same thing every time. “Two sugars, right?”

No matter how tenderly she tried, the bruise was liable to be bumped or brushed. She tried not to wince at the words.

“I saved you a seat,” He would say, even though she was working. He knew full well she shouldn’t sit during her shift but he would say it anyway and she could never say no, either. His smile had seared itself into her mind, a soft glow that warmed her better than any cup of coffee ever did. He would pour her a cup anyway, from the pot she had brought to refill his own mug. “Two sugars, right?”

That had been before rationing. That had been before the war had been set to boil when it was brewing like the dark roast that soaked every inch of this diner. It had been percolating, slowly dripping and staining their country. He had been a machinist at the shipyard’s graveyard shift and she had been a waitress at his favorite diner, that served coffee with “the prettiest smile I ever saw”. It had been a romance sweeter than any baked good in the case and more poetic than Jeannette’s Shakespeare.

She had been a different person then, just a little girl in her third house in three years. Bessie hadn’t known Mrs. Grisham’s motherly touch or the soft smile of her beau. Bessie had only known how to try and try she did.

the ‘30s hadn’t treated Bessie’s family well but she knew they weren’t special in that aspect. The world had been gripped by the choking thorns of financial strain and the vines had pulled the last strains of life out of her parents. When her father had died, Bessie had thought things would be okay. The farm she had grown up on and the family she had been surrounded with was invincible, or so she had thought. She would grow up under the bows of that oak tree that towered in the yard, swatting the swarms of yellow flies and raking up the leaves in the fall. It was her home.

But Bessie watched her family home disappear from view in the backseat of a second cousin’s car, eight years old and she had never seen her new home before. Her oldest brother, Arthur, was sent some twenty miles to the west, only twelve, to provide labor to yet another distant relative’s floundering farm. Eight years old and Bessie would never see home again.

Elizabeth Ferguson hadn’t been raised to admit defeat. As the Depression stretched on and her bags were packed and unpacked, Bessie kept trying. She made her peace with every attempt, trying hard to be useful, helpful, and liked. Her name provided a blank slate, quickly covered in her current caretaker’s preferred nickname. Elizabeth. Beth. Bess. Bessie. Lizzie. Liz. Eliza. She answered to them all and she didn’t mind, truly she didn’t. She would try her best to be what that family wanted, what that home demanded but she’d end up with the suitcase in her hand and a new route to a new home.

Elizabeth had parted ways with the last relative, the last attempt at home, at the age of eighteen. April had dawned cold that year, 1941. She had found employment with the sticky floors and chrome edgings of Charlie’s, turning up on the Grisham’s doorstep. It had been Carrie, Vera, and Estelle back then. Before the war.

Before the war. She worked hard, shoes wearing thin and bones aching when her head hit the pillows. Elizabeth had worked hard and tried to cling to what she had left, the friends she had gained, and the home she had made. Maybe if she clung to them, the one god thing wouldn’t slide away from her, finding a home in some other harbor.

She hadn’t been looking for him or anyone and yet, they had found each other. Drawn towards each other, blending and blurring in watercolor of perfection. Maybe the best pieces of art were the ones that weren’t intended.

“Has anyone seen to you two?” She had asked, whirling around on the slick tiled floor. They were a grease-stained pair, smelling of oil and sleepless nights like every machinist who crossed the line from Portsmouth for a cup of coffee after work.

“No, ma’am,” The tallest, a thin, rake of a boy who didn’t seem much older than Bessie said. His voice was soft, not loud and course like the usual Shipyard folk. “We are fine to sit for a spell-”

“Nonsense,” Elizabeth shifted the bus bucket of dirty dishes to her hip, bracing it with her arm so she could retrieve the pad and pen from her pocket. “What can I get you two?”

“Ma’am, do you need a hand?” The soft-spoken one made to reach for the bucket but Bessie raised a hand to stop him.

“It’s not heavy. I’m stronger than I look.” She smiled. “Now what can I get you two?”

Faces came and went in that little diner on the corner of College and Duke, there were the regulars and there were the strangers. Elizabeth had treated them all the same, a bright smile and a warm plate. It was the least she could do and she knew what it was to need a smile from a stranger or two. These two machinists weren’t the only blue collars who sat in the vinyl booths but she fought to keep her eyes on the paper and not straying towards the one who offered her help. The orders were taken and the niceties exchanged, Bess turned on her heel, biting her lip to keep from grinning.

As she marched towards the kitchen, his companion jabbed and teased, the blush creeping up the soft-spoken boy’s face, settling into his hairline. She

These two machinists quickly became regulars, coming back every Friday. Small talk was made and a rough sketch of their characters was established. Elizabeth had never been one to chase but it seemed the work was being done for her. Mr. Wynn and Mr. Powers returned week after week. As the months dragged by and April came and went, Mr. Powers would linger.

“Where are you from, Mr. Powers?”

“Clincho, ma’am,”

“I’ve got family out that way,” Elizabeth had said. “How long you been in the area?”

“I’ve been in Portsmouth for about a year now, I reckon,”

“I’ve an aunt in Portsmouth. Over on Bains Creek,”

“Where don’t you have family, ma’am?’

“The moon,”

He had smiled, bright and warm. Elizabeth felt like she had taken a warm cup of coffee and held it tight to her chest, fingers warming on the ceramic. The dimple on her left cheek appeared in response.

“It’s Elizabeth,” She said. “Elizabeth Ferguson.”

“Darrell Powers,”

Elizabeth had never thought that sharing a smile could be something so special. She had smiled at hundreds of patrons, offering a grin here and there until the muscles in her face hurt, all for a few extra quarters thrown on the table. Elizabeth had never expected a tip from Mr. Powers, or Shifty, as he said the boys called him. Mr. Powers, he remained to her, even on their tentative agreement to a show at the cinema on some Friday night. Mr. Powers, he would be, until he walked her home from her shift, offering her his jacket in the rainstorm that sent them racing towards the nearest porch. There, standing on a stranger’s porch, in the April rainshower, Elizabeth wrapped his jacket tighter around her disheveled uniform, breathing in the smell of cigarette smoke and oil. There, the rain beating down around them and his hair slick against his blushing face, he asked her if he could call her Elizabeth.

“Liz, Bess, I don’t care,” She said.

“Which do you like better, ma’am?”

“My brother used to call me Lizzie,” She admitted.

His eyes studied her like she was some fine painting he had spent hours perfecting and the name on his lips was the signature at the bottom, declaring the work as his. The colors could run and the ink would fade but Elizabeth Ferguson would cling to that coat in its smokey comfort. She had worn it as the rain had lightened up enough to begin their route to the Grisham front door. She wore it on the front porch and burrowed her hot face into the leather as Vera pounced on her, pounding her with questions and squeals.

Elizabeth Ferguson knew what it was to lose thing but Lizzie was willing to try and hold onto this boy as tight as she could. Lizzie was going to try her damn near hardest. This boy with his soft words and bright smile would be taken from her kicking and screaming. She allowed herself to be lulled into a sense of security, taking the two sugars in her coffee and his offered hand too. Lizzie was all bright paints and newly sharpened pencils and Shifty Powers was all steady hands and fresh paper, the perfect medium for this new home Lizzie dared dream of. She was ready to start something new, something untouched by the inevitable goodbyes.

Then the bubbling brew of Europe had overflowed into the spitting flames. Steam rose and Pear Harbor shattered like a ceramic mug on hard tiled floors. Vera left, caught up in the theatrics of secrets and intelligence and Carrie joined up, bringing her soft words and soothing hands to the wounded. Estelle left her school and allowed her talented mind to be lent to the Navy, putting together pieces of puzzles and breaking codes like they were the Sunday crossword. Lizzie wasn’t brave or smart or soft like her friends. Elizabeth Ferguson was a stumbling, bumbling trier and she grasped for the remaining pieces of that home she had searched for. She had spent years searching for family in the faces of strangers, reaching for that oak tree and rope swing in houses that would never be her home and she wasn’t about to lose it. Not to war, not to an Army, and most definitely not now.

“Don’t worry about me,” he had said, gripping her hands in his own calloused ones. He had volunteered, given himself up willingly. Lizzie could have screamed. The Airborne had terrified her, the planes and the silk chutes were terrifying. Their kiss on the Grisham Hall’s front porch had tasted like possibility and tears. He left for Georgia that morning, leaving her in Norfolk with only a pen and an empty hand.

She had told him she wouldn’t if he promised not to worry about her. She had tried not to be worried but maybe he had every reason to be worried about her.

“Bess?” Angie said again, snapping her fingers. “You good, sugar?”

“Yes, sorry,” Elizabeth said, smiling sheepishly. This diner could pull her back when she didn’t have a thought for the present.

Angie shook her head. “Baby, I think they are working you too hard over there,”

“There” was the mailroom on base. “They” were the WAVES, summoning Bess to their cause. She had joined up in April of ‘43. He had been gone for a week and Bess couldn’t stare at the booth where he had once sat for hours. She didn’t mind the work, and she told Angie so. Being surrounded by all those letters and being the reason soldiers and families heard from their loved ones was the only thing that kept Elizabeth sane. She could try and offer some peace to the fellow fretting wives and friends who longed for a letter, a word, or even a telegram that told them that he was safe.

Angie wandered back to the counter, Elizabeth’s order safely scribbled in the confines of her mind, leaving her with her thoughts and her pen. Staring at the traffic that passed outside the window, her fingers gripped the pen, sketching out the twist of his head and the twinkle of his eyes as she remembered it. As his face burned into her mind.

She didn’t draw him as often as she wanted to. Elizabeth’s sketchpads were filled with the same sketches over and over, page after page, burned into her memory. She didn’t have to look at a reference anymore, the oak trees and the slopes of the house never changed. The smiling faces and the bright eyes as she remembered them didn’t shift. Every so often, a new face would grace the pages but that wasn’t a usual occurrence and was a great honor when a stranger or new face caught her attention. Flipping through the sketchpad, Elizabeth saw his face etched into the pages. She only put pen to paper and chronicled his features on the days she missed him the most. He haunted her more than she drew, hours spent with her finger on the desk tracing out his smile.

“They said you’d be here,” Jeannette Edwards stumbled through the door, arms full of books as she slid into the seat across from Bess. In the few weeks that Jeannette had lived in Grisham Hall, she had slowly acclimated herself to the Norfolk streets.

“Jeannie,” Bess smiled, closing her sketchpad. “Estelle still working?”

Jeannette nodded. “She said to meet you here and that we’d take the bus home.”

Bess folded her letter, sliding her belongings to the side so that Angie could place her order on the sticky tabletop. The mug of coffee, two sugars carefully rationed and dissolved, and the apple pie. Offering Jeannette the fork, she encouraged her to take a bite. Bess was passionate about oil pastels and pastries, making it her mission in life to share those passions with her friends. When a pie or a drawing was offered, Bess’s trust soon followed.

“Why do you rank pie, if you don’t mind me asking?” Jeannette asked, using the side of the fork to cut a piece off of the wedge of glistening golden pie.

“Every home is the same but the apple pie is different everywhere you go.” Bess explained.“Mrs. G’s is third best, this is the second-best apple pie.”

“Who is the first place?”

“Mine,” Bess smiled.

“You are multi-talented then,” Jeannette said around the mouthful of second-best pie, dipping her head towards the sketchbook she had abandoned.

“I just doodled,” Bess shook her head but she offered the book to Jeannette all the same. Watching her thumb through the pages, Bess’s heart was wedged firmly in her throat, not daring to hope for any kind words or critique.

“These are beautiful,” Jeannette said, her fingers tracing the lines that intricate leaves that had first taken hours and now took a matter of minutes. “Where is it?”

“That’s my family’s farm.”

“You must visit often to sketch it so much,” Jeannette said.

Bess smiled, taking the sketchpad back and tucking it into her bag. Reaching for the cup of coffee, she stared into its dark depths. Maybe Jeannette knew the words to describe how she felt. Jeannette was better at words than Elizabeth.

“It’s hard to forget,” She admitted.

A knock on the window beside their booth made both women jump, the fork clattering on the shared pie plate. Estelle’s face pressed against the window as she beckoned them out, her lipstick faded after the long day hunched over the papers and codes. Estelle Tran was rarely seen with a hair out of place, much less with her signature red lipstick anything but striking against her pale skin. Bess insisted she looked like a real version of Snow White, something that Estelle had always shake her head at. Disney’s princess hadn’t been college-educated, she reminded them.

Bess dropped the money on the table and gathered up her purse and hat, waving goodbye with her fistful of gloves to the cooks and the regulars who still knew her name.

“See you next Friday, Bess,” Angie called as the door swung shut behind them.

“How was work, Stell?” Elizabeth asked, looping her arm through her friend’s as she tugged the gloves over her graphite-smudged hands.

“Heinous,”

The disheveled appearance of the usually put-together Estelle was indication enough. Bessie nodded.

“Let’s go home,” she said.

It was, in moments such as this, when rest is most needed that the world decides to test you.

The bus pulled up to its spot, just as it always did. It was a route that Bess was familiar with, a routine that she welcomed. Fridays were spent at the diner until Estelle got off of work. They would then walk home or, if particularly exhausted, take the bus. Bessie hopped inside without hesitation, ready to sit in a seat and watch the world pass by while she finished the letter she had drafted in her mind. The bus driver, a new face, said nothing as she entered. But, on the days when rest is most needed, inconvenience is the Devil’s worst weapon.

“We don’t let your people on,” The bus driver said, the passengers peering over the edge of the nest, not daring to disagree.

“I beg your pardon?” Bess looked back, seeing that he was not referring to her in her American blue uniform but Estelle. Dear Estelle with her features nothing like the usual faces of Norfolk, Virginia.

Jeannette’s mouth hung wide and Estelle froze, foot perched on the step. Her face fell and Bessie could almost hear it shatter on the pavement. The Grisham girls had been informed that Estelle’s family hailed from the Indochina islands in the Pacific and had been in America since Teddy Roosevelt’s days. She was most ardently NOT the enemy. Mrs. Grisham would sniff indignantly at such a mention and Vera, before she had left, had been known to glower at anyone who dared say such a “fucking disgusting thing”.

Bessie stepped forward, ready to give the man the facts but a hand encircled her arm, pulling her out of the bus and back on the pavement before the doors swung open. Swearing so loudly and vehemently that Mrs. Grisham would have been sent to an early grave, Bessie aimed a kick at the tire of the bus before it sped off, sans three passengers.

“It’s fine,” Estelle said.

“You aren’t Japanese!” Elizabeth growled, her shoes stomping on the pavement. Bess was a trier and she was a fighter. She was ready to try fighting for Estelle, even if that meant throwing a fist at this burly bus driver.

“It’s fine, Bess,” Estelle said.

“That was a despicable thing to do,” Jeannette fumed.

“Let’s just go home,” Estelle muttered, squashing her hat more firmly over her brow and leading the way down the street.

What good was it, Bessie grumbled to herself as she followed Estelle, to serve your country when you were still considered the enemy?

Estelle worked harder than any man and she had been working hard for many years. She had been a teacher and now fiddled with codes that boggled even the male mind. And yet, she was only seen as the enemy. Estelle Tran, by seniority or by necessity, had taken the unofficial role of den mother among the women of Grisham Hall. On the third floor, nothing went on without Estelle knowing. She guarded the girls like they were her own, a grim mother hen who warded off broken hearts and bruised feelings with wise words and her own experience. Bessie loved Estelle like she was a sister and she would have gladly punched that bus driver if she wasn’t wearing the uniform of the US WAVES. Women’s work in the war was precarious enough as it was.

Elizabeth didn’t say a word, as she slipped her hand into Estelle’s, gripping it tightly as they marched through the streets of Norfolk, their heads held as high as they could manage. She knew she couldn’t fight to change every mind or man in this country but Bessie Ferguson was a trier, through and through. Home may not have looked like that oak tree or the face she had sketched so often but she’d hold onto it as long as she could.

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