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beastsars · 4 years

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idiomatic | louis (beastars) x carnivore!reader

i wont promise that i’m over this trope, but i think i have fed myself enough to focus on other avenues. a few people sent in some legoshi stuff so that’s my next wip. keep them coming.

as usual, more mature content below. some fun times at the masquerade party.

“and what, pray tell, am i to do about these antlers?”

pursing your lips, you gave the stout head ornaments an accusatory look. those with distinctive marking and other decorative characteristics often had the hardest time concealing their species. it was easy enough to distinguish between herbivore and carnivore but the fun was found in simply not caring.

if your target audience put in enough effort to disguise themselves.

parties like these broke both social and sexual boundaries, allowing people to lose inhibition and act on their baser selves. before you met louis, such environments frequently occupied your time off campus. it helped to stimulate your attraction to the opposite dynamic and eventually bribe your courage to seek out a suitable partner.

bringing him here was symbolic of returning to your roots. it would also show him that he wasn’t alone in his affections. not that the sentiment didn’t already hit close to home.

“too bad you’re not about to shed them,” you comment offhandedly, rightfully earning a sharp look of ire. chuffing at the display of pride, you vowed to yourself that you would show the male exactly what such strict dignity led him to lose out on.

patting his muzzle with unveiled condescension, you managed to slip away from his agitated grasp. the deer continued to gripe and moan while you fitted yourself into a choice dress for the evening and prowled the selection of shoes. honestly, the way pursuing beastar felt at ease displaying the less ideal parts of his personality would be endearing if it didn’t possess so much whining.

it hardly mattered. you would give him something else to occupy his attention.

catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, you offered the image a self-appreciating wink before stepping out of the closet, one leg protruding ahead of you to show off your finely fitted heels.

“tell me, if i was a herbivore, would you still beg me to bite you?”

the curve of your buttock marked the cut off point of your dress, leaving little to the imagination as the rest of the material hugged your form. this clothing style opted without the aperture to fit a tail, allowing the appendage to swing idly from beneath the depths. it often incited others to perk your mood if only for a brief show.

louis has obviously seen you in less, but the presentation was too pungent with erotic intentions for him to remember anything else. grinning, you permitted his hands to edge the hem of your dress, warm palms marking promises against your thighs.

“and what exactly do you plan to be tonight?” he drawled slowly.

you knew that look. the one that was going to quickly get you out of this dress if you didn’t corral him into his own suit for the night.

pressing a chaste kiss to his nose, you nudged him towards the closet.

“i guess you’ll have to find out.”

you opted to rent out a mask for the evening. this way you could keep your choice hidden for a few moments longer and ideally find something fresh to attend the party in. you had a nice selection at home, but you’d cycled through them enough that somebody would approach you out of familiarity.

upon arriving, you had put louis in the good hands of friends who helpfully escorted him out of your sight and into his own fitting room. but not without complaint as his sputtering curses trailed down the hall.

“he’s a cutie. he yours?”

offering a noncommittal shrug, you settled on a thinner, less intricate mask for the evening. your dress was inviting and memorable enough. in a place like this, it was hard to tell who would challenge a pair.

at the clink of glass against the table, you efficiently down the alcohol and reached for the bottle to chase the burn. sexual prowess aside, you possessed enough restraint to cater accordingly to the opposite disposition. it was more for the eased minds than anything else.

“you’ll have your hands full keeping females and males alike off of him. he’s a built boy. anyone would love to see what he’s packing,” there was a tease to the voice but desire had a place too. you doubted it would take long for subtlety to be washed out. proprietary didn’t exactly have a place here.

polishing off the rest your your drink, you made an effort to pat down any remaining wrinkles before donning your mask. “well, i better get to him quickly then.”

“it’s rather delicate. made of papier mache ,i think. do be careful, it’s borrowed.”

his words of warning were no match for your inquisitive touch, however, as you stretched up against his body to prod against the medium surrounding his antlers.

they’d fashioned him as a moose of all things.

you didn’t know how you hadn’t thought of it. but truly, it was the of the few options available to at least conceal his dominant species. without the stench of alcohol anyone would know he was a herbivore, but at least this way he would abide by the base rules.

the covering of his antlers was more of an addition than part of the mask. the inner workings using his antlers as a statue to hang the camouflage over. it was rather convincing.

when the costume creaked threateningly at your touch, louis’ hand shot up to snag your wrist.

“i said it’s fragile,” he insisted.

the hiss of his voice encouraged your gaze to drop to his mask to give it it’s own appreciation. it was certainly wider than his own face, marginally longer too, to account for the massive beast he was portraying. coupled with his slim but muscled body, even beneath the suit, he was likely to garner some provocative attention. it was a shame you had to break some many hearts openly tonight.

humming an octave lower than your usual voice, you pressed yourself against the male with your arms around his waist. chin propped against his chest, you offered a cheeky grin.

“so what do you think?”

forced to enter from the back due to his identifiable features, he’d wasn’t awarded to opportunity to take in the scenery. the night was young and tame as most of the individuals simply mingled and broke ice. you wondered how long it would take for habits to surface.

“it seems like any other social event,” he muttered distractedly. he was likely trying the mundane task of attempting to unveil species from beneath their masks. everyone fell privy to the game sooner or later.

louis palmed at your side,” more importantly, why do you smell so strongly of intoxication.”

“trade off of being a carnivore, unfortunately. herbivores feel safest when we’re too drunk off our asses to pull rank.” rising to toes you spoke with conspiracy in his ear while your free hand trailed down his midline. “personally, i think they just want to take advantage.”

the male didn’t take too kindly to being groped in public, quickly seizing your other hand as he hissed. “it seems they're not the only ones.”

unable to resist laughing, you let him have the control while it lasted. “baby, you have no idea.”

despite your best efforts, more than a few figures approached you in greeting. without the pleasantries of names, most of the conversation was geared towards speculative tastes and pillars of society. already trained in the practice small talk, louis led more of the conversation than he followed. his strong nature captured a majority of the attention anyway with his passionate disposition towards the arts.

sipping idly at something fruity, you leaned comfortably into his arm as your gaze wandered the party. as the night wore on, it was beginning to grow as more individuals showed up fashionably late. the amount of alcohol had doubled to accommodate as more trays made rounds. they naturally gravitated towards the carnivores more, no one ever having to reach more than an arms length for a glass.

louis laughed earnestly next to you, the pads of his fingers tracing odd shapes on your back as he transitioned smoothly into another topic. he seemed to be handling it all much better than you expected but the real festivities had hardly begun.

the moment the conversation began to veer towards the more illicit ventures of business, you politely excused yourselves to a less occupied corner of the room. dragging louis down by your grip at his elbow, you fell back eagerly into the plush couches.

“you seem to be enjoying yourself at least,” you mentioned as you leaned down to massage the muscle above the cut of your heel. your departure had a dual purpose as you really just need a moment off your feet. as exquisite as your shoes were, they rarely offered much comfort.

you hadn’t even realized that louis hadn’t even acknowledged your response as you switched to the other foot and ultimately debated taking them off while you rested. it certainly wouldn’t be the most unsightly proposition. eyes sliding shut, you leaned back again. maybe a few more drinks would change your mind about your less than ideal clothing choices.

at the sudden tension of muscle beneath you, your gaze snapped open to assess the problem.

“are they?”

from his broken articulation alone, you had an inclination of what was transpiring. you were wondering how long it would take.

humming delightfully from your position curled up against him, you followed his gaze across the room to a pair who decided to take initiative to properly get the get together started. clothing strewn this way and that, the left nothing to the imagination as they rutted against one another.

louis shuddered as your claw teased the fastens of his suit jacket but you didn’t go as far to pry the button from its place. in a situation like this, he was no better than a virgin and likely as easily frightened if approached wrong. not that it would stop you from proding.

“lou, you feel so warm. are you embarrassed?”

unable to help himself, the stag stuttered in his speech.” they’re practically mating in public.”

“ are mating in public,” you chided unhelpfully.

this was nothing new for you to partake in. with each new realization from louis as he experienced your world with naive eyes, it made you head buzz from the thrill of it all. you leaned away from him long enough to snag a floating flute from the hovering attendant. it wasn’t as strong as what you’d knocked down prior but hopefully it would be enough to ease some of the tension from his shoulders.

nibbling at the exposed tuffs of his ears, you prompted him to drink. seemingly grateful for the distraction the male downed the champagne without a second thought.

he really was such a bundle of nerves.

ignoring his startled grapple at your sides, you lifted a leg over his lap and settled on top of him. your body didn’t offer much of a shield, but your weight was enough of a diversion.

by partaking in the drink, he’d solved the mystery of where the mouthpiece of his mask for you. with confidence, you were able to tilt up his head and slot your mouths together. he resists at first, the protest only give you the opening to slide your tongue between his lips.

you moan eagerly and vocally, utilizing your own sounds to drown out the commotion behind you. you capture his bottom lips between your teeth, swallowing the sweet taste of his gasp as you test him by grinding softly. the pinch of his fingers don’t go unnoticed but he doesn’t try to stop it either.

breaking away with a harsh pant of your own, you make a slow effort of loosening the buttons of his jacket, giving him every opportunity to escape the proposition.

“this is why i brought you here, lou.”

his grip at your hips pulsed like a heartbeat, fluctuating in intensity as he traded glances between you and the moving bodies around you. it generally only took one couple to take the plunge for the others to follow suit.

the wide room was starting to truly burst with life, coating the walls with a lustful aura. masks of all shapes and sizes engaging in causal conversation while observing the unhurried fucking of others as if in a pristine museum.

you let him keep the jacket on to give him some sort of protection, still mindful of his frazzled psych as you left chaste kisses along his neck.

“what? so i’d fuck you in public?” learning from his dramatic prose on stage, louis seemed to be snatching at all of his talents to compose himself. you snatched yet another flute of something more colorful this time, tipping against his lips without warning to bring his attention back to your small corner.

“not that . if you pay attention, you’d see they aren’t unlike us.”

latching your lips back to his throat, you mouthed your words as the glass trembled against his.

“see that ox and flamingo over there? the first is a mountain goat, i can’t pinpoint the species but i recognize the stance. and the pretty little thing he has bent over the banister, a lynx- see, there’s her cute little tail wagging.” your nose traces his jaw. “herbivores and carnivores sharing heated passion without ostracization. it’s not just a kink, louis, it’s a lifestyle.”

you can see the moment the clarity parts the clouds of his cognition. gone is the speculation as he comes to terms with the hidden intentions of your invitation. it was rare that you did anything subtly with him, he often having ot maintain propriety.

there were obviously other factors staked against either of you going public with your relationship, the most prominent lighting a slow spark toward the eventual dissolution of your arrangement. but he had never really thought past his own adoration of you. by now it was beyond the scope of just the sexual nature/ yet without positive societal examples,, he was often left scrambling with labeling his feelings.

while this-gathering to say the least- wasn’t the best example to base his own experiences on as he took it all in, it wasn’t hard to see where the stark black and white began to blur.

leave it to you to utilize the most extreme to make a point.

louis surprised you then by breaking his inner monologue and fitting his hand against the smooth column of your throat. his hold much more self-assured than before. the gradual change shot straight to your core as you wriggled.

“but you didn’t answer me.” the hold pulls your mouth away as he forcefully captures your attention this time. there is no doubt that most of his valor is a product of the mask, no different than the one he wears on stage. but your relative appreciate drew together more likeness between the two than you were willing to admit. louis always put so much effort in commanding an audience that he rarely was able to admire how effortlessly he was able to do so with you.

“a lot a pretty words when the truth of it all was just that you wanted to bring me here to make a show out of yourself.” louis felt his own arousal spike as the truth of the statement struck him as well. “you want them all to see how much you love to take it from a herbivore.”

you answer with a hasty nod, breathing hitching under the restraint you’d functioned with until now. “please, lou. dominate me.”

it doesn’t take you long to adopt your shameless nature, hips undulating and grinding your core against his swelling erection. you still try to appeal to louis more kept disposition though, sliding close and sliding your hand between the gap to rub friction circles against the junction of his pants.

unable to resist teasing, you press the pad of your thumb against the tented head. “what a bad boy you’re being lou lou too. and you always accuse me of being the dirty slut.”

despite the natural restriction of his vocals, louis manages to growl, a flash of ire behind the mask. you arch as his hand wiggles under your dress, easily finishing your soiled undergarments and tucking them to the side. he slides two fingers home to the third knuckle without preamble.

“look at you, you’re even wetter than when we’re at home. you say this was for me, but look how shameless you are.” he starts to pump them in and out slowly, and you answer with a voluntary roll of your hips. he was right. you were desperate for him but the hardly changed given the setting or audience.

squeezing his shoulder for balance, you melt into a purring moan as his fingers curl within your depths. it takes more effort than it should to break your own trace to escape the pleasure enough to fumble with his zipper. louis exhales a long shuddering breath as your fingers close around him. you’re both ready without the threat of prematurity, riding on the exhilaration of the environment.

a shuddering sigh shatters the tension building within your throat as he replaces his fingers with his cock, dragging you down to take every inch of him until you’re sitting at the base. he doesn’t even reprimand you when you instinctively reach for his antlers, the thin paper crinkling under your touch as rotate you himself to ride the stuff arousal.

you were vaguely aware of your small circle being encroached on by observing parties. more grateful than anything that louis appeared to be more focused on you than their presence- a choked gasp scrambled from your lips as he brought you down in forceful thrust, a keen whine following.

when you tried to find his gaze, you found that it wasn’t even on you. the glassy haze flickering behind you around the room, holding a lazy challenge to any and every figure. it fed into the thrill to know he was getting off on the audience as much as you were.

louis pace was sloppy, but expected given the mixed influence of alcohol, your body and room around him. it all came together in the thickest mixture of lust either of you had had the privilege of sharing.

“you’re so beautiful. the world deserves to see you like this.”

a hasty nod of agreement is all you can manage, because the weight of his grounding hips and pounding thrusts are tearing away your grip on reality. you feel a piece of the mache tear away with your claws as you shudder around the drag of his cock as it sends you spiraling into release.

louis rides your aftershocks, succumbing to your quaking thighs and fluttering walls as you both collapse beneath the weight of your combined climax.

you fall forward against his chest, hiding all evidence of your joining as you soak in the thick musk. around you bodies shift again, their muttered compliment sticking to your body as they transition to the next showing. the two of you stay like that for a long moment, rising off the expansion of the others chest as you slowly collect yourselves.

curling your face into the side of his neck, you lapped gently, snickering when he twitched you’re life within your depths. pressing a kiss there you eventually manage to prop yourself up again.

“well the night’s still young and i see you’re up for another round. let’s give them their moneys worth.”

#beastars x reader #louis beastars x reader #beastars headcanon #beastars imagines

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nikkicross22 · 4 years

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reaction prompt: Char A is taking a walk, when they accidentally come across Char B. Char B, unaware of the audience, is enjoying their hobby, which had been a secret up until that point. Char A is in awe (or in shock, or whatever). Whether or not Char A is spotted watching char B - and any drama or embarrassment that results from that - is up to you.

Thanks for the prompt! I had a lot of fun!

Madara has had it up to here with all this stupid paperwork.

“Let’s start a village!” Hashirama had said. “It’ll be fun!”

If Madara could go back in time, he would punch himself in the face, name Izuna clan head, and run as fast and as far as he could. It was only right, after all, that the more spirited of the two should be the one out running. God, if only Izuna could see him now.

Except he could, because the stupid red-eyed freak had decided to spare him at the last minute, and Izuna had run off to get married to some Uzumaki tramp the moment the village declared them official allies. Madara was so done.

And yet, it’s not until he finally had not only the urge, but the actual intent to set his office on fire that Madara had said screw it and actually left for a midnight walk. He shouldn’t even be up this late, but with Izuna currently off doing who knows what with the stupid (surprisingly tolerable) Uzumaki, his sleeping schedule had gone to hell.

Sighing, he turns the corner and heads into the forest, going to one of the calmest clearings he knows. Hashirama and the bastard albino had actually put this one together with both of their talents; a large, tree filled clearing with a small but crystal clear pond on one end. Not only did the chirping crickets and frogs make for nice white noise for Madara to train with, but the pond was surprisingly handy for when he needed to put out any wayward fires.

When Madara finally makes it into the clearing, he’s about to go flying into some of his most intense katas when he hears a soft voice. Freezing for a moment, he creeps closer, soundlessly looking around for the source of the low crooning. Madara ends up nearly in the pond when he finally manages to locate the person, and nearly chokes on his own tongue.

Senju Tobirama is sitting there, stroking the head of a snow white stag as he talks to it calmly, seemingly ignorant to the presence of the wayward Uchiha. He has a slight smile on his face as he speaks, the deer flicking its ear towards him occasionally despite the massive pair of antlers its sporting. Madara knows shinobi who would kill each other for the pleasure of mounting a beast like that, but is suddenly sickened by the thought of murdering such a beautiful creature.

Madara creeps closer, moving so that neither the snow white buck or man are aware of him. After years of war, the Uchiha is nearly an expert in the art of chakra masking, so he knows that unless the Senju is actively looking for him, he won’t be noticed. Madara is honestly slightly surprised that the man hasn’t noticed him yet anyway, as his sensing skills were notoriously strong.

Settling into a tree about ten yards away, Madara channels chakra into his ears to help him hear what Tobirama is saying.

“-s and idiot, but he really does get his work done. Believe it or not, the man spends nearly as much time in his office as I do,” the Senju says with a chuckle, lightly rubbing the base of the stag’s antlers. “Honestly, if I hadn’t had Mito put that seal on his door to keep track of him, I would be worried if he was sleeping at all.”

Madara blinks at that. He know’s Tobirama tends to be a bit on the obsessive side, but he hadn’t really pegged him as a stalker. Perhaps this was another one of his experiments?

“Regardless, though, I still don’t think he’s sleeping enough,” Tobirama confides. “It’s too bad he’s so in love with my brother. He doesn’t really see the forest for the trees, so to speak. He’s far too focused on one thing, and I don’t think there’s anything I can do about it. Anyone, for that matter.”

Someone was in love with Hashirama? That was... slightly disturbing, especially considering the man was married. And straight, as far as Madara could tell. Also, a total fucking idiot.

“He’s kind, though. Kinder than I expected, especially after watching him kill so many of my clan. I think...” Tobirama trails off, looking down at his cervus companion, seeming uncertain. “I think he’s nicer to me than anyone, though. I used to think it was because he hated me, but now?”

Madara leans forward. Was this man an Uchiha? If they had killed much of the Senju clan, then it was possible, but as far as Madara could tell, Tobirama hated the Uchiha. Something about this, though, it was striking a chord.

“Now I’m pretty sure it’s because he watched me when I went after Izuna.”

Madara freezes.

“I was going to kill him. I’m not ashamed to admit that. I needed to protect my family at all costs.

There’s no way

“But I didn’t. I looked down, and I could see when he accepted it, and in that moment,”

Is he really-

“I saw that Izuna wasn’t even looking at me anymore.”

Talking about-

“His eyes were locked on someone else.”

Me?

“Madara.”

He almost falls out of the tree, the dawning horror of everything Tobirama has said until now crashing over him.

“He was looking, too. Those two made eye-contact, and the only thing I could see was Itama. Scared, and alone, and probably desperately trying to find his way back to his two older brothers to protect him,” Tobirama gently strokes its muzzle, looking into the stag’s eye. “I couldn’t do it. I used the flat of my blade, and I knocked him out. I suppose it was useful in its own way, as it gave Madara both the Mangekyou and a reason to accept the treaty of peace. I don’t regret that.”

Madara staggers backwards, trying not to let his chakra fluctuate too violently and alert Tobirama of his presence. He’s certain he makes some sort of noise, though, as the stag looks in his direction before languidly standing up and shaking itself off.

“Ah, is that all for tonight, friend?” Tobirama asks it.

It turns, nuzzling into his hand and stays still for a moment longer.

“I wonder, when the day will come where Madara finally stops chasing my brother, and instead looks at me.”

He sighs.

“A man can hope, right?” the Senju inquires with a small smile. “Have a good night, and thank you for listening. You are much better at this than my idiotic older brother.”

The deer simply tosses its head and walks away. Tobirama follows suit, quietly walking out of the clearing and back towards the village. Madara simply sits there, floored, for about 30 minutes before he finally feels his head pull back on correctly.

“That bastard put a seal on my door frame?” he hisses, before shooting off into the night.

Oh, Hashirama was in for a thrashing when Madara got his hands on him. He was not fucking in love with the arrogant asshole!

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deceasedatsunrise · 5 years

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Killer AU Concepts

Eh, Killer!Survivor AUs may seem done to death but it's still plenty fun and I wanted to take a crack at it.

Whenever a new chapter comes out I’ll try to come up a killer au! for any new survivors and add them via reblogs.

Here's my ideas, I’ll try to give them all a Killer Alias, short backstory, an idea of what their power would be, a quick description of their appearance, and their weapon. I’m not good at perks so for now, just imagine all of their killer perks being reskins of the canon killer perks.

More below cut.

Warning for DBD typical topics: Murder, Torture, Trauma, Parental Death, Body Horror, drowning, dismemberment, car crashes

Dwight Fairfield (The Ghost) - It was meant to be an innocent prank, one where they’d laugh at Dwight’s expense once again. While the boss was still asleep they simply took advantage of the cheap inflatable mattress Dwight brought along for the retreat and simply let lake do the rest. When he woke up, he panicked, and fell off the floating mattress into the chilly water. The others laughed, but stopped when Dwight never emerged. They lied, saying that he left early, and pretended nothing was wrong. They would never know that, as his lungs filled with water, Dwight begged for help from anyone-or anything...and something answered.

The boss left for a moment, just a few minutes to call Dwight to tell him he’ll be looking at even lower pay if he leaves again without checking with him. He returned to the retreat’s site to find the bodies of his employees.

Now as a malignant spirit, Dwight resembles a cold, bloated corpse suspended in the air as if carried by invisible puppet strings.

His Power would be called Haunting Grounds, a teleporting ability that assists in locating survivors. He can see the auras of generators in his terror radius, and may teleport to one as long as it’s not being worked on by a survivor. The teleport and recharge takes a couple of seconds, with a very small sound cue. He cannot teleport to fully charged generators, but when the gates are all powered he gains a significant speed boost. (This is based on the teleporting mechanic in Soul at Stake, so yes I am in fact stealing from a DBD Clone).

His main weapon is a large tent spike, stained with blood and rust. Useful for quickly killing those who’ve wronged you.

Meg Thomas (The Predator) - Meg Thomas never lost hope, even as her mother fell ill. Then one day, her mother collapsed suddenly after she supposedly began to feel better. Meg was in a hurry, she simply loaded her mother into their car and made her way to the hospital. No time to wait for an ambulance, no time for seatbelts, and no time to take into account that she didn’t have a license. She was reckless, believing she knew enough to save her mother, and it had cost her. She ran into a car and was sent flying, she came crashing down. She dragged herself through debris, both legs maimed by the crash alongside a useless arm, to look for her mother. She found her, she didn’t make it.

She heard the cries of the man she rammed with her mother’s car, and crawled her way to him, along the way she picked up a tire iron that had fallen out of the trunk. When police investigated they found two bodies, one was chalked up to the accident while homicide investigated the skewered driver. Meg dragged herself into the nearby woods, the only way she could escape her mistakes, as she was in no state to run. The entity had repaired her body, with grotesque, gangly limbs made in it’s own image, allowing her to hunt the survivors she could’ve ran with if she wasn’t so, so reckless. Several small spider-like legs jut out of her back and her eyes have been touched by the entity, making her vulnerable to flashlights.

Her main Power is New Instincts, her new body follows the rules of beasts when hunting her prey. Think of it as a mixture of the Pig’s Ambush ability and Fatal Frenzy. Using the power button will make her enter Stalking mode, where she’ll crouch down and lose her terror radius. Using the power button again will initiate Frenzy mode, where she’ll chase after survivors and instantly attack them if she’s close enough(this attack can also destroy dropped pallets). This will apply Deep Wound, or shorten the bleed out timer of a survivor who already has the status effect. If she attacks someone who already has Deep Wound in Frenzy mode she’ll be momentarily stunned but the survivor’s mend meter will lose a part of it’s progress as well.

Her main weapon is a her own Mangled Arm, an appendage similar to the entity’s claws, regrown after she was collected. After making a hit she’ll grip her head in agitation.

Claudette Morel (The Gardener) - Claudette Morel found happiness a rarity, none of her relationships extended beyond others taking advantage of her knowledge. Stress was killing her, in more ways than one, all because she was lucky enough to make it to a good college. Under her façade of a curious student, was a ticking time bomb waiting for a single spark. She was aiming for a great opportunity, to intern for actual botanists, as long as she kept her grades up. But she had overslept, too many all-nighters added up and she paid the price. Her strict teacher locked her out of the classroom, and she had to watch the class finish the test without her. Her grades were already in danger of falling, but this one F sealed it, so her spot went to another student. Claudette stopped coming to classes, and her chat rooms were left silent. There were five students selected for the Internship, all five and one teacher were found in the forest. The bodies were buried, but beautiful, non-native flowers were planted on top of their graves as markers. Claudette was spotted by a jogger walking into the woods, but she was never found.

The Gardener was once a human, now she’s merely a vehicle for the parasitic plants consuming her. Vines entangle her body, and flowers obscure her face. Her stomach is gruesomely torn open, thick vines spill out like intestines and have wrapped themselves around her waist and legs. The flowers are “Pustulas”, the flowers that grow from the hallowed blight cankers and produce the Putrid Serum.

Her Power is called Parasitic Saplings, giving the gardener the ability to infect survivors with nutrient draining plants. When a survivor is downed, she may use her action button to “plant” the seeds in their open wounds. The survivors are now in a short timer where the plants grow, once the time is done they can now remove the fully grown plants. However a second timer pops up, if the survivor does not “prune” themselves in time the vine growing on their bodies will bind them in place until either another survivor untangles them or the killer downs bound survivor. Pruning is a non-healing action, and being hooked or hit by the killer’s weapon will pause the timers for varying amounts of time.

Her main weapon is a Gardening Shear, half of a pair that still leaves it’s mark in bone just the same.

Jake Park (The Greenman) - When Jake Park ran away to live off the grid, only his mother bothered to keep tabs on him. When she reported him missing the police gave up their search in little time, despite her pleading. If they searched harder, perhaps they would’ve found him. He went on a hike to restock, but made a mistake while climbing. He found his leg trapped between a rock and a hard place, and his screams were swallowed up by nature. No one truly knows what it means to survive, not even Jake Park until this very moment, when he tore himself free. Even with a splint Jake’s skills only grew, his near death experience proved to him that he truly was alone in this. He fully integrated into the forest life, only interacting with humans to steal tools and food. When hunters entered his territory, he dealt with them with skill and precision.

Jake had fashioned a mask from the skull of one of his victims, the only warning sign his victims would receive before he killed them. He crafted an outfit that would blend in easily, leaves were woven together into a cloak and skins were stitched together to provide warmth. Urban Legends cropped up, of a “Greenman” who raided campsites and mauled solitary survivors with ease.

The Greenman’s Power are his Handmade Arrows, with only natural materials the Greenman had created a formidable secondary weapon. Similar to the Huntress’ hatchets, the arrows will have a charge time that allows you to aim and shoot them. Two arrows, without add-ons, will make a survivor go down one health state. However, when an arrow hits a survivor it will stay embedded in their body until the survivor pulls it out. If the arrows aren’t pulled out then the survivor will groan audibly until it is, add-ons can add status effects to his arrows.

His main weapon is a Broken Antler, taken from a moose he fell. It’s best to use every part of the animal after killing it, right?

Nea Karlsson (The Shadow) - Nea Karlsson delinquency became a downward spiral into disaster. She had grown sick of her parents and ran away, she mainly couch surfed to get by, pick pocketing to afford food. She never lost her interest in tagging, becoming more bold every time. Her skills developed, allowing her to sneak past guards and dogs with ease. She was a shadow, as that was the only thing anyone saw of her when she struck. Except one day, when she was caught. Pure chance, but she wasn’t going to jail. She tried to break free but he wouldn’t let her go, not until she struck him with the crowbar in her hands. Nea wondered if she meant to do it, or if it was an accident, but something in her gut told her that it was necessary. And something even deeper inside of her told her it was thrilling. She experimented with her crimes, violence became a norm for her. She no longer associated with others, and a string of violent assaults, and murders, began to gain media attention. Nea was never caught...by the police, anyway.

Nea is a shadow, a pitch black hole in the rough shape of a human. Bright, white eyes peer out of the darkness.

The Shadow’s Power is called Security Measures, barbed wire traps that remind her of the many gates she’d jumped. She begins the game with eight Barbed Traps that she can place on Vaults, areas where pallets were, and between doorways. They are extensions of the entity, and ensnare victims to unknowingly go through them. When caught in a Barbed Trap the survivor will have to wiggle out, doing a skill check at the end of the wiggle meter. If they fail the skill check they can still get out, but they are downed by one health state. They work similarly to the Hag’s traps, where an old one will disappear if you use another trap after placing all at your disposal. The shadow can pick them up and move them to other areas.

Her main weapon is a simple crowbar, a tool with many purposes for her lifestyle.

Laurie Strode/Cythia Myers (The Copycat) - Michael Myers was let out of the asylum without much fanfare, yet Cynthia Myers never got to meet him before a car crash left her an orphan. Michael was legally old enough to live on his own, but she went to live with the Strode family as he refused to take custody of her. Cynthia had grown to resent her brother, as his legacy followed her wherever she went. Her classmates were not kind to her loss, and she shrunk away from large crowds. Even after convincing her adoptive parents to let her change her name, any person she attempted to grow close to would find out about her brother’s crime. The bullies were one thing, but the “True Crime Freaks” were a hell of their own. Judith would be remembered as a corpse, and “Laurie” would be remembered as the sister of a murderer. A dark whisper began to grow louder, asking why she should be the one to suffer? When her brother was the killer, shouldn’t have the one to pay for what he did to his sisters?

She found him, and paid him back. Murders began to spring up in the town he lived in, the victims were the eldest daughter of families with more than one child. Laurie thought it’d be easy, they’d easily assume Michael went back to his old ways and then lock him up again. But that wasn’t enough, she had to make sure he suffered. No one knew what happened on Halloween Night, except Michael and Laurie, who both disappeared that same night.

Laurie wears a clown mask similar to the one Michael wore that fateful night, alongside a bulky jacket and grimy jeans. Every inch of skin was covered, so that it’d be easier for any escapees to confuse her for Michael.

Laurie’s Power is called Survival of the Fittest, watching the survivors from afar has led to her learning their tricks. The Copycat can do many actions that were thought to be limited to survivors only.

- She can Sabotage Gens, Chests, and Lockers. Sabotaged Gens will need to be “recharged” before they can be repaired. Sabotaged locker doors and chests are stuck and have to jimmied open, with a short sound cue after they’re unjammed. It takes forty seconds to sabotage a gen, and four seconds to jam chests and lockers.

- She’s the only killer unable to break a pallet. However, while in a chase she can jump over pallets. Outside of a chase she can lift up a pallet back in place and sabotage them as well, making it so that survivors have to do the pull down action twice to drop the pallet.

Her main weapon is a Butcher’s Knife, the tip had been broken off in her attempt to spill the blood of her kin.

Ace Visconti (The Misfortune) - Ace Visconti, was a foolish as he was confident. Too many debts with the wrong kind of people were bound to catch up to him eventually. One bet, involving some underground fighting ring, sealed his fate. He ran, and made it pretty far before the goons came to collect. What meager winnings he had on him weren’t enough, so their boss ordered them to make an example out of Ace. So they cut him into pieces, wrapped them up in plastic wrap, and dumped them all into a murky swamp. As they held him down he made one final desperate deal, the goons didn’t buy it but something did in fact take him up on the offer. The goons stuck around the swamp for a smoke break, and went missing soon after. A police investigation ten years later would lead to the swamp being drained, all the bodies found at the bottom would help send a dangerous man to the big house. Ace Visconti’s body was never found, but the goons were. Drowned in the murky waters by the looks of it.

Ace wear his water damaged, and muddy clothing, with plastic wrap obscuring his entire head. Duct tape is wrapped around some parts of his body to prevent him from falling to pieces. He lacks shoes but wears a ridiculous amount of jewelry, perhaps collected off his fellow victims in the swamp’ s depths?

His Power is called Unlucky Deck, cards that he uses as offerings for bonuses in the entity’s game. All cards are randomly generated, and more cards can be found in chests,. The Misfortune is the only killer who can loot chests but he closes them after use, he cannot use chests search by survivors without add-ons. Add-ons can increase his chances to get a certain type of card. The killer can shuffle his deck to look at his other cards, when a card is chosen he will pick it out of his deck and it will instantly burn away into ash. His deck consists of the following:

Ten of Clubs - If any of the crows are disturbed, they will flock to the survivor and follow them for ten seconds. This lasts for 30 seconds.

Jack of Clubs - The aura of survivors opening chests or lockers will be revealed for 6 seconds. This will last for 30 seconds.

Queen of Clubs - Once used, after hitting a survivor with a base attack all survivors in your terror radius will have their auras revealed for 8 seconds. This will continue until all survivors still in the game are hit at least once.

King of Clubs - When a Generator is completed after this card is used, all survivors will gain the Exposed status for 20 seconds, and their auras are revealed for 4 seconds.

Ace of Clubs(Incredibly Rare) - All survivors auras are revealed for twenty seconds regardless of distance, however the killer’s movement speed is slowed for the duration of this card’s use.

Joker Card(Tremendously Rare) - A random affliction of another card is played, lasting for thirty to forty seconds regardless of the original time limits.

The Misfortune’s main weapon is a Bloody Saw, used to make an example of him and later thrown into the water as evidence.

Bill Overbeck (The Carrier) - Left behind, left to rot. When the entity found him it knew just the way to “fix” him, after all, he was already a carrier. Becoming one of the creatures he had tried his damnedest to evade. Very similar to a Smoker(Type of Special Infected), with the bloated skin and a gross, long tongue. However his lumpy skin would be a charred black with cracks that glow like the claws of the entity(also makes his skin look like the black lungs of a cigarette smoker). When hit by a pallet or a decisive strike he will emit smoke. He no longer sees survivors the same way he used to, and now hunts them without restraint. This is due to the entity skewing his perception, making all the survivors resemble infected that attempt to escape to spread their disease, with dark thoughts urging Bill to prevent them from getting out alive.

His Power would be Ensnaring Tongue, an ability he shares with other smokers. He shoots out his elongated tongue straight forward to choke a survivor in place. Hitting the survivor or the survivor managing to wiggle out(similar to escaping a beartrap) will break the connection, resulting in tongue being torn off and a small cooldown for his ability to regrow it. A secondary ability is that survivors will cough in close proximity, and will continue coughing for a few moments even after gaining distance.

His weapon would be a combat knife, a memento of his younger years.

Feng Min (The Patient) - Taking inspiration from the controversial Dr. Yang Yongxin(Chinese Clinical Psychiatrist that likely inspired the Spark of Madness chapter), in a timeline where Feng Min is taken to a “Gamin Addiction Treatment Center“, where her parents handed her over to the “good doctors”. The head doctor’s experiments in curing their patients came crashing down when, after the electroshock treatment became to much, Feng proceeded to escape and murder the staff. She would wear the hospital gown she was given for her stay and would still be connected to electroshock equipment. Her face is heavily bandaged, and a syringe is stuck in her neck. The only hit the main doctor got in before he was snuffed out. Her Power would be similar to the Carter’s Spark, Remnants of Rewiring, driving survivors exhausted to the point of self-destruction. She afflicts survivors by creating an electric pulse that flows in a straight wave, that extends for several feet in front of her. When affected their progress may go backwards, either destroying any progress they had made before or not even getting far in the first place. Maybe at the highest tier of her pulse ability, Survivors might go into a “drowsy state” where they will have to do a skill check or two to not fall asleep, this leaves them open for attack but if the survivor falls asleep and is woken by a survivor/killer they return to tier 2. They would need to escape The Patient and “relax” to lessen the effects.

Her weapon is a chipped baton, ripped out of the hands of her main watch guard as he bled out.

David King (The Boar) - David King was meant for greatness, in this life or the next. He squandered his success, all in his search for a good fight. While out drinking he met a shady man who took interest in his fighting prowess, and offered him an experience even more thrilling than his less-than-legal underground tournaments. Two men go in, one comes out, gladiator style. It took David one night to agree. He grew notorious in the underworld fighting circuit, wealthy spectators paid extra to watch King’s own unique style of brutality. He was a bloody mess, and his victims were worse off in every aspect. His “Manager” gave him a unique reward, a boar’s skin, said it would liven up the crowd if they saw David wearing it. David couldn’t give a shit if he tried, as long as he got good competition.

He was soon more animal than man, taking extra measures to make the losers “squeal” for his own personal pleasure. He soon disappeared abruptly, his manager admitted that David King simply left and never came back. Sure, King was his best fighter, but even he wasn’t stupid enough to order the beast around.

The Boar’s Power is Beastly Brutality, when a survivor is downed the brutish man will grab their leg and break it, applying the Fractured Status effect. Until healed the afflicted survivor will be slowed and unable to vault, They will also grown audibly. If the Fractured status effect is reapplied, the grunting is less frequent, until it’s barely noticeable the next time it’s applied(The Boar’s base speed would be similar to the Huntress’ to give the survivors a fighting chance). There is also a “Struggling” action where the survivor can try to pull away from David until he gives up and carries you or wins. His secondary ability can be used after every two hits with his base weapon, where he tosses the Pig Skinner to his other hand and strikes a survivor with his balled fist after gaining a short speed burst. This will distort the survivor’s vision and make their ears ring.

He wields “The Pig Skinner”, a cleaver with a broad blade and long handle. Of all the weapons he used to mutilate his opponents, this one was his favorite, besides his own hands of course.

Quentin Smith (The Sandman) - Forever haunted by endless nightmares he set out to do the impossible by avoiding sleep all together, slowly destroying himself in futile attempts to avoid the necessary part of human life. His parents were forced to admit him to a hospital when it began to make a toll on his health, where he met familiar faces(whether he remembered them fully or not) with similar problems. When a friend took his life in front them all, he broke, and set out to escape. In a desperate attempt to “save” Nancy, the only one who believed him about the “darkness“, as well he proceeded to murder the staff that tried to restrain him. He escaped into the surrounding woods, vowing to return for Nancy. When the entity collects him he desperately searches the realms for her, hoping to save his fellow victim in this life now that he had failed in the other.

He’s severely sickly from sleep deprivation, and his eyes are permanently closed, this does not affect his eye sight. He wears the clothing the hospital provided, with noticeable burn marks leaving holes in them. His Power would be Dreamwalker, when used the survivors will experience “Micronaps” slipping into the dreamworld where the Sandman may harm them. The Sandman can only interact with survivors doing “Skill“ actions, such as healing and gen fixing, afflicting them with “Fatigue”. They are now on a timer until they “rejuvenate” themselves with a health kit(by healing to full health), every ten seconds they will enter a Micronap for ten seconds, in a continuous loop until fatigue is lifted. The Sandman can attack during the entire time you are in fatigue but is invisible outside of Micronaps, only his red stain reveals his location during these brief moments.

His main weapon is a fire axe, meant to be used for emergencies but stolen in his escape.

David Tapp (The Detective) - (The Following is based on the first Saw Videogame, where Tapp had to travel through an asylum until being given a choice at the end of the game. He could’ve chosen “Freedom”, the canon ending where he gave up his search for Jigsaw and freed all occupants of the Asylum. Or the alternate ending, which I’m following for this au, where his obsession makes him choose “Truth” which results in the death of an innocent.)

His choices made him who he is, in his obsession he had cost the deaths of many. He was as equally guilty as jigsaw, and the mastermind took advantage of this fact. Detective Tapp died that day, and whatever was left took up the dying man’s offer to join him. As an officer, he knew who deserved punishment, and became another valuable asset of Joh Kramer. During one kidnapping, where he accidently killed a victim before they could be tested, he vanished. Jigsaw was disappointed, but not surprised, he had already lost another disciple before and there were always more who could be taught.

He wears his old uniform, the bullet proof vest provides better protection than the red robes his coworkers wear. A pig mask, modified by a wire frame under the latex to give it structure. Leather straps ensure it stays in place without obscuring his vision.

The Detective’s Power is called Night Watch, he carries a large flashlight that acts as his secondary weapon. When using it, any survivor that is caught in it’ s light will be stunned for 2 seconds and have their aura highlighted in yellow for 30 seconds. The flashlight can charged to flash brightly, this blinds the Detective for a few seconds but any survivor who sees the flash will be put into the exposed state for 16 seconds. The flashlight works as long as it’s beam is in the survivors line of sight, ie. like how flashlights work for killers.

His main weapon is a Modified Bat, nails have been driven into it to increase the damage it can cause. What was once evidence is now his tool to free his victims.

Kate Denson (The Siren) - One must always be weary of the dangers of travelling alone, who knows what kind of people you could meet. Men who can’t take a hint, who do not like to be told no. It was not her fault, she simply wanted a quiet place to write. The woods nearby reminded her of home, but one must always be careful when wandering away from civilization. The man from yesterday still hadn’t let it go, this time he brought along friends to convince her. She was a fighter, but they played dirty, so she had to run when she spotted a window of opportunity. One of the men stopped her easily, and she fell as her guitar splintered into several pieces over her head. They had killed her, or so they thought. They were prepared to leave her in the river to be swept away, but she woke up kicking and screaming, they would be caught if anyone heard her voice so they silenced her with a nearby rock.

Kate Denson was reported missing after she ceased all contact with her family, her Chevy was later found abandoned in the woods. The law enforcement already had enough on their hands though, in only three days several bodies had been found in the river. There were no sign of struggle, it was as if these men jumped into the waters by choice. Anyone passing these woods would swear they heard singing from deep within, but no one had ever been brave enough to look for the source of such a beautiful voice.

Her Power is Song of Remorse, a mournful song that entrances survivors into letting their guard down. If survivors are in the radius of her song they will be “Enchanted”. Similar to madness, it applies different effects as it’s tiers increase. Survivors can snap enchanted teammates out of it, or they can “clear their thoughts”. Clearing thoughts will make the survivor’s vision blurry for 5 seconds.

Enchantment Tier One - An image of the Siren’s face will flash on screen for a second, darkening the screen for a moment until the image fades away. This will happen every 20 seconds. A quiet humming will be heard for 2 seconds after these flashes occur.

Enchantment Tier Two - Whenever a Survivor attempts to drop a pallet there will be a chance that they do the action without actually pulling it down. The flashes will now occur every 10 seconds. Quiet humming can be heard for as long as the survivor is in this tier.

Enchantment Tier Three - Nonsense singing fills the survivor’ s ears, obscuring all other noises. Survivors can no longer heal, drop pallets, or fix gens. All flashlights will point downwards.

Her main weapon is the Driftwood club, her prized guitar now acts as the handle of her makeshift weapon. Driftwood, old rope, and what remained of her guitar have been crafted together to ensure only the most devastating of blows.

Adam Francis (The Ember) - It’s difficult to break such a disciplined man, but not impossible. The crash left him in shambles, but the person he failed to safe was left as a smear. He refused to die, dragging his legless body even as flames began to spread. For the first time in his life he displayed weakness, and allowed himself to feel fear. Death, the ultimate end, or at least so he thought. Something dark loomed above him, dark whispers making offers. Even as he bled out, he chose to think of others. He had a feeling that whatever deal he made, it would not end well, the last hope he ever had was that that young woman he failed was saved. He closed his eyes as flames devoured him, dark tendrils dragging him away.

When he awoke, he’d find a fire contained in his own body, now a hollow shell of the man he used to be. Lacking legs he instead floats in place, he breaks pallets by striking them with his weapon.

The dutiful Ember uses his Power, The Onibi’s Lament, as a way to close the distance between him and far away survivors. Activating his power makes a small orb of fire containing his soul shoot out of his corpse’s midsection. His corpse stays behind as a husk, with the player now controlling the orb to bypass pallets and quickly search for survivors for a short period of time. When the power is stopped, either by cancellation or the power bar going empty, his husk disappears and he silently “reforms” from the ball of fire. As a ball of fire he can harm a survivor once by running into them, but this automatically cancels the power and the “reforming” takes a few seconds to finish(think of Wraith’s uncloaking). His secondary ability is releasing a harmless decoy Onibi, to fool survivors into thinking he’s a harmless husk. The false orb goes in a straight line until it either hits something or fizzles out.

His main weapon is the Steel Shrapnel, a jagged piece of metal from the train wreck that had embedded itself in his arm.

Jeff Johansen (The Unseeing) - Losing one’s sight is a horrifying experience, especially for an artist. One fight and he was forever changed, his shyness promptly became a need to isolate himself. Even though he attempted to adapt to his new life, dark whispers in the back of his mind never allowed him to forget what he lost. He began to dream, and as if guided by invisible hands, he began to sketch what haunted him in his mind. A dark mass of unknown shape, with hundreds of arms reaching out in search of something. He created several drawings, greatly worrying his mother. Jeff left home without a word, and seemingly fell off the earth’s radar. A series of murders began, a bloody trail from Winkler to Ormond, nicknamed the Mural Murders due to what the police assumed was the killer’s calling card. A mural, in blood, paint, or other materials, depicting a many armed creature could be found on any wall or flat surface near the bodies. The trail went cold and the murders were left unsolved.

Jeff as a killer looks similar to his Heavy Metal skin, though his clothing is covered in numerous paint stains. His eyes have been touched by the entity, making him more vulnerable to flashlights.

The Unseeing’s Power is called All-Seeing Entity, a gift from the entity that allows him to hunt and steal the sight of survivors. The Unseeing will always see the maps as a pitch black abyss, all surrounding items in his terror radius are highlighted by a white glow. Aka, this is how he can find survivors while physically blind. Holding down his power bottom will make him release a harsh yell, any survivor caught in the yell’s radius will be cursed with “Dying Sight”. A two minute time will begin, the survivor’s vision will slowly be consumed by darkness until they are fully blind by the time the timer runs out. Once blind they cannot see at all until they’re downed, which restarts the timer. Survivors can cure their Dying Sight by finding a fellow survivor and being healed to a completely healthy state by them, Dying Sight is not affected by Self-Care or medkits.

His main weapon is a sledgehammer, a tool with a surprising use in his art. It reshapes rigid materials to his liking.

Jane Romero (The Idol) - No matter how influential you get, or how famous you become, nothing will drag you out of the pit of your own creation. Stress builds, expectations become increasingly more difficult to meet, and sleep becomes a rare luxury. It all builds up, until one final straw breaks your back. Did Loretta Lawrence expect to die, by the hands of a daughter she declared not hers? Envy fuels hatred, and when all you see is red, what’s a little blood gonna do? Jane wears her mother’s dress, the beautiful gown she wore for the interview that led to her demise. When Loretta’s body was found in her dressing room, everyone searched for Jane, it was as if she vanished. Many of her loyal fans refused to believe she’d done it, leading to an increase in sales for Jane Romero sponsored products.

Her Power is called Shattered Reflection, giving her the ability to leave behind copies of herself while the true body went on the prowl. She can create a total of five "Reflections" without add-ons, if she creates a new reflection after using them all up, the oldest made reflection will disappear. Survivors with flashlights can destroy copies, however it’ll take about 10 seconds. Reflections have a simple AI that allows them to move around a bit like an NPC, if a survivor is close enough they can strike once. If they land a hit the survivor goes down one health state and the reflection disappears. Each reflection has a small terror radius. The idol will receive a notification when a reflection is destroyed, a survivor is in a reflection’s small terror radius, and if the reflection lands a hit on a survivor. The survivor’s auras are highlighted for 6 seconds.

Her main weapon is a Glass Shard, a piece collected after she smashed a mirror in frustration. It’s size and shape ensure damage equal to a knife.

Notes

- David’s Boar Skin is based of the Greek Erymanthian Boar

- Dwight is similar to the ghosts in Silent hill 4

- At least two of these powers were inspired by a DBD clone called Soul at Stake

- I tried my best to make each power fair and interesting, but I guess it’s up to your opinion to know if I succeeded

- My favorite concepts are Ace, Adam, and Quentin’s

- Ace’s backstory was inspired by a character in the movie “13 Ghosts”

- Yes there are Survivor Versions of the killers

- If it’s not clear, Adam wished to save Rin Yamaoka after failing to save her in this au. You can probably guess how the entity “saved” her

- Asks me questions about this au if you like, there’s a bunch of details I left out because it was already long as is

#dbd #dead by daylight #dbd au #deceased at sunrise aus #this post contains all survivors from Dwight to Jane #too many to list #killer au

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wileds · 5 years

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more vacuo tidbits from after the fall! for my own reference & anyone else’s. beware spoilers!

wonderful description of fox’s childhood home! “Hardy palm trees arching over a clear blue oasis, bright green leaves reflected in the still water. There’s grass on the shore, lush green grass, dotted with pink and white flowers. Bees lazily drift over them, collecting pollen. Do you hear them buzzing? This is the center of town, where everyone gathers to talk, eat, conduct business at the market. Around us are burlap tents and lean-tos built by traveling merchants, beyond are the huts, squat shelters made of mud brick and straw where are people dwell. [...] it’s beautiful. Though our homes are simple and inelegant, they stand as a testament to our sheer will to survive. The fact that anything can live in the desert is a miracle. And when the desert winds knock all this down, we’ll just rebuild. When monsters run us out, we will move and start anew elsewhere. Always remember that. Every life is precious, even the mole crabs and the carrion hawks and the slowworms...all the more so out here where there is so little of it.”

the 38th vytal festival tournament took place in vacuo.

shade academy’s headmaster is named theodore.

the west winds blow moisture in from the ocean. depending on how close one is to the coast, a blanket of rolling white mist sometimes covers the desert, a fog that burns off in the heat later in the day.

forceful sandstorms happen in a lot of places.

tribe names and settlements seem to be synonymous often? plus a notable trend in the names being related to earthy/mineral stuff. a few settlements in vacuo (some of them destroyed even if the people still call themselves by it): gossan, tuff, feldspar, schist, kenyte, coquina.

aloe is a common sunscreen cream in vacuo.

a flatback slider is a giant sand turtle “the color of the desert it swam in, rich oranges and yellows and reds” with an obsidian shell, worn and glasslike where blasted by sandstorms, pockmarked and pitted higher up. very rare. it swims in the sand and is so big that it doesn’t really notice or care when people hitch a ride on its back, a sun-bleached surface as flat and stable as any plateau.

old dust quarries can be found all over vacuo. “Once upon a time, about a century back, they had all been part of a major mining operation. Once the corporations had leeched the land of the Dust that made it so valuable, they up and left—having helped the desert claim more of the land, leaving giant holes like this one.”

generalizations/worldview:

“Vacuans live extemporaneously, with little attachments aside from the people they cared about—and even then, many weren’t into commitment.”

“In Vacuo, there were two kinds of people: those who were selfish and those who were fully dedicated to their community, and, in time, Fox came to understand that the latter usually had a better chance of survival.”

“Living from moment to moment instead of planning for the next day, week, or year seemed strange to many outsiders, but it also made Vacuans appreciate thing in those moments far more—every meal, every conversation, every joke was a celebration of lide, and even the sad and painful moments carried greater significance.”

an old saying in vacuo: “Listen to the desert.”

“Vacuans had exciting names for every natural phenomenon, most of them destructive or deadly: Misery’s Kiss (sunstroke). Lasting Regret (food poisoning). Sudden Demise (a sinkhole spontaneously forming, which occasionally swallowed whole settlements).”

“Vacuans have a reputation for being dishonest. [...] It’s misplaced, particularly since it’s the other kingdoms who stole from us.”

grimm introduced include a few we have met before in previous volumes: king taijitu (faster than many other land-based grimm, especially in a desert terrain) and lancers.

new grimm:

dromedon. a monstrous pitch-black camel that spits venom. it has a mishhapen hump.

jackalope. a huge four-legged beast with black fur, branching red-and-white antlers extending from its bone mask, and powerful hind legs that could propel it a great height and allow it to run fast.

ziraph. long-necked, its has three heads and kicked anyone and anything that crossed its path. four long legs are covered in razor-sharp bony plates, its skin was black with glowing red spots like a leopard’s with short but pointed white horns over its fiery red eyes.

ravagers. flying grimm like uglier, meaner nevermores with dark leathery wings like bats.

blind worm. a long black spiky worm with a fiery red eye in the center of its head, which also featured a circular maw with razor-sharp teeth. easily as wide as a nevermore from wint to wing and the length of six goliaths. it can burrow in the sand or travel atop. when ripped into it can spew green ick, essentially acid. “Blind Worms are nasty things. Maybe the nastiest in a desert of nasty things.”

#ref tag #after the fall /#after the fall spoilers /#ooc.#hc.vw

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pennesnoodle · 6 years

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Yautja Homebrew Race - Multiverse

Here we have it, a D&D adaptation of the yautja going under the premise that the preds of different continuities have been stranded for some generations on a fantasy plane.

I’ve formatted it like it belongs in a rule book, so if you just want the stats skip the lore blocks. If anyone’s wondering what’s up with the Trial of Quatza-Rij, I replaced the rites of tressing with it because of inconsistency about just what pred dreads are. This alternative rite of manhood comes from Steve Wang, of the special effects team from the original Predator.

A Warrior’s Body

Yautja are large humanoids who tend to have low body fat, but commonly come in a wide variety of builds. They're of an active and atheltic culture. They feature finely scaled skin that comes in a wide variety of colors, most often on the warm end of the color spectrum, and usually have darker freckling, mottling, or stripes that can come in darker shades of their normal coloration or in black. Pale blue and purple skinned yautja have been seen, but are exceedingly rare and likely come from a condition that strips them of yellow pigment.

While often monochromatic, it's not unusual to see a much lighter color paired with a darker, different color. Such as cream and dark green, green and brown, or even one color that mottles into another, which then mottles or freckles into a third with increasing darkness. Yautja skin is usually lightest on the forehead, face, throat, chest, belly, and on the primary muscle groupings of their arms.

Yautja tresses are usually black, but have also been known to come in various shades of brown and red, or in dark blue. They often whiten or turn a pale, sky blue with old age. It's also not unusual for them to have much smaller quills along the crown of their faces, the underside of their lower mandibles, or anywhere one might find body hair on a human. Most yautja have very few to no patches of these quills, with the most common placements being on the shoulder and from their brow ridge to their cresting.

Their face masks are not only traditional, but practical. Even if they opt not to wear the full face mask, outside of wet environments they'll likely have smaller, rebreather-style masks worn over their mandibles to help retain moisture. Yautja prefer air with more methane to it, and it has been known to hinder their breathing while injured to be in a low-methane environment. Their mouths also dry out easily in open, dry air.

A Hunter’s Code (Differs from Simplified)

While specifics vary between subraces and from tribe to tribe, all yautja have some code of conduct based around honor and presentation. Unworthy prey is killed by an unworthy hunter, to kill the weak is to be weak. Although exceptions are often made for killing non-intelligent animals for food. Typically, no subrace of yautja will bring harm to a child, the feeble, or the pregnant.

Traditionally, both subraces pride themselves in finding challenges and conquering them. Allowing oneself to stop and retire is taboo, and usually results in a yautja's slaying or banishment from their kin. But some communities have allowed retirees to remain to help bolster the food supply as farmers and ranchers, and to maintain equipment. Such retirees are rarely respected.

Yautja life is a life of seeking honor and glory. This extends to how they wish to die. Those who violate their codes are bad bloods, criminals marked for death. And while there are entire clans who have turned away from yautja codes of conduct, called killer clans, they are the mortal enemies of other yautja.

Death and Balance (Differs from Simplified)

Today most yautja follow a religion that emphasizes the importance of honor, glory, and balance. Their pantheon is dominated by the ever-presence of the Black Warrior, a goddess of death, and the Warlord, an antlered yautja god who wields lightning like weapons. These two gods were not present on the plane before, but they came into existence through sheer force of belief. The Hunter Clan practitioners spawning the Black Warrior, and the Frozen Clan believers creating the Warlord.

The Black Warrior is a goddess of death, who takes the form of a xenomorph queen. All yautja will some day meet her in death, and do battle with her before being taken to their afterlife. The Black Warrior and the Warlord created their own respective demiplanes, serving as the receptacles of yautja souls.

A yautja's afterlife will be determined by how honorable they were in life, as well as glory earned from battle. The greatest yautja hunters and warriors are taken by the Black Warrior to the Warlord, who will gift them an eternity of fierce combat, resurrection, feasts, and pleasures of the flesh. Those who live honorably but don't make it to the Warlord are still rewarded in their afterlife by the Black Warrior, but it's unspecified precisely what that entails for them. Merely that it's the lesser reward, but better than those who die without honor. Who are left behind to rot with nowhere to go, or consumed by the Black Warrior and consigned to oblivion.

A Life of Trials

Yautja have many trials throughout their life to determine their worth. But the first dangerous one is their final trial before they are considered adults and able to join a clan as unblooded students- the Trial of Quatza-Rij. Originally a hunt of one of the most dangerous wild animals of the yautja home world. Today, the target can be any individual creature designated the target of the hunt by a clan leader.

The Trial of Quatza-Rij is undertaken by a trio of young hunters who must prove not only their own skills, but their abilities to cooperate and work as a team to fell the beast. And on a success, they are welcomed into a clan by its leader, who dons a mask made of Quatza-Rij hide and bones for the ceremony. The three-dot triangle of the yautja reticle isn't just for triangulation, but is also a symbol of this kinship through the trial and its lessons.

After this, on their home plane the young bloods would be trained by their clan leader and the clan leader's honored blooded warriors for years, until the time comes for a new blooding hunt. It differs slightly from clan to clan, but on the blooding hunt the unblooded hunters are given their first, piecemeal set of armor and basic weapons. They were also usually supplied with a firearm. They were set against a pre-determined number of xenomorph drones, and those who not only survive but manage to kill a xenomorph are blooded. The final rite of passage into the clan, recognition as a warrior. Blood from the xenomorph's finger was used to burn the symbol of the clan onto the hunter's forehead.

Mystical Blood

Yautja blood has a few different unusual properties to it. The most obvious of these features would be that it is a light green color and glows, but will dim to a dark, drab green which is sometimes seen mixing among their glowing blood. Another is that eating the flesh or blood of a yautja has been found to have rejuvenative properties on shorter-lived species.

Human beings have lived for hundreds of years by consuming yautja flesh, with little to no signs of aging. But once killed, it's as though time catches up with them. They swiftly age, die, and dryly dessecate. Some have turned to dust when killed, and left behind delicate bones that crumble with minimal effort. Obviously, yautja find serial offenders of the consumption of their flesh abhorrent. But they're often willing to look the other way if the meat is claimed by the victor in honorable combat.

Medieval Fantasy Adaptations (Differs from Simplified)

If you choose to bring your yautja campaign into the realm of medieval fantasy, it is recommended that you figure out how the clan has adapted these rituals now that they aren't a space faring race. Especially since it's been pretty well established that xenomorphs can and will very quickly overrun even a technologically advanced world, so if yautja are trapped on a fantasy planet there's little wiggle room for any xenomorphs to be there. Here is my own attempt, take it or leave it.

Any drone that isn't a neuter will become a queen in the absence of one. So every individual survivor has a 50% chance of being able start a new hive within days. The yautja are very well aware of the dangers involved, in the home plane of the Hunter Clan their failures were responsible for the loss of countless worlds.

The Frozen Clan and members of the Hunter Clan worked together to salvage a downed yautja clanship. While it will never fly again, it had a queen on board who survived the crash, as did her chamber. On a cluster of islands roughly a two week voyage away from the mainlands, the remains of this ship lay embedded in a mountain. Caretaker outposts dot the smaller, barrier islands surrounding it. And all eggs the queen lays are sorted and stored. All queen eggs are burned immediately except for one emergency replacement egg, which is burned and replaced every few months.

For the blooding hunt, a select number of eggs are taken and released on a nearby island of the clan leader's choosing. Two days later, the hunt will begin. And it will not stop until all eggs laid are accounted for. There are several clanships lost to the ages, scattered around the world. It is a deep fear among the yautja that some day, another living queen will be found and unleashed. Most clans have a designated group of hunters known as enforcers, who primarily function to track down yautja criminals and to be ever-alert travelers, looking for signs of rumors of xenomorphs in their clan's territories.

Another thing to consider with this is how they live their daily lives. Yautja are omnivores and on their clanships, they keep massive farms and are stuck living a mostly-vegetarian life style between hunts. So it's likely that there would be yautja farmers, or every yautja group might keep their own communal gardens. They might also prefer to live in swamps and marshlands for the damp air and higher levels of methane in the air. Alternatively, maybe they take to ranching to get their meat and methane.

On the move, if they no longer have powered masks and rebreathers they could pack filters with vegetation and meat to produce methane. Though they might not care for the smell. This wouldn't be too different from instances where we've seen stranded yautja create "rot piles" in their encampments to fill their air with methane and reduce or replace their equipment's reserves.

One of the biggest transformations of culture would have to be that of the Hunter Clan. They've become a more egalitarian society- although they're not completely there just yet. Officially, the men and women are no longer strictly divided in roles among the culture. Although each band features both a clan leader and a Matriarch, with the Matriarch ranking above the clan leader but generally leaving the management of hunters, warriors, and religious ceremonies to them regardless of sex.

Yautja Names

Yautja names are traditionally a descriptor and a subject, most often an object but sometimes an activity, spoken and combined in the yautja tongue. For ease, it wouldn't be unreasonably to simply call them by the English versions of the words. Finding it difficult to pronounce yautja without a heinous accent at best, if they know it at all, most non-yautja refer to them by either another language's translation of their name, or by a nickname most often based on a yautja's personality or appearance. Yautja names are not gendered, but sometimes nicknames may be.

Native Tongue Names: A'ni-de, (No translation) Aseigan, (No translation) Bakuub, (Straight Spear) Chulonte, (No translation) Dachande, (Different Knife) Da'dtou-di, (Little Knife) Ghardeh, (No translation) Mahnde, (No translation) Nei'hman-de, (No translation) Skemte, (No translation) Tichinde, (No translation) Warkha, (No translation) Yeyinde. (Brave One.)

Nickname Examples: Ahab, Beads, Berserker, Boar, Celtic, Chopper, Enforcer, Falconer, Greyback, Hornhead, Lefty, Prince, Shorty...

Yautja Traits

Ability Score Increase: +2 Constitution.

Age: Biologically, yautja initially age at a similar rate to humans and reach physical adulthood around 20. They're not considered adults, however, until they have finished their Trial of Quatza-Rij. And they're considered young adults even in their 70's. Yautja start showing their age around 300, and if not killed can live anywhere from 450 to 700 years.

Alignment: Most yautja are very lawful in nature. They have strict codes of conduct to follow, which while similar vary a bit based on subrace and clan. Some would say yautja lean towards neutrality or evil, rarely ending up on the good side of the spectrum.

Size: Your size is medium, yet you tower over most humanoids.

Speed: 30 feet.

Infravision: You see as far as anyone else, but see in shades of red. Heat sources glow, but can rarely be picked out in specific detail beyond 60 feet. Effectively giving you a darkvision of 60 feet. Your eyes adjust and you can see minute details just as well as anyone else, and can be deceived or aided by magic. With special lenses or a Mask of Truesight, you can see in full color.

Acid Resistance: Your blood is effective at neutralizing acids, so you have resistance to acid damage.

Cold Vulnerability: You are vulnerable to cold damage.

Powerful Build: You count as one size larger when determining your carrying capacity and the weight you can push, drag, or lift.

Languages: You can speak, read, and write Yautja. A language the largely uses hisses, clicks, chirps, and growls paired with body language, with a sign language mostly used while masked. You may also understand and be able to read one other language of your choice, but how well you can speak it is up to you and the DM.

Subraces: The different subraces come from various different timelines. While they're all clearly related and parallel to each other, and they may mix culturally and exchange membership, they are genetically distinct and unable to interbreed with each other. There is another strain of predator from another timeline, which call themselves "Ultimate Predators." But due to drastic physiological and cultural differences, they would not fit in this entry, would be game-breakingly unbalanced, and would likely be mortal enemies with all the other subraces. So instead they will have a separate dedication as very dangerous enemy creatures.

Tradition Clan [Predator, Predator 2, Predators.]

Physiology: Tradition Clan yautja are the yautja standard physiologically. Both sexes can be anywhere from 7 to 8 feet tall. Females are generally of comparable size and build, though it's common for them to have broader hips. Unlike some subraces of yautja, they do not have breasts or mammary glands. Tresses are generally about shoulder length, though in rare instances they've been seen to grow all the way down a yautja's back.

Culture: Tradition Clan yautja do not having a blooding tradition and very rarely hunt in groups, although they commonly travel in them. A trophy hunt is generally meant to be a solo affair unless the quarry is just far too dangerous for a single individual to stand a chance. They constantly seek new challenges to prove themselves. But they have shown a strong sense of responsibility in matters such as enforcing the laws of the hunt, often putting them at odds with their sibling species, the Super Clan yautja. Whose clans are often much more lax on codes of conduct.

Ability Score Increase: +1 to Dexterity.

Arborial: You can perform a standing high jump of up to 15 feet, and a standing long jump up to 20 feet. You can fall up to 20 feet before taking falling damage. You are also unhindered climbing, able to use your entire movement speed for climbing.

Back in the Fight: When you are reduced to 0 hit points but not killed outright, on your turn instead of a death saving throw you may choose to roll 1d4. Add your Constitution modifier to the number rolled, and heal by that total. This consumes a bonus action and you start prone, but otherwise you may take your turn. You may only use this once per long rest.

Hunter Clan [Dark Horse Comics & Novels]

Physiology: Hunter Clan yautja are mostly identical to Tradition Clan yautja. Their males range from 6.5 to 8 feet tall, averaging at just over 7. Their females range from 8 to 11 feet tall, but are most commonly between 9 and 10 feet tall, and of broader builds than the males. The Hunter Clan females also have functioning mammary glands and breasts.

Hunter Clan males generally but not Universally have shorter tresses than the females that only reach to around the shoulders, and have been known to painfully cut them short for sex appeal. These cut tresses will have flat, sometimes capped ends. But they will grow back normally with time. Hunter Clan females tend to have tresses that reach somewhere between the bottom of their shoulderblades and their hips.

Culture: The Hunter Clan used to be ruled by a matriarchy unlike those that have formed historically among humans- their women were larger, stronger, and more prone to outbursts of aggression. And they ruled as tyrants in a world where males didn't matter, and risked their lives constantly to prove themselves worthy as breeding partners, and thus worthy of personhood.

Times have changed. Today they're much closer to an egalitarian society out of necessity, although unofficially the women still tend to have a bit of a chip on their shoulder and get deferred to. Like the Tradition Clan yautja, they are very strict in following their codes of conduct. And they adamantly enforce their laws, with punishment doled out by the clan leader or the Matriarch at their discretion. Punishment can range from a strong backhand to death, and rarely falls somewhere inbetween. Although the offender may be allowed to take their own life to redeem their honor.

Aesthetically, Hunter Clans have shown a much more diverse range of armor customization than other groups. But they commonly show a fondness for smooth, curved armor. And yautja of status often have blue, polished armor.

Ability Score Increase: +1 to Strength.

Hunter's Endurance: You can focus yourself to occasionally shrug off injury. When you take damage, you can use your reaction to roll 1d12. Add your Constitution modifier to the number rolled, and reduce the damage by that total. After you use this trait, you can not use it again until you finish a short or long rest.

Frozen Clan [Alien vs Predator, Aliens vs Predator: Requiem, and their novelizations.]

Physiology: Frozen Clan yautja average at 7 to 8 feet tall with broad builds, and their women have mammary glands and breasts. Tresses usually reach past the top of their shoulders, and are usually somewhere between mid-shoulderblade and the small of the back in length.

Frozen Clan yautja often have lower mandibles that flare further and more dramatically than other yautja subraces. As well as less stretchable, looser skin between their mandibles. Often leaving excess skin to just sort of hang while their mandibles are closed. Their lower jaw is also more "exposed" than those of other yautja subraces, with the pink gums extending much farther and blending into the jaw, as opposed to having the clear lip line of other yautja subraces.

Culture: Similarly to the Hunter Clans, the Frozen Clans have a tradition of blooding their warriors with the blood of their first xenomorph kill. But unlike the Hunter Clans, the Frozen Clans are much more lax with their rules of the hunt. Unbloodeds can even blood themselves with the blood of a kill, instead of having to have an elder or honored warrior do it for them.

Aesthetically, the Frozen Clans have shown a preference for clean, scalloped armor designs with little or no visible cloth or leather. They even commonly use loin cloths made of scalloped armored plates. Ornate and pristine capes or cowls may be worn as ceremonial decorum by a Frozen Clan member of status, and they regularly wear bladed sandals that are more decorative than functional. Their traditional armor is almost always grey.

Ability Score Increase: +1 to Dexterity.

Hot Blooded: Your body is better at thermoregulation that that of other yautja subraces, and even many other species of humanoids. While it's certainly bad for your skin and not comfortable, you have resistance to cold damage instead of vulnerability to it.

Super Clan [Predators.]

Physiology: Super Clan yautja are typically taller than males of the other subraces, averaging at around 7.5 to 9 feet tall regardless of sex. Their tressline extends further down the sides of their head than that of other yautja subraces, ending in much smaller quills forming "sideburns." It also lacks the fringes present across the crown of other yautja subrace. Tresses are also typically longer on them, usually reaching from the low end of the shoulderblade to the mid-back in length.

That's far from the only difference. Super Clan yautja have proportionately taller, rounder, and narrower heads than their contemporary counterparts. And regardless of their overall skin color or pattern, have large, deep pits over the top of their head that are almost always bright red in color. In some rare instances, they have been black instead. Their mandibles and faces in general are longer than those of the other clans, but the skin between their mandibles does not extend as far down them as on the other yautja subrace. They also have thicker, specialized back scales that the other yautja lack.

To top it all off, Super Clan yautja even have completely differently shaped and sized feet. Their feet are very short and tall, with three broad and stubby, clawed toes, a large dewclaw low on the interior sides of their ankles, and another claw high on the back of their heels. (As opposed to longer feet with four toes with sharp but small claws, a small dewclaw low and to the front of the interior side of their ankles, another, shorter dewclaw high on the lateral sides of the ankles, and a thick claw on the lower back of the heels.)

Culture: Super Clan yautja are most similar in culture to the Tradition Clans, and even come from the same timeline. They rarely intermix, however. And the Super Clans tend to be much more lax about the code of conduct. It's distressingly common for hunting parties or even full clanships of Super Clan yautja to go rogue, or "bad blood." Even hunting other yautja for sport and trophies. A fact which has left relations between even the law abiding Super Clans and the Tradition Clans shaky at best. With actual animosity mostly coming from the Tradition Clans.

Super Clans regularly go out of their way to make the hunt more exciting by physically designing their hunting grounds and transplanting their prey. They like to stoke the prey up, and even pit prey against prey. They love the chaos of it, despite their meticulous control in setting up the scenario. It's also very common for Super Clan yautja to use mechanical drones for tracking, or tamed beasts for flushing and hunting. Ranger and artificer types are widely sought after for Super Clan hunting parties.

Aesthetically, Super Clan yautja love their dark colors and browns and tend towards very little armor. Their traditional armor is mostly roughly cut leather combined with trophy parts and scarce, token bits of metal. Going very minimalist, just barely enough to hold their weapons and technology. Although now, on this plane, functional yautja tech is a severe rarity. Their traditional armor is worn tight and very rarely protrudes much away from their skin.

Ability Score Increase: +1 to Strength.

Superior Stance: You may not leap from tree to tree like most yautja, but your feet were made for standing your ground. You add have advantage on any check to push or pull an object or creature, as well as any save against being knocked back, pulled, or knocked prone.

Charge: If you move at least 20 feet toward a target, then hit them with a melee weapon attack that same turn, you roll the weapon’s damage dice twice. This can only be done once per short or long rest.

#yautja #Aliens vs Predator #D&D #homebrew

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weird-shit-i-shouldnt-like · 6 years

Text

Deal Part 1

No requests yet but they are open! Some of it based on the song Me from Beauty and the Beast the musical.

Word Count: 1391

Summary- Gaston has been annoying the hell out of Belle lately so you decide to help her out by letting her escape the Brute for the day by letting her stay at her house with you. Unfortunately it doesn’t go as planned.

“Belle, it’s y/n” you said knocking on her door.

She opened it and before you could protest she grabbed you and pulled you inside.

“Sorry for being less than polite y/n but this is usually the time Gaston comes around and” she began rambling.

“And you want to avoid him because he’s narcissistic and only wants women for their looks.” You continued as you cut her off.

“Yeah.How did you do know?”

“Well, anyone whose met the man knows he only talks about himself and I come over ever Sunday to get a new book and you complain about how insufferable he is every time.” You said smiling.

You and Belle had became friends as soon as you had reached for the same book in the library. At the delight of another girl who could read in town, she immediately struck up a conversation and found you two had a lot in common with each other.

So now every Sunday you had come over to get a new book from her and talk about random things that interested you both over breakfast. Sometimes you even had your own little book club.

Presently she had taken a liking to complaining about the brute and she felt bad about it every time she did. It hurt you a lot to see you best friend have to be in this position in the first place.

“I’m sorry I complain about him so much, it’s just I can’t stand him.” she said looking genuinely sad. You didn’t want that so you had practiced for days just so you could cheer her up and you had planned a little surprise for her when he did show up.

“I mean how could you not love me” you said flexing your arms and flashing her a grin. “I’m perfect in every way, I mean just look at me and as my future wife you must love me.”

Belle went from borderline crying to busting out with laughter. At least it was working.

You put your feet on her table and your hand behind your head. “I mean just imagine it. You, 6 or 7 of our strapping young lads stuffed with every Gaston gene running around our house playing with the dogs ,antlers all over the place and most important of all me. After all no one is as great as Gaston” You said wiggling your eyebrows at her with a wink.

“Y/n stop….. I can’t breathe.” She said laughing hysterically. You smiled at yourself knowing you did that.

You kept going for a few more bits until you both heard a knock on the door. You saw her face sink.

“Come on.” you told her.

“What?”Belle asked.

“Come on,you’re spending the day with me.We are escaping Gaston.”

She went to open her mouth in protest but you quickly silenced her. “He doesn’t know who I am. He won’t know where I live. I promise. Just grab something that could be used to cover your face if need be”

As the knocking continued, you watched her run into the other room and you quickly followed.

Your house was on the other side of town so you knew you needed to be quick but not enough to draw attention to yourself.

“Thank you for this Y/n”

“No problem. It’s the least I can do for my future wife.”

“You better not let Gaston see you acting like him.” she told you.

“Why, it makes you laugh and then he might be able to see how ridiculous he is. For example, I heard him practicing his proposal to you and it sound more like a love letter to himself than a proposal.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Oh but I am. The first words that came out of his mouth were ‘ You’ve been dreaming just one dream nearly all your life. Hoping, scheming just one thing will you be a wife?”

She cut you off. “That doesn’t sound to bad.”

“It get worse. The next words were ‘ Will you be some he-mans property. Good news that he-mans me.’ He already thinks you’ll say yes before even asking you. That’s why I got you out today. He was planning on proposing.”

“Thank you so much y/n. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to repay you.” she stopped you with the tightest hug of your life.

“You don’t need to thank me Belle. You not being that he-mans wife is thanks enough.” You giggled as you finally reached your house.

You entered and told her to get comfortable. “ I’ll go hang in your house and make sure all your chores are done for the day.”

She nodded in appreciation.

“Don’t let anyone in Belle. You can read one of my books for the time being.”

She laughed slightly. “I’m not a child Y/n. I know what to do.”

“Just don’t let anyone in and if he tries to break down the door hide somewhere.” you said closing and locking the door.

When you turned around you ran head first into something or someone. You fell to the ground and when you looked back up you realized it was just the person you were aiming to avoid.

You stood up and brushed the dirt off of your dress. Gaston was already trying to open your door.

“You know it’s locked right.”You said walking away from your small house to get back to Belle’s house.

“Wait, where are you going? I need you to unlock the door.” He said taking long strides to catch up.

“I have more important things to do than open a door for some brute.” you then turned to look at him . “Have a pleasant day Gaston.”

You also saw Lefou waiting awkwardly in the background. You looked at him with a genuine smile and also wished him a good day.

You walked the route you and Belle ran when you heard loud steps from behind you.

“How on Earth are you a hunter if you can’t even sneak properly Gaston.” You said as you continued farther.

“How did you know it was me?” He asked surprised.

“Gaston you’re the only person who would be following me for no reason.” You said turning on your heel. You looked up at him. “Can’t you just enjoy your day doing something else like walking away from me?”

“No can do Y/n. I have to be there when you open the door so I can propose to Belle.”

“That’s why she’s at my house at the first place Gaston. She doesn’t need a man like you proposing to you. She’s not interested.”

“Of course she is have you seen me.” he smirking to himself. “You’re probably just jealous that she gets to be my wife and not you.”

And you didn’t think he could get fuller of himself.

“Of course how did you know.” You said sarcastically. “If you excuse me I have to get to work on Belle’s chores.”

“Oh no you don’t. You are going to unlock your door and let me propose to my bride to be.”

“Oh and why would I do that.”

“Because I won’t let you go until you do.” He said picked you up and slinging you over his shoulder.

“Unbelievable. And you wonder why Belle doesn’t want to marry you.”

“She does want to marry me. I’m-”

“No she doesn’t want to marry you. She wants to leave town and find more in life than everyone here. She doesn’t want to be seen as some object like you are obviously treating her as.”

That made him stop and think for a moment. A dangerous thing for Gaston. “How about I make you a deal. You would do anything in order to keep Belle happy correct?”

“Yes”

“Then go on a date with me to try to make her jealous. I know she’s playing hard to get and maybe she’ll come around if she sees her future flying out the window.”

“What does this have to do with her happiness.”

“Well if you would let me finish, if she doesn’t come running back then I will leave her to the life she wants to live. If she does then you put your feelings for me aside and become the maid of honor at our wedding.”

“You’ll never bother her again if I do this.”

“I swear it on my life.”

You really shouldn’t do this. “Deal”

#gaston x reader #gaston is full of himself #batb #batb2017 #batb the musical #i wrote this late last night #i doubt anyone will read this #please gve me requests #gaston imagine #disney imagine #beauty and the beast #beauty and the beast 2017 #Gaston #Reader

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wingsofanillyrian · 6 years

Text

The Dance: Chapter 4

Summary: Everyone knows the High Lord of the Night Court is a monster. Not that Rhysand has ever cared what the other Fae of Prythian think, but when he meets Feyre, Tamlin’s betrothed, he realizes everything is about to change.

Chapter Masterlist

Branches whipped at my face as I raced through a moonlit wood. My chest heaved as I sprinted, the terror pumping through my veins pushing me on. I splashed through a shallow stream, the icy water splashing around my calves. It weighed down my jacket, plastering it to my scratched, bleeding thighs.

“FEYRE!” The cry split the silent night, piercing the thick veil of silence. It was Lucien’s voice; the Heir of Autumn. The cry sent a bolt of raw, frozen fear through me. Why? What did I have to be afraid of him for-

I caught a flash of caramel hair as I threw a glance over my shoulder.

This wasn’t my dream.

I’d slipped into Feyre’s. She must have projected it through our bond.

Stones tore at her bare feet and she stumbled, crying out in pain. Seconds later she was back up, the sound of her pursuer forcing her to run on her twisted ankle. It barked in pain with each step, her limping gait slowing her down.

Whatever was chasing her was closing in fast, and she knew it. Tears streaked down her face as she stumbled again, this time unable to get up. She scrambled back against a tree, sobbing as a creature skidded to a halt before her. It’s lips curled back in a snarl to reveal a set of sinister canines, snapping in discontent.

I realized what it was the moment it moved into a swath of moonlight. The beast was the size of a horse with a bear-like body and a lupine face. That wasn’t the strikingly recognizable feature though; it was the massive antlers that gave him away. I’d seen this beast before, fought by it’s side many decades ago.

Tamlin.

“Please,” she gasped, cowering at the base of the tree as he advanced on her like she was his prey. “Please, I’ll come home, I was just scared-“ The beast growled and Lucien stepped into the clearing, his russet eye whirring. Her eyes immediately found his, begging for his mercy. Begging him to talk to his High Lord.

“Tell him, Lucien, tell him I’ll come home.” He turned away, unable to look at her. “Tell him I made a mistake, please!” Fresh tears poured down her cheeks, and my heart ached to comfort her.

A scream born of pure terror ripped from her throat as he lunged for her, sharpened claws glinting in the white light of the moon-

Feyre jolted awake, her sweaty palm still in mine. Her heart thudded in her chest and her brow was coated in sweat. Her blue eyes darted frantically around the room. The chair groaned beneath me as I leaned forward.

“It was only a dream,” I murmured, cupping her cheek. She flinched, but didn’t try to shake off the touch. “He can’t get to you here. You’re safe, you’re free.”

Pools of blue beseeched my starry violet. Panic continued to pulse off her in waves, and I murmured reassurances as she trembled. I knew what it was like to be trapped, to have every decision stripped away from you.

I knew how it felt to be a prisoner in your own home.

I’d been trapped here by my father years ago under the pretense of protecting me. ‘You’re the heir,’ he’d tell me as he sealed the exits of my chambers. My mother begged him to let me out; she wanted me to experience everything the world had to offer. I gulped, locking the memory away and lowering my voice to repeat the words I knew she so desperately needed to hear.

“You’re free.”

“I’m free.” Her head fell back against the down pillows. She breathed deeply through her nose, exhaling through her mouth in a technique that seemed to have a soothing effect for her. I stayed with her, my thumb rubbing soft circles on the back of her hand.

“You’ve seen his beast form?” I spoke quietly, afraid to spook her. She went stiff, features contorting first in pain, then confusion.

“How do you know what I dreamed about?”

“Ah, well…” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “I’m sure you’ve heard that I possess Daemati powers.” My eyes flicked up and she nodded.

“You can read minds.” I held her gaze, and when I didn’t respond, she snarled, “Are you telling me that you barged in and rifled around my head while I was asleep?” She yanked her hand free from mine.

“Cauldron, no Feyre. I’d never do such a thing.” Just the thought made my stomach flip.

“Then how?”

“It’s a combination of my powers and our bond.”

You could hear a pin drop on the plush carpet as the silence stretched between us. She picked at the bedspread, deep in thought.

“So you knew that Tamlin chased after me in my dream because of this… mating bond.” She looked to me for confirmation. Gently, with as much care as I could, I brushed a talon of inky night against her mind. She gasped, hands flying to her head in attempt to push me out.

Too far.

I withdrew my mental claws as she gaped at me, fear and intrigue warring in her expression.

“Yes. But I want you to know that it wasn’t intentional on my part. I’m going to guess that he-“ the word dripped like venom from my tongue- “didn’t teach you the importance of mental shields?”

Feyre scoffed, pulling her knees to her chest and resting her chin on them. “Hell no. All I am to him is a doll for him to pose as he pleases.” She twisted the diamond-encrusted band that labelled her as his betrothed. “But… I was terrified to leave. And I guess now you know why.” She shrugged as if she hadn’t just admitted that she was willing to marry the male that she feared. Like that were some small detail that could easily be overlooked.

“I’m sorry for what you’ve been through.” I laid my hand on hers once more, the small touch sending sparks through my veins.

“Thank you for understanding. And for saving me when no one else would.”

“You’re welcome, Feyre. Can I get you anything?” She shook her head, and I instinctively reached up to brush back the hair that fell in her face. She stiffened under the touch, and I quickly withdrew my hand. She took another deep breath, her freckled nose scrunching up as she thought.

Gods, what a perfectly wonderful face.

“Actually...” She began, looking out through the French doors leading to the balcony, “I think I would rather like to clean up. I’m still sweaty from the club…” I nodded, releasing her hand to smooth the lapels of my jacket as I stood.

“I’ll ask Nuala and Cerridwen to draw you a bath, if that sounds acceptable?”

“That sounds lovely-“

“Rhys? Rhysaaaand!” Heels clacked on the marble in the hallway outside, the sound immediately erasing any doubt as to who was calling for me. I glanced at Feyre’s confused expression just as the chamber door swung wide to reveal my cousin.

She certainly knew how to make a grand first impression. Clad in a wine-red dress that perfectly matched her lipstick, it hugged her curves in a way that I knew meant she must have just returned from her lover’s embrace. Her rich brown eyes snagged on Feyre before flicking to me, brows rising suggestively.

“Mor,” I said cheerily, plastering a smile on my face and sweeping an arm to indicate Feyre. “This is Feyre. Feyre, this is my cousin, Mor.”

Don’t screw this up, I told her, mind to mind.

Please, she scoffed, sashaying over to us, when have I ever let you down?

I shot her a look that suggested she better not start now.

“Hello,” Feyre murmured weakly, hastily trying to pat down her bed head.

“It’s nice to properly meet you. As Rhys said, I’m Morrigan, his third in command.” She inclined her head in a slight bow, a gesture normally reserved for High Lords and their counterparts.

Feyre sucked in a breath before asking, “If you’re third in command, then who’s second?” Mor’s answering smile was sharp enough to cut steel.

“That would be Amren. Don’t know if you want to meet her quite yet though, she can be a bit cranky before her morning cup of blood.” Her grey blue eyes went wide as saucers as she turned to me, and I rolled my eyes at Morrigan.

What did I fucking say?

What? I’m only telling her the truth.

“If I could speak to you in the hall, please?” I asked her, and summoned Nuala and Cerridwen with a wave of my tattooed hand.

The twins appeared instantly, stepping through the impenetrable shadow of night in which they dwelled. A tiny gasp escaped Feyre’s lips, and she scrambled back. Her pupils dilated and her chest heaved as they twins awaited stoically for my orders.

“Feyre, it’s alright.” I took her hand once more, hoping to draw her attention. It was locked on the sisters, however, and her gaze didn’t budge. Placing my knuckle beneath her chin, I forced her to look at me. “You’re safe. They mean you no harm, I promise. No one would dare harm you while you are in my court, lest they have to deal with me.”

Feyre gulped and inclined her head slightly towards me. “Thank you.” Her voice dropped to whisper, unaware that everyone would still be able to hear. ”They must be the two you were telling me about?”

“Yes. This is Nuala and Cerridwen. They are twin sisters, and they will be here to assist you in any way you may need. You only need to call either of their names, and they will attend to you.” Her previously hollowed eyes turned fiery, a bit of the spark I had seen at the club returning to them.

“That’s all very kind, but I’m not willing to endorse slavery.”

Ah, yes. We were back to me being a monster. Morrigan stepped forward, laying a manicured hand near Feyre’s blanketed feet.

“They are not slaves.” Her eyes were pools of liquid chocolate, warmer than I had seen them in a long while. “Nuala and Cerridwen are paid handsomely and are free to leave whenever they please. They choose to stay. They’re free, just like you.”

She relaxed slightly. “Well, good.” Feyre nodded to herself, her brows knitting together. “I had my freedom to choose stolen from me in the past- I don’t want anyone else’s taken on my behalf.”

“I understand.” I squeezed her hand lightly, a faint smile playing on my lips. “Will you be alright here?”

“I think so.”

That smile grew to a grin as I followed Mor into the hall, the sound of running water filling my ears. She pounced the moment the door clicked shut behind us.

“Well, what happened?” She grabbed my face in her hand, tilting my chin upward to check for injuries. Eyes of piercing auburn snagged on my side, where my shirt was stained with blood. “And who the hell did that?”

“Who do you think?” I jerked free of her grasp, rubbing at my cheek and vanishing the scarlet stain. “Tamlin and Lucien got the best of me at the bar. I let myself be distracted.”

“I should have been there.” Mor’s eyes scanned the rest of me for further injury. Finding none, she ran a hand through her flowing golden locks. “I should’ve been there to back you up.”

“It doesn’t matter. What’s important is that Feyre is safe.”

“About that…” Mor shifted her weight, crossing her arms over her chest. “How exactly did you manage to get Tamlin to back off?”

“She’s my mate.” I leaned back against the wall, recounting the confrontation at the bar, from finding Feyre to Lucien cornering me to Feyre’s rage and terror. When I was finished, I picked at my nails and frowned.

“He won’t let her go that easily,” she remarked, mimicking my stance.

“I know. I’m worried about her. Tamlin didn’t even let her learn how to shield her mind. Do you know how easy it would be for someone to shatter it?” Someone like me. The words hung unspoken in the air between us.

“You should train her. She seems to trust you.”

I shook my head and ran a hand through my ragged hair. “No. I don’t want to push anything on her-“

The bedroom door flung open, startling us both. Feyre’s still wet hair dripped onto her violet-the same shade as my eyes-blouse. Her eyes were set and stony, flicking between my cousin and I.

“I want to train.” My brow furrowed and I stepped towards her, arms outstretched.

“Feyre, you don’t have to-“

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do!” She cried, hands clenching into fists at her sides. She squeezed her eyes shut, obviously fighting back tears and numerous memories of her betrothed. At least she wasn’t too afraid to stand up to me. I had that advantage over Tamlin, I supposed.

“Let me finish,” I requested, and she straightened before curtly nodding. “You don’t have to train; my court and I can keep you safe well enough.” She opened her mouth to protest, but I cut her off. “But I won’t stop you. I can introduce you to Cassian, he’s the Commander of my armies. He’s a bit much to take in, but he’s excellent at hand to hand combat.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, considering her options. Without meaning to, she projected her thoughts down our bond- her disgust with Tamlin for ripping away her choices and keeping her locked in a cage and how overwhelmed she felt with the ability to choose now.

“You don’t have to decide right away.” I was vaguely aware of Mor striding away as I approached her, reaching my hand to take hers, but letting it drop between us. “You can take a few days to think about it, if you wish to.”

“I don’t need to think about it,” she said, slipping the diamond ring off her finger and holding it to the light. It sparkled like the midday sun on the Sidra as she inspected it with pursed lips.

“It’s my choice.” Her eyes met mine, swirling with a mixture of nervous excitement as she pocketed the ring. I had an inkling that the gesture symbolized the end of that life for her; the end of her betrothal.

“And I choose to train.” She shot me a toothy grin, one that I couldn’t help but mirror with my own.

She was adjusting as well as I could expect, and it sent hope sparking through my veins. Perhaps Mor was right; maybe Feyre did trust me. She had trusted me enough to come with me last night, even when everything she had been taught suggested she shouldn’t.

“Then you’ll train. Cassian and Azriel will oversee it.”

Feyre tucked her chestnut hair behind her delicately pointed ear and cleared her throat.

“Let’s go meet them, then.”

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the-miss-lv · 7 years

Text

Gramander BunnyAU FicBit

On request, here’s a bit of a current fic I’m working on!

Newt knew he was strange.

It wasn’t that Newt didn’t care for the usual rabbit hobbies. Gardening was after all a vital key to surviving and making sure you had a structurally sound and pleasant burrow was also rather important. Newt did tend to them as well, he minded his garden and repaired any issues with his little burrow. It was just that, well the animals needed his help as well.

Poor things thought to be lesser creatures or too dangerous to deal with, left to fend for themselves in the forests where the predators lived.

Well, some of the creatures were predators themselves, but they could keep a civil tongue in their mouth if need be. Newt had treated many beasts that were supposed to rip him apart on sight. He had acquired a few scars over the years but again that was because they were afraid rather than looking to eat him. So he was a strange sort. But he was fine with that.

Newt kept his burrow right along the forest line where he could see the clear vast fields but also be near enough should he hear some beast in need.

“Mum wasn’t even surprised but dad still is, wondering if you’re going to move into the fields where it’s safer one day,” Theseus lamented, clearly agreeing with their father. He wandered around Newt’s burrow, poking the smoothed clay walls and frowning when he found a nest for some little creature needing a safe place to stay.

“I’m very much happy where I am, thank you,” Newt replied politely, pouring a nice herbal tea for himself and brother. “I’ve no plans to move. Ever.”

“Then why not dig deeper?” Theseus peered down the burrow hall, there were three rooms, a bathroom, Newt’s bedroom, and a guest room. The hallway ended with a large flat wall that Newt had hung a lovely bed linen turned art piece by some occamy chicks who had gotten into his ink. Eventually, he would dig the burrow out deeper and add more rooms. It would be nice to have a good large study with room to treat his animals after all.

“There’s never the time,” Newt admitted truthfully, setting the tea tray down on the table and then pausing to make sure the Murtlap with the broken leg was able to reach his water. The Bowtruckles that live among his ceiling rafters chittered at him, all pointing urgently to the nearly empty bowl of fresh vegetables.

“Come now, you all can go and do some gathering for yourself, you’ll eat me out of house and home otherwise,” Newt lectured them lightly.

“Mum thinks you might spend your entire life like this, minding animals and always on your own,” Theseus told him, flopping on the worn couch and prodding his tea.

“I might very well,” Newt agreed.

“I don’t,” Theseus replied with a calm certainty. He was rather good at reading people and managing to sound very sure and official. It was why he was so well respected in the community. “I think you’d do well with a big family, the way you mind your animals reflects that.”

Newt looked away, busying himself with his tea to cover the fact Theseus was right, Newt had always dreamed of a big family, many tiny feet thumping through his home. But by the time he did start his own burrow, Newt had realized it was unlikely he’d have any little ones. While he was a buck rabbit the nature of magic in rabbit breeds meant he could carry kits. Newt would prefer that, liking other bucks as he does. But it didn’t really matter in the end.

“I annoy people,” he admitted to his brother, a touch of a frown on his face. “I annoy them and I don’t rightly care. I don’t want to change myself, I like who I am Theseus.”

“Newt,” his brother huffed, putting his tea down and dragging Newt over on the couch so he could hug him one armed. “Newt you great big cabbage head. Finding a mate takes time, you can’t just go with the first person to come along and notices you. You have to wait for the right one, the one who makes you feel perfect the way you are.”

Newt blinked down at his hands and then allowed himself a small smile.

“Is this the excuse you give mum when she asks where her grandbabies are?”

Theseus threw his head back and roared out a laugh, still holding Newt close.

“I should, it’s a good one. Don’t worry about mating Newt, it’ll come in time. Although if you’d go to the villages or travel into the city a bit more it might help.”

Newt shook his head in negative, pulling away from his sibling. “I don’t like crowds. I’m always getting pushed around and stomped on.”

“That I can understand, you’d think a couple of feet wouldn’t be that big of a size difference but when I get shoved by a wolf, even unintentionally, I go flying. I feel for the mice and voles, anyone smaller than us really.”

The magical, as they were called, were a group of people that shared traits with various creatures. Their ‘base’ animals had no magic while there were some other creatures with magic but no magical counterpart. It was all very fascinating. But in terms of size, the magical were for the most part close to one another. However, there were differences, if their base animal was tiny they would settle around four or five feet in height. If their creatures were massive, they would be closer to six or seven. Their builds were the same, rabbits were slender so Newt was trim, never gaining broad shoulders like someone magical from a wolf or lion base would.

“Mice aren’t that much smaller than us, it’s interesting how the magic chooses the strangest things, why do we have rabbit ears and a rabbit tail but not rabbit feet? That would have been helpful for running.” Newt mused, wiggling his toes in his shoes. Magical being shared some traits, feet, legs, torso, arms, hands and heads. Some things might differ some might have more fur or less, antlers or claws, but at their core, they shared the same form.

“I don’t right now, though I wish I had some fast feet, my spells for quickness never work quite right,” Theseus sighed.

Newt hummed in reply, distracted by his niffler poking its head from its nest. He must be getting hungry so Newt pushed up from his spot to go get dinner on the go.

“Either way, you should work on your burrow a bit, make a few new rooms, mum and dad would like that.” Theseus finished his tea and settled the cup on the tray, rising after Newt to grab him in a proper hug.

“Be careful with the spring fever passing, lots of creatures are a bit crazy right now, but also, go to a few festivals maybe? Your mate might be waiting,” Theseus grinned.

Newt wondered if his brother intentionally liked to give contradicting requests. Meet new people, but stay inside where it was safe.

Really now.

“I’ll see you in the fall if I finish in the city early. If not, first thing in the spring I’ll visit.”

Newt did take his brother’s well-meaning suggestion to heart. He did want a larger room anyway so he moved the occamy art and began working on lengthening the hall bit by bit. Magic was useful but this sort of thing couldn’t be rushed. Burrows were sacred in a way, it was important to have your hard work build them up rather than just spells alone. One should sweat over the labor, hands in the dirt and clay as they created their home, their own safe space from the rest of the world.

Some burrows were made with dirt and clay, some with wood and stone, whatever material called to you. Does were the ones who made the borrows rather than bucks usually but it wasn’t wrong if a buck felt the call and made his own. No one had been surprised when Newt had decided to make one for himself. He used clay and wood primarily, building a nice underground structure into a small cliff drop. Newt was rather on the tall side for his kind so he built the roofs high and later went back and built them even higher as he found more and more larger animals in need of somewhere warm and dry to heal.

He was proud of his burrow overall, it was a bit cluttered admittedly but very well organized and carefully planned out, each little nest and bed for the creatures living with him done with intent. Even the pesky niffler Newt granted a nest in the open, just under his eye level so he could duck and check when something was missing and he needed it. His home was made to suit him and he rather liked it, he would extend it to many rooms as well, just in time rather than tomorrow.

Still, he worked on his hallway, spelling buckets to carry out the dirt as he dug with a shovel and his hands. A kind demiguise named Dougal helped Newt scoop and the occamy guided the buckets along when they got stuck. Even a family of Diricawl staying with Newt since the mama got a bit under the weather were finding stones and apparating them into neat piles. Together they made short work and so Newt started in on a study room, something big enough to treat the animals in need, high roof and wide pushed back walls. Newt worked away a bit when he could and his creatures really took to it. Even the niffler seemed to like digging away, finding shiny stones and rooting around. Magic could clear all the dirt and stones away but Newt might need it to make clay later on. So he piled it up down by the river, not so close to his borrow to give its location away but close enough to be convenient. The stones he dumped into the river itself so the water could clean them and with enough time smooth any rough edges.

During a later night, the sun setting and the dangerous of night beginning to wake, Newt took one last load of stones. He kept his smaller creatures inside, not wanting anything to pick them off. The foxes all knew Newt kept creatures and some magical beings had a taste for magical creatures, leaving traps around the area constantly. Newt, of course, destroyed every one but they still kept popping up like pests. He had been thinking about finding a nice aggressive vine plant to chase unwanted guests off.

In the low light, Newt didn’t see the blood so much as smell it. A red smoke in the water when he looked for it. Blinking Newt checked up the river and there was a slumped figure. Biting his lip, Newt collected his magic to his chest, building a careful guard in case he needed it. Heading upstream he saw the lump slowly form into someone, not a creature but a magical being.

“Hello?” He called, watching the body remain utterly still.

It was a wolf, a male wolf with pale skin and blue lips, body soaked, shivering, and ice cold.

“Oh my, come on then,” Newt pulled him from the water, grunting as he strained. Wolves were a good size larger than rabbits after all.

Once he was safe on the river bank, Newt checked him over, finding a solid iron trap on the wolf’s leg. It was bleeding sluggishly but steadily. Newt winced as the man-made iron made his magic wane, a human contraption meant to harm anything with magic. It was like poison and if this wolf had worn it too long he could very well die.

Biting his lip, Newt looked up when Dougal appeared at his side.

“Could you bring me the hammer and spike from the work shed?”

The beast went off immediately and Newt rolled the wolf onto his back carefully, pulling his own coat off and wrapping him up. Newt tried a few warming spells but the iron repelled them, stealing away all the magic it touched.

Dougal returned shortly with the tools.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Newt whispered to the poor soul, knowing it would hurt him. It was good that the wolf was unconscious for this part. Using the spike and hammer, Newt snapped the latch of the iron trap in one hard strike. It broke free but before it came loose it tightened terribly and the lurch from the strike made the wolf jerk and groan in pain.

“So sorry,” Newt apologized again, carefully getting the iron off his skin without touching it himself, using the hammer and spike as levers.

Once it was gone the wolf’s shoulder relaxed, his body taking in a deep breath, as if he hadn’t been able to before. Iron was a terrible thing for their kind, too long trapped and it would have killed him. Newt pressed warming spells to his freezing skin, gently weaving healing into the terrible gashes on his leg as well. The warming spell took but the healing did not. Newt had heard iron wounds couldn’t be healed with magic.

“The old fashioned way then,” Newt announced.

It took a bit or hard work to get the wolf to his borrow, his weight wasn’t some slight thing, wolves were really large Newt found. He could have used magic but he wanted to keep it for warming and healing. Once he depleted himself, it could take time for his body to restore it. If the wolf caught a fever, Newt would need it to help him live through the night. So he relied on his own slight strength and the help of his creatures to get the heavy body onto a cart, into the house, and finally into his guest bed. Newt was a panting mess by the end, but the wolf was safe and that was what was important.

Newt didn’t usually medical attend others so he fought a blush, averting his gaze as he stripped the wolf out of his wet clothing and then settled him under dry warm blankets. He was rather broad, a predator’s build meant for power. Newt had always secretly thought predators had a charming look about them. Lean but powerful looking, always seeming ready for any sort of physical challenge. Rabbits were meant for speed more than anything.

Once that embarrassing bit was done, he carefully cleaned the leg and stitched the open gashes closed. He kept pouring drops of a slug slime known for numbing and the unconscious fellow didn’t seem to feel the pain of his work. It was late into the night when Newt was cleaning the blood from his hands, peering at the poor wolf fast asleep in the bed.

“We can only wait now, it’s hard to know how sick the iron has made him,” Newt mused softly. Dougal listening to him and peering at their visitor curiously. Most of the creatures were in the room, inspecting their new housemate.

He was rather handsome looking, Newt mused. Dark hair and a solemn sort of face, a predator's strong features. He had a pair of dark wolf ears as well, much shorter than Newt's own long ones.

He'd noticed a tail earlier as well, a long dark thing that seemed enormous compared to the small duster Newt himself had. Really, wolves were such interesting creatures.

“Either way, we must give everyone a late dinner and then off to bed.”

And then the banged. :D

#gramander #fantastic beasts movie #newt scamander #percival graves #my fic

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captivesrp · 6 years

Photo

There is a stir about camp the next morning, hissing voices inquiring, suspicious eyes turned towards Ffrewgí and the other camp slaves. As he goes about his daily tasks, Ffrewgí feels the Gwaedwn regard him with hot eyes, curled lips. He does not care; he fetches his water and sweeps his avenues without expression.

Evening comes and Ffrewgí collects his dinner, eats it in his tent and then sleeps.

Days pass mechanically. The first hunting group returns and the next leaves. Ffrewgí averts his eyes whenever he passes Murchadh and the other ex-captives, carrying buckets of water or offal, baskets of rubbish to the refuse pit outside of the village or fresh herbs to hang in the drying shack.

Ffrewgí completes his labours silently. When it rains, the drumming speaks instead. When fog rolls in, it holds even thoughts close and quiet. Occasionally, during his hunting group’s evening sessions, Fuldryn presses Ffrewgí for answers, but the cracking voice from his mouth is ghostlike and expressionless.

The day of his own departure for the hunt creeps ever closer. When Anwen and her group arrives back from their excursion, bleeding, stumbling into the village in the middle of the night, Ffrewgí is unable to fall back asleep for the immediacy of his own doom.

The morning does not dawn but steeps slowly from black to deep blue, and when Fuldryn rouses Ffrewgí and Cydwag the air has not yet tasted even the faintest touch of the sun. The two captives follow Fuldryn as they wake Ashrille, then to a large round tent where the hunters are outfitted by another brigand. Ffrewgí accepts a bush sword and loops a length of rope around his shoulder. Cydwag asks for the outfitter’s help to secure a spear-carrier to her back and takes a longbow and arrows without comment. Ashrille shrugs into the straps of a basket and slips a sheathed knife into her belt.

Symbre meets them just as they step outside. “Five days,” she says. “Return by the sixth day or we will become concerned. Good luck, and may Grauffyd carry you.”

They move off and Symbre, and the village, disappears in the fog.

* * *

The group arrives at the back of a moss-covered lean-to, hardly distinguishable in the wet verdancy of the surrounding forest. They have been hiking for half the day; nothing new for any of the group, though they arrive weighed down and in no haste. Fuldryn has them wait as they move around to the front.

"Brân is in a trance," they whisper, coming back around. "He will have information for you when he wakes."

Ffrewgí smells pungent smoke in the still air. He rubs his nose and makes eye contact with Fuldryn.

"Dream-herb," they say with a wink. "He must be really searching."

"Searching for what?" asks Cydwag.

"Signs of the creature, of course."

"In dreams?"

Fuldryn nods. "Brân Crow-watcher, he's called. He says he connects with the consciousness of birds in his dreams---and birds see much." Ashrille snorts and they raise their eyebrows. "You doubt the prescience of dreams?"

"I don't," says Cydwag quietly.

Ffrewgí wanders a few paces away, his mind wandering further. He looks up, blinking in the fine rain filtering through the canopy above him, thinking about the village left behind. His gaze falls to his hands and he pictures a line of dark red on his left palm, the sign of the blood pact. Ashrille moves near him, picking at a shrub. She took the pact. Not for the first time, Ffrewgí wonders if he made the wrong choice; or if he had had a choice at all. He looks into the woods, watches an owl cut through the damp gloom between the trees, and thinks of Archora, and the hand on the spear. There had been no choice, and Ffrewgí cannot trust anyone who had seen one.

The distrust cuts deepest when his thoughts turn to Murchadh. The boy had been shepherding him, fattening him up for slaughter---in this case, a slaughter of hopes, an abandonment of his home and family. "I freely offer my loyalty and energy," Murchadh had said, striding forward to join the tribe of violent kidnappers. And for what? Wealth? The blood of a mystical beast?

"Ah, I hear movement," announces Fuldryn. "I think our host has returned to us. Come on."

Ffrewgí wipes rain from his face and follows the others as they move around to the front of the hut.

"Careful of the garden," says Fuldryn. They lift their trailing skirts to avoid them brushing against the various low shrubs and herbage sprouting thickly in dark soil on either side of a narrow stone path.

"Those who walk with care need not worry about dinner," crackles a new voice, and a grizzled head pokes out from a hole in the lean-to.

"Ah, Brân, I thought I heard you moving about in there." Fuldryn gestures to the children. "Here is our latest hunting party. Anything they need to know?"

Brán Crow-watcher steps fully out of his lean-to through no discernable door. He intones a verse as he walks towards the group:

Unique, she is—or he is, or they are— no creature is her like, which is of purest, iridescent white, or darkest, purest coal; which is of ungulate design, or feline—antlered, hornèd, furred, or smooth.

Reclusive as the Spring in Winter be, no words define, no eyes can find, her ageless mystery.

"We really don't know what the creature is," translates Fuldryn. "But it's probably all-black or -white and a mammal."

"Not a chair, but four-legged; not a carpet, but could make one; not a river, but produces drink for its young," says Crow-watcher.

"That's not a lot to go on," says Cydwag.

"It sort of is," ventures Asrhille. "I mean, just that it will be unlike anything else."

Crow-watcher's odd-coloured eyes twinkle.

"It is a creature of legend," agrees Fuldryn; "it should be recognizable when you see it." They turn to Crow-watcher. "Have your birds any news of the creature?"

Beads in Crow-watcher's braided hair clack against each other as he wiggles his head and smiles.

A visit from my friend the crow has told me of a sign, they show me visions, where to go, so pay me focused mind!

The crow revealed that roses will not point you in the right, though thick and scarlet thorned they fill what next the crow gave light: a thorn that stands alone upon the branch we call our home. Head for the thorn, and by the dawn, its grounded twin will gloam a point, the way for you to go. Stray not from path, for long would be your fall—the earth that shows is Radda’s speech and song, but Grauffyd’s path will hold you true until his tumbled skin, on every side surrounding you, grows green and smooth again.

Friend crow then showed me whitest bark, and stillest pond, and reeds on which—he bids me tell thee: “Hark!”— on which the creature feeds.

He also bids me tell thee “Ware!”: for danger, too, finds succor there!

After repeating his riddle once, Crow-watcher turns and disappears into his lean-to.

As soon as the children turn to them, Fuldryn puts up their hands. “I think you can figure it out, I really do. Only ask if you are sure you won’t be able to figure it out on your own.”

Ffrewgí’s mind lifts from the gloom, his interest nibbling at the riddle like a fish at bait. “Roses will not point us right,” he says. What could it mean?

“Compass rose,” says Ashrille. “That must be it.”

“Compass rose?”

Ashrille wiggles her finger in the air. “The . . . the thing in the corner of maps---shows directions.”

“My village didn’t have any maps,” says Cydwag.

“I’ve seen a couple,” says Ashrille.

“So,” says Ffrewgí, returning to the riddle, “a compass rose can’t point us in the right direction?”

“The thorn will.”

“Yeah, but what is the thorn?” asks Cydwag.

“I think I may have to answer that one. A bit cruel of Brân, that,” says Fuldryn, overhearing. They point off into the forest. “Off to the northeast is a spire of rock---a thorn, if you will.”

“I guess we can figure out the rest on the way,” says Ffrewgí.

“Good luck,” says Fuldryn. “I’m an adult,” he adds, looking at the children’s expressions, “I can’t accompany you to kill a creature that can only be hunted by a child.”

Ashrille snorts and turns away.

“Remember, five days.”

Ffrewgí and Cydwag follow Ashrille into the woods.

* * *

Tangled vines crawl over the base of the stone thorn, withered rose petals carpeting the earth beneath them. Ffrewgí gingerly runs a finger along the side of a particularly vicious looking thorn, one of thousands upon the vines.

“I think we’ve got to wait here until morning,” says Cydwag. “‘Its grounded twin will gloom the way’, or something like that, right? Like, its shadow.”

“‘Gloam’,” corrects Ashrille.

It is already evening, so the choice is not hard to make. Ashrille takes off her pack and removes its woven lid, revealing a cornucopia of foraged edibles---focused on retaining their northeasterly course, Ffrewgí had not even noticed her gather them along the way.

“I guess it’s my job to get the main course,” says Cydwag. She unslings the spears from her back and begins to string her longbow.

“You---” starts Ffrewgí---“you may want to save your arrows for the creature.”

“Tubers can be the main course,” offers Ashrille. “I found plenty.”

Cydwag allows the bow to bend back straight, unhooks the string and pockets it.

They eat, and the fresh food feels good in Ffrewgí’s stomach.

“It’ll be cold tonight,” says Cydwag. “Cold and wet. Let’s try a fire.”

Try a fire is all they do. Working together, they manage to collect a few handfuls of dry-ish tinder, but nothing with which to light it. Ashrille strikes the back of her knife against a collection of pebbles and stones but fails to make a spark.

“Wait,” exclaims Ffrewgí, tearing his eyes away from Cydwag as she attempts a friction-start, rubbing sticks together. He looks at her startled expression. “Oh, sorry, nothing about the fire, but . . . if its shadow points the way in the morning, don’t we know which way to go already?”

“West,” mutters Ashrille.

“But probably not due west.” Ffrewgí deflates. “We’re in the north and it’s not midsummer.”

“Good thing we’ve already stopped for the night,” says Cydwag, smiling. “Ah!” she exclaims, tossing her rubbing sticks to the ground. “This isn’t going to work.”

“And no blankets, either,” grumbles Ashrille.

Ffrewgí looks sharply at Ashrille. He has not slept in bedding since his capture. Perks of the Gwaedwn, he figures bitterly.

The night passes slowly, restlessly, and in uncomfortable damp. The onset of a full rain decides their abandonment of the already futile pursuit and they break their fast on a few stalks of a rubbery plant Ashrille calls Longchew.

“How are we going to find a shadow in this?” Cydwag is standing beneath the western face of the spire, looking up at the gloomy sky.

“Maybe we should just head west, and maybe a tiny bit north” Ffrewgí ventures. “That’s roughly where the shadow would have pointed.”

“The riddle warned that our path has to be precise,” says Ashrille. “On the sides of the path is Radda’s speech, apparently.”

“The god of trickery,” mumbles Ffrewgí. “Right.”

“I knew I recognized the name!” says Cydwag. “And Grauffyd is our god, of course.”

“Well, the god of the earth, anyway,” mutters Ashrille.

“What does ‘Radda’s speech’ mean?” asks Ffrewgí. “Practically, I mean.”

“‘Long would you fall’,” quotes Ashrille. “A cliff?”

“No,” says Ffrewgí, “that wouldn’t be Radda’s speech---too straightforward.”

“Fen?” offers Cydwag.

Ashrille nods. “That makes sense.”

Ffrewgí breathes in deeply, gathering his courage. “Look, we’re not going to get a shadow from the ‘thorn’---maybe for days. I can find solid ground in a fen, if our aim isn’t true from here. We have to keep moving.”

“Fair enough,” says Ashrille. “Lead on.”

Ffrewgí leads on, and before what he estimates is midday---the rain does not let up at all---they have reached the edge of a fen: tangled trees have given way to thick ground cover, which spreads out ahead of them into a mist enhanced by the rain. The immensity of his task suddenly hits Ffrewgí; the trust of his companions and the journey ahead.

Avoiding the eyes of Ashrille and Cydwag, Ffrewgí leads them forward slowly. The soles of his feet sink in water that wells up through the thick grass. He will not find dry ground anywhere in the fen; he changes his trajectory only when the ground sinks enough for the water to come up over his feet.

They move like this for a long time, traveling carefully, creeping forward.

“At least the rain is keeping the bugs down,” remarks Ashrille at one point.

Ffrewgí is thankful for that, at least. His muscles ache, half from stress and tension and half from the long day’s journey.

Night is a crawling darkness devouring the pale grey clouds when Cydwag cries out, “Tumbled skin!”, quoting the riddle and drawing Ffrewgí’s attention to a long slope ahead, dotted with the dark shapes of boulders. They are all soaked by rain and fen and, after a final push, fall exhausted onto the solid ground of the slope.

“Come on,” says Cydwag after she has regained her breath, “let’s see if we can find some shelter.”

Ffrewgí and Ashrille drag themselves up and follow after the hunter as she stumbles from boulder to boulder. Eventually, they encounter a gigantic rock with an almost smooth scoop cut from one side. Pressed against the cold stone, the ground finds they are protected from most of the rain.

“Good enough,” declares Ashrille. “I’ll forage for breakfast, how does that sound?”

Food has been far from Ffrewgí’s consciousness and, even now reminded of it, he does not feel hungry. Before he can marvel at that, he has fallen asleep.

* * *

Blowing rain wakes them in the early morning and accompanies them as they trudge through the boulders into a cedarwood forest. True to her word, Ashrille provides various roots and tubers for them to gnaw on as they travel.

They do not immediately see any sign of the riddle’s next instruction---whitest bark, they recall---so they journey along the foot of the slope and then straight along the bottom of a shallow valley, following a thin brook trickling west-northwest from the fen. They encounter no birch---what they surmise to be the white bark of the riddle---before nightfall.

“The terrain isn’t difficult,” says Ffrewgí, resting against the bole of a tree, “should we travel through part of the night?”

“What if we weren’t meant to travel in this direction?” asks Cydwag.

“The riddle gave details for the rest,” ventures Ashrille.

Ffrewgí nods. “I mean, the other groups didn’t succeed and they weren’t punished, so at worst we just travel another day’s-journey in this direction and then turn back if we find nothing.” He pauses. “Right?”

“Works for me.” Ashrille shrugs.

“Alright,” says Cydwag.

They keep on until the forest is wreathed in absolute black, then stop to sleep. Calling out to each other to keep together, they find moderate shelter beneath the spreading boughs of a stunted cedar and huddle together for warmth.

This night, Ffrewgí is kept awake by his empty stomach. He hopes its grumbling will not wake the others. The pattering of rain leads his numbing mind slowly, very slowly, to sleep. When his consciousness surfaces for a moment a movement of the stars later, the forest is silent but for the creaking of trees and the intermittent drips of collected rain losing purchase on the canopy above.

He wakes up fully to a grey dawn. He has pressed himself around the root of the tree. Ashrille is sitting up just outside the skirt of cedar branches. Ffrewgí groans as he sits up.

“Cydwag is off hunting. We’re supposed to start a fire,” says Ashrille.

They find dry moss without much difficulty, and Ashrille manages to find some pieces of flint. Sparks catch after a few attempts striking the flint against the heel of Ashrille’s knife, and she nurses the little tongue of flame with additional clumps of moss until it catches onto the tinder Ffrewgí has gathered.

They have a respectable campfire burning when Cydwag returns with a squirrel and a shaggy rabbit.

“Can I use your knife, Ashrille?”

Ashrille hands Cydwag the implement, and Cydwag makes quick work preparing the critters for roasting.

After eating, they wipe their greasy hands on their mossy seats and set off in what Ffrewgí really hopes is the same direction they had been traveling the day before. As close as matters, anyway.

Ashrille forages an earthy lunch, but before they have finished the chewy tubers they leave the cedar woods and enter a meadow.

“There’s our white bark,” remarks Cydwag.

Across the meadow spreads the verge of an incredibly bright birch strand. Ffrewgí has never seen birch trees so straight or white.

“Now for reeds and a pond,” he says, “right?”

They enter the birch forest and are dazzled by the sudden brightness. Ffrewgí cannot see the sun through the leaves, but dappled shadows play across the faces of his companions as they, too, look around in amazement. A breeze blows a curl of mist through the arrow-straight trees ahead of them and a rainbow plays in its droplets.

“If I were a magical creature I’d spend my time here, too,” says Ashrille with a wry smile.

They discover the pond after a short wander through the trees---its still, almost perfectly round surface about a dozen paces wide and surrounded by thick, rich-green reeds.

They approach it gingerly, but no creature of any kind is in sight.

“Gladhyn!” exclaims Ashrille, feeling a reed between her fingers. She drops to her knees and pulls up a handful of the reed, revealing a bundle of thick, slightly pink roots. “These’re better than the muck I’ve been feeding you today.” She hands the bundle to Cydwag, then pulls up another for Ffrewgí, then for herself.

The roots are sweet and crisp and Ffrewgí makes short work of his handful. He moves to the pond’s edge himself, pulls up reeds one at a time and eats their roots slowly. The others sit on the clean grass. Cydwag pulls up a few more reeds also.

“Should we wait here out of sight?” suggests Cydwag after a period of silence. “Maybe the creature will return, if this is its favourite watering hole.”

“Seems as good an idea as any,” says Ashrille.

“What about the danger?” asks Ffrewgí, “that the riddle mentions?”

Ashrille shrugs. “Let’s hope Crow-watcher just wanted to make an impression.”

Ffrewgí’s mind conjures up visions of Anwen’s group, staggering into camp covered in blood. He is not even sure if he remembers the image correctly, whether they had been so obviously injured. In his head, they are riddled with vicious wounds. But he does not say anything. He watches Cydwag’s arm flex as she raises herself to her feet. The sunlight glints off the wicked points of her spears. We’ll be okay, Ffrewgí assures himself.

“Let’s get comfortable,” says Cydwag, moving into the trees.

Ffrewgí grabs a handful of Gladhyn and follows.

* * *

They wait for what feels like a long time, though sunlight is still a bright golden presence in the forest as Ffrewgí’s eyes begin to droop. They have not seen anything move near the pond, mystical creature or otherwise.

Ffrewgí stirs and looks over at his companions. Cydwag has an arrow nocked in her bow, but its point is down and she is leaning back against the bole of a tree. Ashrille is idly picking at the grass around her.

“Shouldn’t the sun be going down?” whispers Ffrewgí.

Ashrille looks up from the grass, muttering, “Now that you mention it . . .”

Cydwag starts and the arrow falls from her bowstring.

“Something’s not right,” says Ashrille. She stands up, peering up through the forest’s canopy.

“Is it morning?” asks Cydwag groggily. “I think I fell asleep.”

“It’s the same day,” says Ffrewgí slowly.

Ashrille breaks from cover and walks slowly to the pond. “We came from there, right?” she asks, pointing roughly southeast. At Ffrewgí’s hesitant nod, she crouches down by the reeds. “The sun hasn’t moved since we’ve been here.”

Ffrewgí follows her eyes to the shadows, faint and soft on the moss bordering the reeds.

“Why is it sunny, anyway?” asks Cydwag, rubbing her eyes and looking up. “It's been overcast or raining every other day.”

“Every other place,” whispers Ashrille.

“Magical creature, magical wood,” mutters Ffrewgí.

Cydwag picks up her bow and makes sure her arrow is tight against the string. “Stay here. I’m going to go check if it is sunny outside the birches.”

When she comes back, she is running. “It is morning,” she gasps out. “Dawn is just breaking. We spent all evening and night in here somehow.”

Initially, Ffrewgí’s shock is that of surprise and incredulity. Then at his surroundings---magic! Then it hits him: today is their fourth day gone from the Gwaedwn village and they have only two days and one night to return within Symbre’s schedule. Two days and one night to make a journey back from a place that took them three days and two nights to arrive at.

This latter shock passes through the others, too; Ffrewgí sees it on their faces. He musters himself as best he can; cries out, “We need to go!” and heads southeast at a jog that in his panic he does not monitor for sustainability. Cydwag and Ashrille fall in behind him.

He is already stumbling to a walk as they break out of the birch forest into air noticeably cooler and greyer, despite the clarity of the rising sun through the cedars ahead. Ashrille and Cydwag pass him, turn back when he bends over coughing.

“Come on,” encourages Cydwag. “We can slow our pace a bit. We can rest before tackling the fen.”

Ffrewgí wrests control of his lungs, nods, and follows as the girls set off again into the beams of light from the east.

* * *

It is sometime late in the night when they pass through the field of boulders. They have hardly collapsed against a stone when dawn greys the sky across the fen.

“We’ll rest until it’s light,” gasps Cydwag.

The others have nothing in them with which to generate a response, and none of them are awake to rouse the others a movement of the sun later when the heat of the fully risen sun has woken a bank of steam from the fen.

Ashrille stirs first, another movement later. “Gotta go,” she says groggily, shaking the others awake.

Ffrewgí leads them through the fen. They travel more quickly than they had on their first trip through, but the journey still takes all of the morning and everyone suffers from the extra energy their swiftness requires. They do not pause on the far dry bank, however, but slog onward into a sheet of rain.

The clouds do not allow for an estimate of time remaining in the day, but when they reach the stone thorn there is still grey light in the air. Wearily, they turn further south and trudge on.

* * *

Very little of Ffrewgí is left when he and his companions finally stagger into the village in the wan half light of predawn---only his body, though not his awareness of it. It collapses in his tent and Ffrewgí only remembers the final leg of his journey when he is roused in the full morning for his report to Fuldryn.

Even then, it all seems a blur. Only a solitary, faded green reed poking his side from the waist of his pants draws into Ffrewgí’s sharp focus the reality of that birch wood.

The flickering of a silvery-blue fish darts in and out of his mind’s eye, swimming in the cool depths of the still pond.

#Ffrewgí #chapter eight

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siouxempirepodcast · 7 years

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Film Review of The Circle

I’m going to confess that I’ve never seen Emma Watson in a movie before. I haven’t seen the new live-action “Beauty and The Beast.” Hadn’t seen Aronofsky’s “Noah” or the indie films “The Bling Ring” or “The Perks of Being a Wallflower.” I have also never seen any of the “Harry Potter” films. I was already in my thirties when those books came out and had no children to motivate me to get interested in the topic of adolescent magicians. I just never got around to reading the books or seeing the films and probably never will. Wait – I just realized upon inspecting Watson’s IMDb page I have seen her in one movie: 2012’s “My Week with Marilyn” and I literally can’t conjure up a single memory of her from that film. So, I don’t know her as an actress, but I am certainly aware of who she is. I know that she’s known to be a very thoughtful and intelligent young woman who is inspiring others with her literary campaign “Our Shared Shelf.” I appreciate that Watson is an admitted feminist with a bright, creative future who wants to inspire other young women. But I’m going to admit that I don’t think she’s a movie star. That probably sounds cruel and petty as if I were bashing her, woman-to-woman. My criticism of her, however, isn’t about her looks or her intelligence. I’ll explain in a bit. In “The Circle” Watson stars as Mae Holland, a mid-twenties gal living with her parents in the San Francisco Bay area. She works a meaningless temp job for the Water Department, likes to kayak alone and perhaps relies a little too much on her handy neighbor Mercer. Mercer and Mae have grown up together, and when her car breaks down, she gives trusty old Mercer a call despite the fact that she kinda knows that he cares for her and she’s using him. Except this exchange which happens in the first scene of the movie, we know nothing more about Mae or her interests or beliefs.

Film Review of The Circle

Mae’s parents, Bonnie and Vinnie (Glenne Headley and the late Bill Paxton in his final big-screen release) are clearly just getting by. You know this because their house is dirty. I don’t mean messy but dirty – you see dirt and grime and fingerprints on their walls and light switches which are something you never see in a typical Hollywood movie unless it’s intentional. Vinnie has Multiple Sclerosis, and Bonnie spends her life in a kind of servitude to her husband who clearly isn’t being proactive with his health since he likes to drink canned beer. Suddenly Mae receives a phone call from a friend who works for a social media company called The Circle, and she’s just gotten her friend an interview. Mae is elated and eager because she’s clearly been hearing good things about The Circle for a long time. Even her parents are over the moon because they’re telling all their friends about her salary and amazing dental plan. Mae takes a simple customer service position. She gets a tour of the campus from her friend Annie, played by Scottish actress Karen Gillan (a “Dr. Who” veteran) who quite literally bounces as she excitedly shows Annie the bocce court and coffee bar and play yards of The Circle’s campus. What Annie’s job is isn’t exactly known, but clearly, she has some real responsibility at this firm and shares access to some top-secret stuff with Mae. Mae heads home one weekend to spend some quality time with family and friends, and her old buddy Mercer comes by. Mercer (Ellar Coltrane of “Boyhood”) has that scruffy-but-sensitive look on his face like you just know that he has read “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” while working on an actual motorcycle. Mae learns that Mercer is making antler chandeliers. They chat and spar, Mercer and Mae, but then she heads back to work on Monday morning. There, curiously, a duo never named come up to her to inquire about her weekend. They’re not just making idle chit-chat, mind you. They want to know why she went home for the weekend. (It isn’t explained to the audience at the inception of Mae’s career that she will live on campus). Why didn’t she tell anyone where she was going? Why didn’t she post all about the experience on social media and why, in fact, is she not in The Circle? The Circle is a social media site, clearly modeled on Facebook. It’s important, they tell Mae, that she become a part of this family. That she does not just work here but share her life with the rest of the team. Why Mae is the only human being on the planet who clearly isn’t already in The Circle is not explained, but of course, the two magpies hovering at her desk quickly sign her up for an account. Now, Mae wanders the hallways of The Circle’s campus while text bubbles appear on the screen showing her likes and comments and communications. Once, feeling particularly effusive after a video chat with her mom, she uploads a photo of one of Mercer’s antler chandeliers so everyone online can enjoy it. Except, they don’t. In fact, in this ooh-so-sensitive world that Mae inhabits, her social circle is in fact horrified. Does Mercer, like, kill the deer to get those antlers!? Understandably, Mercer cuts himself off from Mae. Meanwhile, she also submits to a rigorous and invasive health screening. She discloses information about her family including her father’s health status and is elated to discover that The Circle would like to add her parents to her health plan. She doesn’t ask any questions about this. Does she think this is a good thing? Bad thing? She continues on her merry way, ingratiating herself into the group at The Circle. She meets a thoughtful young man, (John Boyega from “Star Wars: The Force Awakens”) who seems to know a lot about what happens behind the scenes at The Circle. And of course, Mae is just one of many hyper-enthused employees who is inspired by the work being done by Bailey, the CEO of the company. Tom Hanks plays Bailey as a nod to Steve Jobs, walking casually out on the stage with his ever-present cup of regular-guy coffee to introduce new ideas and technologies to the team. Like the idea of teeny, tiny cameras installed on the beaches to ensure the safety of swimmers. Or those same tiny cameras scattered throughout a city block somewhere in the Middle East, trained to watch for a high-level terrorist. Backing up Bailey is his trusty COO, Stenton (a sadly under-used Patton Oswalt who does little in the film beyond lurking). Does Mae think installing cameras everywhere is a good idea? Maybe, although we don’t know her thoughts. But she’s smiling and happy and gives no outward appearance of her inner thoughts. And that’s my complaint, or issue with Emma Watson as a leading actress. She is a fine thespian, a remarkable young woman, a talent and a mover and shaker in the world of conscientious youth but her inner workings never come across on the screen. The greatest actors are not celebrated for their demeanor or their looks or their ability to emote. They are noted for their ability to bring us into their world, and that starts with their thoughts. The greatest actors of any generation are known for capturing the experience and making it universal. If they can’t, they’re usually relegated to supporting or character roles. Which is fine. When Mae takes the kayak out at night, unprepared and for an unexplained reason, she sets off a chain of events that will put her front and center into the issues of personal and professional privacy. She is recorded for all waking hours, with the exception of some bathroom time, so that the world will see everything she does – an idea that The Circle and Bailey/Stenton are trying to get political support for. But despite the hyper-visibility, I know nothing of what is inside Mae’s brain. The whole time I was watching this movie I kept wondering “What is she thinking?” Does she truly believe that transparency is the answer? Does she have any feelings for Mercer? Why is she going kayaking at night? What does she think is going on with Annie’s behavior? Etcetera. I hadn’t read David Eggers’ novel “The Circle” upon which this film was based but while the film does pose some truly thought-provoking ideas about social media and the privacy line between work and personal lives and the issues of global manhunts and consumer transparency, “The Circle” not only didn’t tell us what we might think of these notions – it also didn’t really explain how the so-called protagonist felt. All in all, a dud of a film. A rare miss for an actor like Tom Hanks. And personally, I think that Emma Watson should stick to rom-coms and the light, fanciful film work that she began her career with. Again, I know that sounds mean but acting is as much about the inner work as how it appears on screen, and both this film and its leading lady never take us beyond the surface.

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