#tabby hawthorne

[ilovegilmoregirls]

tabby hawthorne icons

#icons #icon #pfp #profile picture #pll #pll icons #pll icon #pretty little liars #pretty little liars icons #pretty little liars icon #pll os #pll os icons #pretty little liars original sin #pretty little liars original sin icons #pretty little liars original sin icon #tabby hawthorne #tabby hawthorne icons #tabby hawthorne icon #tabitha hawthorne #tabitha hawthorne icons #pll os icon #chandler kinney #chandler kinney icons #chandler kinney icon

[nosensedit]

⊹ ִ࣪ এ credits on twitter ִ࣪ ⌁ like or reblog if you save! ♡ ¸. • *

#like or reply if you see #like or reblog #like or comment #like or rb if u see #pll screenshots #pll screencaps #screencaps #screenshots #henry nelson #ben cook #faran bryant #zaria simone #wes pll #derek klena #tabby hawthorne #chandler kinney #imogen adams #bailee madison #pll #pll original sin

[armyangxls]

Imogen Adams / Tabby Hawthorne 1x05 Icons

Like/reblog if you use/save

#imogen adams #Imogen adams icons #tabby hawthorne #tabby hawthorne icons #pretty little liars original sins #pretty little liars #pll #pllos #pll og sin #pretty little liars original sins icons #pretty little liars icons #pll icons #pllos icons #pll os icons #bailee madison #bailee madison icons #chandler kinney #chandler kinney icons #Halloween #halloween icons #spooky season #spooky season icons

[firebirds-roost]

We posting dragon rainbows? 👀

I can only imagine the chaos that would unfold if these guys all wound up in a room together

#flight rising #dragon share #we got... #maelstrom the wildclaw #fr wildclaw #cheddar the banescale #fr banescale #tabby the skydancer #fr skydancer #brimstone the coatl #fr coatl #luther the pearlcatcher #fr pearlcatcher #hawthorn the guardian #fr guardian #riptide the coatl #wisp the veilspun #fr veilspun #spider the tundra #fr tundra

[lucidlunar]

starter for: tabby antar.

he lets himself in when he gets to tabby’s and goes straight to her bedroom once he’s taken his shoes off. he knocks lightly against the open door and smiles a little. “hi, bear.” buzz climbs on the bed and tugs her into his chest, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. / @lucidsolar​

#speaks: buzz hawthorne. #featuring: buzz & tabby. #verse: feels like home. #lucidsolar

[winterbeheaded]

242     icons     of     chandler     kinney     as     tabby     hawthorne     in     pretty     liars     :     original     sin     .         dm     @iconz4sale​     for     purchase  !

#rp icons #rph #chandler kinney icons #tabby hawthorne icons #pll icons

[unrequitedloveletter]

so, it’s probably nothing, but it’s been on my mind sometime and I can’t let it go- hug prompts! The link for those is here, and again, you can send in as many combinations as you want!

pin hawthorne with 2, 3, and 4??

Spring- Pin Hawthorne x gn! reader

okay, thank you for sending this in! I haven't written for Pin in almost six months and I missed it a lot more than I thought lol. The prompts you sent in are as listed below:

slowdancing that’s actually just a hug with swaying involved, hugs that last a long time, and “It’s been a while,” hugs

fic type- fluff

warnings- mentions of flooding and power outages in relation to snow and rainstorms, mentions of icy roads/ground also in relation to snow and rainstorms

You’d always loved it when spring graced the island, though you weren't shy of admitting your disdain for the lethal weather that late winter and early spring often brought along.  

During winter, the stables were in a relatively consistent state of snow and cold weather from September through to the last week of March. Spring always got a late start and, as you’d noticed since you moved to the island at sixteen, winter always liked to overstay its welcome.

Spring weather typically came back around between the last three days of March and the first six days of April, often immediately following a snowstorm so severe that you and Pin would have to check on the horses at least a day in advance. You'd have to get to the stables and make sure that nothing was at risk of breaking with the strength of the wind and that everything was still properly insulated to keep out the worst of the cold.

The last week of March and the first week of April were no different that year. A snowstorm picked up on the twenty-eighth of March and lasted through to the thirtieth, you in yours and Pins loft, Pin staying with his dad due solely to happenstance, as Pin had stopped in for tea and to see how things were with his dad when the snowstorm started unexpectedly. 

On the thirty-first, a rainstorm hit and Pin couldn’t get back to you because of the risk of a power outage due to the wind, coupled with the fact that the snow was melting and turning into ice that made driving or travelling by horse way too risky. 

Pin didn’t get to your loft until the third of April, waiting out the storm--which had only ended on the second, ending on a high note with warnings of icy roads, fallen trees, flooding on the roads and warnings about floods flashing in bright white against bold red on every single news station--in his old room and keeping his dad company, the two of them playing card games when the power went out, drinking cold tea and talking in some feeble effort to pass the time. 

He knew you’d be at the stables with Gabby, Zoe, and Marcus, checking on the horses and feeding them when he saw your text that morning. Instead of telling him to meet you, though, you simply asked him to run a couple of errands in your stead, and so he did.

When he got back to the loft, he’d spent the better part of four hours on his feet. He had a twenty pound bag of cat food for the two and a half year old orange tabby you’d adopted together over one shoulder, a bag with bread, ice cream, sugar and a couple of the sweets you loved in his left hand. 

He put the bag down to unlock the door, proceeded in, fed the cat--who you’d been calling Pumpkin since you’d adopted him--and put the groceries away, happy to simply stand in your kitchen for the first time in nearly a week, a song from an indie band Pin liked playing idly through a bluetooth speaker.

You came into the house fifteen minutes later, not even registering Pins presence at first. 

But then you noticed the striking blue eyes, the obsidian ring that he hadn’t taken off of his ring finger since you got each other promise rings as a three year anniversary present the year before. You saw the black hoodie that Pin always wore during the winter, the one you always stole during the spring, and you almost felt weightless.

“Ran your errands,” he said. “How were the horses?” 

“They were fine,” you said, knowing that the horses and Bright Fields as a whole had slipped from your mind entirely as you walked toward him. “Everything was fine. Nothing took significant damage.” 

Pin pulled you into a hug and felt relief flood every single part of him with the action, felt himself relax as your arms wrapped around him and hugged him as tightly as he’d hugged you. 

You’d been communicating through a combination of facetime and texting for nearly a week, and sure, that was passable, but nothing could ever beat the feeling of your body against his, your lips on his cheek and his lips on your forehead as “I love yous” and “I’ve missed yous” and “it’s been too longs” fell from your lips. 

Somewhere within the depths of it all, Pin had jokingly asked you if you'd like to dance and you'd said yes, pulled him impossibly closer and cherished the warmth his body provided as part of you devised a plan to steal the hoodie he wore.

You knew that he'd likely swap it in favor of a knitted jumper if the heat didn't kick in in the loft by the time that the temperature dropped with nightfall, and you'd simply take it then.

You would press a kiss to his lips when he asked if you'd stolen his hoodie later on, and Pin would roll his eyes as one of his arms wrapped around you and a kiss was dropped onto your cheekbone.

The slow dance you’d begun with him wasn’t really more than a hug with swaying involved, the two of you moving slowly through the kitchen, talking idly and enjoying each others presences after almost a week of not being able to hug or kiss or exist with one another. 

It’d been a while, and that was communicated with the reluctance you had when it came to letting one another go.

Eventually, though, you did. When you checked the time, you found that you and Pin had been holding each other for almost an hour.

The realization made you laugh, contentment flooding through you as Pin pressed a kiss to your jawline, arm around your waist as the two of you moved into the living room. You curled up together on the couch, eventually falling asleep in the comfort of the silence you shared. 

#pin hawthorne #pin hawthorne x reader #free rein

[cryptidclaw]

Hawthornclan’s previous leader Lightstar! 

I kinda want to edit my Nightpaw design to look a bit more like him, maybe give him some cute bat ears like his dad!

I’m going to stop hand writing my character descriptions bec I fear I will give myself carpal tunnel lol, plus I will have more space typing it out below! 

-Lightstar was the leader before Spiderstar 

-He was Spider’s mate and he is Nightpaw’s father

-He is Garlicnose’s brother

-Was a pretty good leader but not one that the majority of Hawthornclan liked, he was too kind, and easygoing. He didn't really like fighting and tried his hardest to end disputes peacefully, which is not something that most Hawthorn cats do.

- he was actually a pretty skilled fighter when it came down to it, and had been in plenty of fights, but that didn't mean he liked it. 

- he was rather naïve and quick to believe the good in others, never thinking that people would lie to him or try to do him harm.

-Spiderstar (named Spiderweb before she became leader) never loved him, but saw him as her way to climb the social ladder and eventually become leader. 

-Spider got close to him and gained his trust and loyalty, and eventually became his mate, and then his deputy after the previous one died mysteriously (she killed them, she does that a lot lol) 

- another one of his shortcomings was his trust in his sister Garlicnose’s prophecies, though he knew to some level that the visions were making her unstable, he never thought that they could be from somewhere other than Starclan, so when she would give him fake prophecies from the dark forest about how great Spiderweb was, he fully believed them. 

- Eventually after Nightpaw was made an apprentice, Spider killed Lightstar, and became leader. 

- A lot of cats know that Spider killed Lightstar, either because she told them (Swanheart, Sootstorm, Shadowwhisker and Nightpaw) or because it was just heavily implied and quite obvious.

-Nightpaw's warrior name will eventually be Nightlight in honor of his father!

Image IDs below v

[Image 1 ID: Screenshot from the Clan Generator website which reads “HAWTHORNCLAN; The Demonic and Unstable”./End ID]

[Image 2 ID: A digital drawing of Lightstar over a black background. He is sitting and is facing forward with a happy expression and a smile. Lightstar is a small, very skinny, short furred light silver grey tabby tom, with round orange eyes, big ears, and slash scars across his nose and on his body which are pale pink, along with his inner ears and nose, there is also pink around his mouth and paws./End ID]

#warrior cats #warrior cats design #Cryptidclaw's Clan Gen #warriors oc #clan gen #clan gen challenge

[the-hawthorns-ocs]

The Hawthorns Allegiances!

This is the Allegiances for The Hawthorns Kinship at the start of where the story would begin! As I post designs and character bios I will link them in this Allegiance!

Along with the Allegiances, here is a link to The Hawthorns Family Tree!

Note: this is my first draft for the allegiances, as I design the characters and continue working on the plot, things will change! I'm almost certain that a lot of these descriptions will change after I design these guys!

The Hawthorns Allegiances

The Leadership 

Monarch: 

Spider'web - a slender, long furred, black molly with blue eyes. She has several scars, notably slash marks across her face. (3 cycles, 4 moons; ~29 Hyrs) 

Vice: 

Moth'heart - a slender, long furred, white tom with blue eyes. He has several scars, most notably over his blinded eye, over which he wears an eye patch.(3 cycles, 4 moons; ~29 Hyrs) 

Soothsayer:

Spindle'stare - a scrawny, long limbed and short wiry furred, yellowy white molly with black and orange calico ears and tail. She has large round orange eyes and large bat-like ears. (3 cycles, 11 moons; ~31 Hyrs)

Warden: 

Wax'hide - a muscular, hairless, gray skinned tom with yellow eyes, and several scars. (6 cycles, 10 moons; ~43 Hyrs) 

Heir: 

Night (Trainee) - a slender, long furred, black tom with small white specks throughout his coat and orange eyes. (11 moons; 15 Hyrs) 

—

Head Herbalist: 

Worm'soil - a large fluffy, brown and cream-white tolly with one missing eye and one brown eye. (4 cycles; 32 Hyrs) 

Herbalist Apprentice: 

Weevil - a short furred black tolly with red eyes. (1 cycle, 8 moons; ~21 Hyrs) 

—

Head Guard:  

Mantis'snare - a short furred, mostly white molly with cream patches and green eyes. (7 cycles, 4 moons; ~45 Hyrs) 

Guards:

Owl'face - a light brown and white molly with brownish-amber eyes. (5 cycles, 8 moons; ~39 Hyrs) 

Fungus'claw - a short furred red tom with yellow eyes. (4 cycles, 9 moons; 35 Hyrs) 

Soot'storm - a short furred black tom with orange eyes. (3 cycles, 7 moons; ~30 Hyrs) 

Guard Apprentice: 

Geranium - a long furred calico molly with purple eyes. (1 cycle, 6 moons; 21 Hyrs) 

—

Head Hunter: 

Pine'fang - a slender, long furred, heavily scarred, graying dark brown molly with blue eyes and red pupils. (8 cycles, 9 moons; 51 Hyrs) 

Hunters:

Poison'oak - a long furred red and brown molly with green eyes. (7 cycles, 10 moons; ~47 Hyrs) 

Termite'tooth - a short, patchy furred, black tom with yellow eyes. (6 cycles, 10 moons; ~43 Hyrs) 

Shadow'whisker - a short patchy furred furred black tom with orange eyes. (3 cycles, 7 moons; ~30 Hyrs) 

—

Head Keeper: 

Plum'pelt - a short furred red ticked tabby molly with blue eyes. (6 cycles, 7 moons; ~42 Hyrs)

Keepers:

Grub'belly - a long furred cream and white molly with green eyes. (5 cycles, 5 moons; ~37 Hyrs)

Salamander'mud - a short furred black and orange tortoiseshell tom with red eyes. (4 cycles, 3 moons; 33 Hyrs) 

Starling'song - a chubby short furred black tabby molly with pink eyes. (2 cycles, 8 moons; ~25 Hyrs) 

—

Head Crafter: 

Stag'beetle - a gray and brown tolly with brownish-amber eyes. (5 cycles, 8 moons; ~39 Hyrs) 

Crafters:

Asphodel'weaver - a short, patchy furred cream and gray tortoiseshell molly with blue eyes. (4 cycles, 9 moons; 35 Hyrs) 

Possom'tail - a short furred gray and white molly with red eyes. (4 cycles, 3 moons; 33 Hyrs) 

Crafter Apprentice:

Gnat - a short furred black and orange tortoiseshell molly with blue eyes. (1 cycle, 8 moons; ~21 Hyrs) 

—

Trainees 

Heir Night (mentioned twice) - a slender, long furred, black tom with orange eyes. (11 moons; 15 Hyrs) 

Ash - a small, short furred grey molly with yellow eyes. (10 moons; 14 Hyrs) 

Bone - a hairless, pink skinned tom with blue eyes. (10 moons; 14 Hyrs) 

Aphid - a scrawny orange tom with green eyes. (9 moons; 13 Hyrs) 

Wasp - a spikey, long furred white, yellow and gray molly with green eyes. (9 moons; 13 Hyrs) 

—

Kits 

None, but Kit Season is coming! 

Starling'song and Owl'face are both expecting litters.

—

Elders 

Apple'tree - a scrawny, very old, patchy, short furred, graying, orange tabby tom with one missing eye and one green eye. (14 cycles, 5 moons; ~73 Hyrs) 

Boa'bite - a short furred black and brown molly with yellow eyes. (10 cycles, 8 moons; ~58 Hyrs) 

Bee'briar - a buff, short furred solid ginger and orange tabby tortoiseshell molly with yellow eyes, a short bob-tail, one missing front leg. (8 cycles, 6 moons; 50 Hyrs) front leg. (8 cycles, 6 moons; 50 Hyrs)

#cryptid's the hawthorns #the hawthorns #Hawthorns Allegiances #Allegiances #family tree #warriors ocs #warrior cats ocs #warriors #warrior cats #ocs #xenofiction

[cc-tinslebee]

characters that have definitely worked at a movie theater because I’ve been working nonstop for four days and I need to cope-

Robin Buckley

^ live footage of me at work

pretty sure this was made canon by Rebel Robin and it was the movie theater Steve’s friends vandalised in season 1!! I don’t know why she stopped working there but she just like me fr

hates ushering because of the amount of older people and classmates that are rude to her. box office can be similar but she only has to deal with a rude customer once in a while, so it’s a lot chiller

Van Palmer

I wholeheartedly believe she worked in a movie theater pre-crash, by sheer proximity of her little video store in the adult timeline. TaiVan movie theater dates are real to me </3

gets sleeby at box office but enjoys ushering and concessions because there’s the most to do. Definitely doesn’t sneak Tai and Nat in through the back of the theater and slip away from work to visit them

Mindy Meeks-Martin

She would eat UP those free/discounted movie tickets working at a movie theater gives you. She def used that to take Tara and Amber to see Nope 🫶

video stores are dead (rip) so this is the self fulfilling Meeks prophecy (gotta fill out those parallel the original requirements y’know). Had a ill-fated co-worker romance as is tradition

Randy Meeks

He worked at one for, like, a summer, and decided he liked working at the video store WAY more (why get free theater tickets when you gets discounts on renting movies you can watch over and over again?)

Liked box office the most so he could talk to customers about their movie choices, either complimenting them on their taste or maybe not-so-silently judge them. Stu, Sidney, and Tatum (occasionally just Stu and Billy) would always come to his theater to terrorise him (lovingly)

Richie Kirsch

also eats up those free movie tickets. felt bad about not giving money to the franchise he loves when he went to see Stab 8 but after leaving the theater furious and disappointed, his tune about that def changed

Richie’s capable of being a charming (if not awkward) guy, so he definitely did great at being a greeter. Richie in the box office is pretty similar to Randy, enthusiastically talking to customers about the movies they’re seeing (though he’s a little more quiet with his disapproval lmao). He’s the epitome of “if you see me at work, do not trust that mf. That’s work Richie. I go to work, put on a smile, and just black out.” me fr

Tabby Hawthorne

another canon one but she and Mouse are the only mfs I could stand in this show and I can confirm local small theaters don’t do background checks smh 🤦 if you or a person you know has been personally victimized by a weird male employee at your local movie theater you may be entitled to financial compensation

Lester Averman

I was about to say Guy but then I remembered Averman canonically worked at a theater in D2!!!!

I’m gonna assume he worked at someplace big and fancy like AMC, so he probably shifted between concessions, greeter, and usher. BITCHES about working usher (his co-workers are so sick of him fr) because despite doing hockey, the soreness half way through a shift is real. Gets put up front as greeter the most, snoozes whenever he’s put in box office. He likes working concessions the best (and definitely doesn’t steal food from the company)

Guy Germaine (+ Connie Moreau)

fuck it, these two join Averman next summer at the movie theater and terrorise their co-workers by being so obnoxiously in love (martial problems? Never heard of her)

Guy is a naturally charming greeter (to Averman’s eternal annoyance) and customers absolutely adore him. Connie can’t be in box office anymore because she refuses to take shit from rude customers (and Guy just gets mildly annoyed, and Connie jumps to his defense). So now Connie just bounces between the different shifts, kinda favours ushering because she finds it (mostly) chill.

Eric Bemis

^ more live footage of me at work

Eric is a concessions guy and if he works at a big theater like AMC he’s certifiably insane, I hate that part I hate it here. Definitely can get overwhelmed by it but he prefers it over the strain of working usher and the rude people are mostly up at box office and he’d end up so anxious, he’d let minors into R-rated movie. Rip king fly high 😔🕊

will probably update if I think of anymore but thanks for indulging my ramblings

#movie theater #robin buckley #stranger things #scream #mindy meeks martin #Mindy meeks #yellowjackets #van palmer #vanessa palmer #randy meeks #stu macher #billy loomis #tatum riley #sidney prescott #richie kirsch #tabby haworthe #pretty little liars original sin #the mighty ducks #lester averman #Les Averman #guy germaine #connie moreau #guyconnie #eric bemis #santa clarita diet

[healing-fire--rewrite]

Howling Wind Culture

Values--

Tradition, Collaboration, Honesty, Wisdom, Hospitality

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Religious & Political Beliefs--

Wind Sect cats believe they are the closest to the Stars because of the proximity to the moonstone, and the fact that their territory is the most open to the sky. As such, the punishment for codebreakers is generally pretty harsh.

Leaders in the Wind Sect like to hear out the opinions of the entire Sect when making big decisions. When the Sect is particularly divided on a subject, the leader will call for a casting of the stones- a vote. The only cats banned from this vote are kits and very new apprentices.

This Sect is the least tolerant of half-Sect kits. The parent of the kits (and the kits themselves) are usually exiled, and sent to live with their partner. This doesn’t happen all the time- Wind Sect has, on occasion, allowed half-Sect kits to stay. The only exception to this rule is when the non-Wind Sect parent isn’t a part of any Sect at all; it isn’t seen as breaking the warrior code, since the code only bans specifically cross-Clan relationships.

While the warrior code isn't really discussed among the Sects (out of mutual acknowledgement that it would probably end in an all-out war on account of how differently each Sect interprets it), Wind Sect healers and advisors have been well-known to cut ties with advisors who they know to have children. Because of this, advisors with kits will often avoid talking about them when near Wind Sect cats. Most of the other healers see this as snooty, cruel behavior, but Wind Sect cats sees it as upholding the code.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Physical Traits--

These cats are generally tall, thin, and lithe. They tend to have lighter pelts- golds, browns, and greys- long tails, and large ears.

A tall, thin-furred cat is the beauty standard in the Wind Sect, and marbled tabbies are also considered very sexy.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Territory & Landmarks--

A vast moorland covered in heather and gorse. There are a few rocky outcroppings here and there, and a couple dips and hills, but the territory is mostly flat.

The Shadowed Hollow - A shallow hollow pressed against the camp. It’s ringed by heather bushes, and patches of gorse, tall grass, and smooth stones line the slopes. A large stone sits at one side of the hollow, and the ground has cool, loose soil.

Abandoned Badger Set - A set of tunnels once used by a badger, a sandy hole in the earth shielded by clumps of heather. Apprentices are often trained here, as it’s a good place to catch rabbits.

The Gorge - A deep gorge cut by the river in the terrain, bordering River Sect territory. Apprentices are forbidden to go near it.

Farm - The northwest border of the territory is marked by a farm, built and guarded by Wind Sect cats. There’s an area for chickens and one for sheep, and the Wind Sect gathers feathers and wool for weaving and eggs for food.

Outlook Rock - A large granite rock on the border heading towards Fourtrees. From here, everything can be seen across the moors. Apprentices are taught to sit and watch what’s happening on the moors without getting distracted.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Camp--

A well-hidden dip in the ground, said to have been scooped out by Lady Windrunner. It’s hidden by a thick tangle of gorse and heather bushes. There's a whole tunnel system below their camp that runs from burrow to burrow, and has multiple escape routes, all dug out and maintained by the warriors and apprentices of the Sect. Plenty of Wind Sect cats choose to sleep outside, though, preferring the comfort of knowing their ancestors and gods can see them.

The nursery and healer’s den are carved out of the gorse wall, their entrances hidden with large heather bushes and a hawthorn tree with low branches. A smooth, flat stone sits inside the healer’s den, and is used to grind herbs.

A large, jagged piece of granite, known as the Tallrock, sits in the center of the camp, and the leader calls for meetings from there.

Nests aren’t common in Wind Sect, cats preferring to weave blankets and coverings instead, but when they are made, they’re woven from tall grasses and made soft with rabbit and weasel pelts.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Prey--

Rabbits & hares

Stoats & weasels

Birds (grouse, quail, pipits, swallows, etc.)

Chickens & chicken eggs

Bird eggs

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Predators & Dangers--

Foxes

Stoats & weasels

Badgers

Dogs

Wolves

Owls

Hawks

Eagles

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Trade--

Weasel, stoat, & rabbit pelts

Sheep wool

Woven grasses, heather, & gorse

Moor herbs

Chicken eggs

Large woven blankets

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Creative Skills--

Wind Sect music is high-pitched and often described as haunting.

While other Sects are fully capable of weaving, the Wind Sect uses this skill for more than nests and den-making. They weave blankets and tapestries, and are the only Sect that makes use of plants to dye things.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Naming Traditions--

Wind Sect parents like to name their kits after plants (Barley, Hay, Oat), moor animals (Hawk, Hare, Fox), and actions (Jump, Hop, Pounce). While most other Sect cats will shorten the names of cats they’re close to (like calling your brother Commonclaw “Common” instead of his full name and title), the Wind Sect doesn’t. Calling someone by just their name when they also have a title is a slight, and basically like saying that you don’t see them as a full Sect cat.

Titles are chosen by apprentices at their warrior ceremony. They announce to the Sect what their full name will be, and the leader and close loved ones will either accept and agree, or refuse and pick one for them. No one particularly wants their title to be rejected, so a lot of consideration goes into this, and they ask the opinions of good friends. Occasionally, a leader will ask an apprentice to explain their choice, which often leads to a burst of anxiety and “oh no are they going to reject it”.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Important Names--

Gorse, Granite, Heather - Used primarily for weak and/or sickly kits or kits born in rough times, in hopes that the name will draw the Wind Star’s love and protection and help the kit grow big and strong

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Taboo Names--

Owl - owls are seen as omens of death in the Wind Sect, so naming your child “Owl” is essentially naming them “Omenofdeath”. No bueno.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Titles--

The Shining Star - Signifying a Wind Sect leader

Breeze - Given to warriors and healers who have done something exemplary (such as discovering a new herb, or saving a litter of kits from certain death)

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Common Nicknames & Idioms--

“Bunny” is an affectionate nickname parents often call their kits, and “Little Stoat” is an affectionate term for a young cat who is particularly mischievous.

"They're polishing a rock" - Being slow, wasting time, and/or being lazy.

"You certainly cast a shadow" - You… can't really do much.

"What's good for the fox is bad for the hare/rabbit" - What works for you doesn't work for us/them.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Superstitions--

It's good luck to weave flowers and feathers into a pregnant queen's nest, particularly heather (for Lady Windrunner), gorse (for Gorsestar), and hawk feathers (for Lady Hawkfoot). These are typically given by mates and close family members, and the more flowers and feathers there are, the healthier and stronger the kits are supposed to be.

Corvids like crows, ravens, and magpies are seen as helpers- they can guide hunters to a clump of hares or rabbits, and all they ask in return is a piece of prey or two. They're also some of the only animals that can learn to speak Cat. It’s seen as immoral to kill them for these reasons.

Owls are omens of death, and must be chased off the territory before sickness falls upon the Sect.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Funerals & Mourning--

Funerals here are shorter than in the other Sects. The body is dressed and final goodbyes are said, and then the body is taken by the elders to be laid to rest. Unlike the other Sects, Wind Sect bodies are never buried, instead laid to rest in the open. Burying the body under the earth is said to trap the spirit forever.

Wind Sect cats in mourning try not to linger on their grief, out of fear that their emotions will summon their loved one's spirit and keep them from Stars. Any stories about the deceased will not be told for at least two days, to ensure that their spirit is safely tucked away in the Stars. Only then can their loved ones truly feel and express their grief.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Accent--

The Wind Sect accent is sharp and pointed, with a lot of emphasis on the letters T and S. It has also been described as sounding like a hiss.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Miscellaneous Tidbits & Fun Facts--

Common fears among Wind Sect cats are claustrophobia and being trapped where they cannot see the sky.

The Wind Sect is bluntly honest. If you aren't prepared to hear something you don't like, then don't ask a Wind Sect cat. Because of this, they find it difficult to understand when (or why) someone is lying to them, which makes them come off as gullible and easy to manipulate. Also because of this, dishonesty is harshly punished within their Sect.

Heavily sarcastic. They’re very deadpan, and that combined with their blunt honesty often leads to confusion with the other Sect.

It was Swiftfoot, alongside Mossheart of the Shadow Sect, that created the half-moon truce and the “no killing cats in battle unless absolutely 100% necessary” law. While he’s widely forgotten by most Sect cats, healers and advisors remember him as the Timeturners’s assistant, and believe that he helps give prophecies and omens through fire.

Although the Wind Sect regards the warrior code very highly, they also value hospitality. Any cat who is given sanctuary must be treated like honored guests, no matter what Sect they're from, or if they're even from a Sect at all. There's a group, the Travelers, that show up every spring and live with the Howling Wind Sect for a few months before leaving again. Young Wind Sect cats are often caught off guard by their arrival, and any poor behavior is quickly corrected by the older cats.

.

WindClan tracks the stars and names constellations and learn how to navigate by them. They even have their own little zodiac system!

The Adder - Those born under the adder constellation tend to be skilled hunters with lightning quick reflexes. Positive Traits; Ambitious, Dedicated, Purposeful. Negative Traits; Suspicious, Secretive, Aggressive. Born January to March.

The Hare - Many great leaders were born under the hare constellation, and they’re said to be the quickest and most agile in all the Clans! Positive Traits; Curious, Wise, Responsible. Negative Traits; Hesitant, Timid, Shy. Born April to June.

The Hawk - These cats are fiercely protective, and make great warriors and nurses. Positive Traits; Intelligent, Strong, Protective. Negative Traits; Ruthless, Strong-Willed, Aloof. Born July to September.

The Stoat - Cats born under the stoat constellation are wickedly intelligent, but often struggle to fit in and get along with their Clanmates. Positive Traits; Analytical, Energetic, Adaptable. Negative Traits; Unsociable, Sly, Domineering. Born October to December.

#wind sect #worldbuilding

[nosensedit]

⊹ ִ࣪ এ credits on twitter ִ࣪ ⌁ like or reblog if you save! ♡ ¸. • *

#like or reply if you see #like or reblog #like or comment #like or rb if u see #icons without psd #icons sem psd #icons with fans #series icons #series #imogen adams #bailee madison #bailee madison icons #tabby hawthorne #chandler kinney #chandler kinney icons #minnie honrada #malia pyles #malia pyles icons #pll original sin #pll icons #pll

[honey-minded-hivemind]

And rooting itself in final place as number ten of the 🐉Wings of Fire aus names lists are...

The 🌲LeafWings🍂!

The X-Men Members:

• Charles Xavier/Professor Xavier: Xanthium

• Ororo Munroe/Storm: Oleander

• Logan Howlett/Wolverine: Walnut

• Scott Summers/Cyclops: Sumac

• Jean Grey/Marvel Girl/Phoenix: Juniper

• Hank McCoy/Beast: Hawthorn

• Anne-Marie/Rogue: Mahogany

• Remy LeBeau/Gambit: Redwood

• Kitty Pryde/Shadowcat: Pecan

• Kurt Wagner/Nightcrawler: Nightshade

• Jubilation Lee/Jubilee: Lily

• Evan Daniels/Spyke: Spruce

• Bobby Drake/Iceman: Mandrake

• Piotr Rasputin/Colossus: Columbine

• Illyana Rasputin/Magik: Iris

• Rahne Sinclair/Wolfsbane: Wolfsbane

• Samuel "Sam" Guthrie/Cannonball: Calla

• Roberto da Costa/Sunspot: Sundew

• Danielle "Dani" Moonstar/Mirage: Mistletoe

• Laura Kinney/Wolverine 2.0: Laurel

•Tabitha "Tabby" Smith/Boom-Boom: Tansy

The Brotherhood:

• Erik Lehnsherr/Magnus/Magneto: Magnolia

• Raven Darkholme/Mystique: Holly

• Victor Creed/Sabretooth: Cedar

• Pietro Maximoff/Quicksilver: Poplar

• Wanda Maximoff/Scarlet Witch: Willow

• Mortymer Tonybee/Todd Tolansky/Toad: Sycamore

• Fred "Freddy" Dukes/Blob: Bloodroot

• Lance Alvers/Avalanche: Larkspur

• St. John Allerdyce/Pyro: Pine

(I believe this has grown its' way to the end... but we have one more bud to bloom before this is over, and it is the...)

• Reader/Bby: Ginkgo, Oak, Banyan, Maple, Beech, Palm, Elm, Chestnut, Birch, Hickory, Eucalyptus, Yew, Fir, Ivy, Sumac, Snakeroot, Hellebore, Foxglove, Crocus, Saffron, Poinsettia, Snowdrop, Hyacinth, Azalea...

#honeycomb thoughts #platonic yandere marvel #yandere platonic marvel #platonic yandere marvel x reader #platonic yandere xmen #yandere x-men #platonic yandere #platonic yandere x reader #🐉Wings of Fire AU #🌲LeafWing🍂 AU

[moniquehazel]

UNDER PETALS OVER THORNS - SHORT STORY

When the townsfolk of Spindle wanted to bury a secret, they brought it to the Fewin’s garden for safekeeping.

Jilted suitors handed over gleaming engagement rings to be buried deep in the soil. Children left broken treasure at the garden gate—mother’s smashed chinaware and father’s cracked pocket watch from a rowdy game of Timekeeper during recess. The evidence of illicit affairs were delivered in the post, lust and disloyalty hidden in the depths of the forever blooming garden.

For a small fee, the good and bad secrets were never to be unearthed. The Fewin family had tended to their garden for centuries, nurturing nature and shepherding secrets.

Dawn caressed the tops of the trees, dapples of sunlight reaching Marjorie Fewin through the foliage. She knelt on the dewed grass, tenderly burying the corpse of a tabby cat.

The darling dead creature had been left on her doorstep, wrapped in a knitted blanket. Though there had been no note of explanation, Marjorie knew the cat had been accidentally killed by a curious child, fingers curling too tight around a tiny throat.

Like the good and dutiful garden keeper she’d been raised to be, Marjorie took the bundle to the garden behind Flower Marrow as dawn stealthy approached. She chose a nice spot by the pastel-coloured sweet peas, never judging the secrets she buried.

While packing the familiar dirt back into place, Marjorie heard her departed grandmama’s soft voice like a whisper on the breeze. It slid over the bark of a fruiting tree. The garden belongs to us, and we belong to the garden.

At twenty-three, Marjorie was the only Fewin left in Spindle. With her older brother travelling overseas, she alone tended to the family garden and managed Flower Marrow. Burying secrets wasn’t a lucrative business, and about four decades ago, one innovative Fewin had converted the family cottage into a quaint inn.

Satisfied that the cat was resting under the sweet peas, Marjorie stood and surveyed the garden. It had once been lavish and neat—trees preened and grass narrowly cut, flowers and herbs ordered by colour and weeds plucked daily.

With only two hands to care for it, the garden was more unruly now. Wild and flourishing and utterly gorgeous. Marjorie liked to think of it as a petal labyrinth, not that she could ever get lost in it. She’d grown up in this garden. Knew where to place her footsteps, knew which petals were the softest and which thorns always tried to prick her green thumb. She could grow herbs out of season and never had problems with hungry snails. Marjorie was just like every Fewin that had come before her, all descending from Evangeline Fewin, who’d planted the first seed under a Harvest Moon.

The townsfolk of Spindle considered the Fewins strange and magical, their suspicion riper than the bounty of fruit perpetually available in the garden. But that never persuaded anyone away when a secret pinned their ordinary lives.

No clouds littered the stretch of morning sky, but Marjorie’s skin felt tight like new leather. She rubbed a dirt-streaked palm down a forearm, counting the gooseflesh. It was the same number as the blueberries she’d collected in her woven basket on the way to the sweet peas. A deep-rooted instinct told Marjorie a storm was developing beyond her eyesight, promising trouble.

But trouble would have to wait until after breakfast. Marjorie collected oranges for fresh juice, apples for a baked dessert, and carrots for a roast. Her basket was heavy against the swoop of her hips as she continued to harvest valerian and passionflower for a tea she liked to sell on Market Day in town along with jam.

Flower Marrow was a three-story cottage house. The thatched roof was dark with age and in need of repair, and the cream bricks were bordered with tendrils of ivy. Paint peeled from the front gate in ribbons and bells chimed over the threshold. Potted plants sat by the door—ginger for weary travellers, hawthorn to gladden hearts, mint for hospitality and lavender for luck.

Marjorie entered through the backdoor, stomping her laced boots on the threadbare mat. She left the door open for the breeze to bring in the enchanting scent of the garden.

After washing her hands, Marjorie began to prepare breakfast, still having an hour before Agnes wandered down from the second-floor guestrooms to the smell of burnt coffee.

The cottage hadn’t been fully booked out in years, and the clientele were honeymooners and vagabonds. Even with only one guest, Marjorie made quite the spread. Soft-boiled eggs, fried bacon and garlic mushrooms in butter sauce. Homemade sourdough with fruit preserves along with squeezed orange juice.

Having spent too long ordering her herbs, Marjorie hurried through her morning dressing routine. She brushed her sunlight blonde hair smooth, fixing half of the long curtain up with two old mother-of-pearl hairpins. She cleaned the smudges of dirt from her cheeks and pulled the strings tight on her half-boned stays—cream to match her ruffled dress and embroidered with green flowers.

Everything was ready by the time Agnes shuffled into the kitchen in a silky dressing robe, including the steaming mug of burnt coffee the elderly woman favoured.

“Good morning, Agnes,” Marjorie said brightly, refolding a cloth napkin.

The woman was all well-earned wrinkles and silver hair knotted with rags for curls as she took a seat at the kitchen table. “Morning, dearie.”

“How did you sleep?”

“Like a lamb.” Agnes eyed the table laden with food. She reached for her burnt coffee already sweetened with three sugar cubes. “You really must not cook so much for me. You spoil me every day.”

While Marjorie adored Agnes and loved cooking for her, the extra food was a stark reminder that only one guest dwelled at Flower Marrow. Too many secrets in the garden and not enough guests in the cottage.

Her brother would urge her to charge more for secrets, but the Fewins had never raised the cost. It had always been whatever you could pay. Sometimes it was a handful of golden coins or dull pearls found at the bottom of a jewellery box. Children often left toffee squares and loose teeth. Single mothers would leave buttons and pieces of fabric that Marjorie would use to fix up her clothes. Once a man left a book on constellations and she learnt all about the stars.

“Who are you spending the day with today?” Marjorie asked, leaning a hip against the counter. Agnes spent a month of spring every year at Flower Marrow workshopping a new novel. Marjorie had a whole shelf in her bedroom dedicated to the writer.

“I thought of a new chapter for Heath during the night,” she explained, tapping open an egg with a teaspoon. “Haven’t written for him in a spell.”

“Has Heath declared his love for Nadina yet?” Marjorie prodded eagerly.

Anges smiled cunningly. “No, but he is choking on it quite deliciously.”

“I look forward to reading about his angst.” Marjorie glanced out the window instinctively, seeing the garden doused in sunshine. Soon clouds would shroud the garden and darken the world with waterlogged turmoil. “Best to write indoors today.”

Agnes crooked an eyebrow. “Why is that, dearie?”

“A storm is coming.” She turned away from the window with an unworried smile, playing the perfect hostess. However, her stomach roiled with the knowledge trouble was coming like an unwanted visitor. But a place such as Flower Marrow couldn’t have unwanted visitors.

#

The storm held back for hours like it didn’t want to ruin a timid spring day. But despite its honourable resistance, the sky became bruised by violent clouds the colour of blueberries about to burst. Then it descended onto Spindle something fierce.

Rain hammered at the windows. Wind lashed at the ground with talons. The walls of the cottage groaned under distress and water leaked from the weak points in the thatched roof. It was no doubt the worst storm Spindle had seen in a very long time.

Marjorie bunkered down with Agnes in the parlour to wait out the storm, having a meagre dinner of cheese and cold meat by candlelight.

“Tell me the story of Evangeline Fewin,” Agnes said, hands cupped around a warm mug of hot chocolate. Regardless of the seething storm, this was a regular night for the two women.

“At this point, I think you know the story better than I do,” Marjour said, curled on an upholstered armchair. “You could definitely tell it better than I.”

“Only a Fewin should tell this tale, dearie. Come on, indulge an old lady,” Agnes cajoled.

Always meek and wanting to please, Marjorie easily relented. She readjusted her position, tucking her stockinged feet beneath a cushion. The story of her family legacy was a tapestry in her blood. Threads that linked each Fewin together with that spellbinding garden.

The story unravelled from Marjorie’s tongue as lightning filled the slick windowpanes and thunder clapped. Her words were sweeter than the stain of hot chocolate on the rims of mugs shaped and glazed by a great aunt.

“Near two hundred years ago, Evangeline bought a patch of barren land on the outskirts of Spindle. Not even the thorniest of weeds grew in the dry dirt. But she was a clever and cunning hedge witch, and pored over her grimoire until she found a spell that would rejuvenate the land. It was a simple spell.”

Anges chuckled. “Because witchcraft is simple.”

Marjorie smiled because witchcraft was simple. So simple she didn’t even consider herself a witch. She was just a young woman in love with a garden. “There was a month before the next Harvest Moon,” she continued the story. “Evangeline used it to seek the perfect seed. And when the moon was yellow and swollen, she sliced her palm open wide, whispering a chant so it wouldn’t fall on listening ears. Then she buried that singular seed with bloody hands.”

Over the years, that chant had become something of a folksong to the Fewins. Whispered on quiet nights when the stars were awake and wanting above flowers that only bloomed in the dark. Murmured on sunny days spent toiling around, hands deep in the cool dirt. Under the petals, over the thorns. Salt of earth, marrow of bones.

“Evangeline stayed out there all night after the earth had eaten that seed whole. Just waiting. Eventually, she fell asleep, blood in the dirt and dirt in her blood. She woke on a bed of lush grass,” said Marjorie, thinking of all the times she’d fallen asleep safe and sound in the garden when she was a child.

“A little garden had bloomed while she’d slept,” Anges concluded with a delicate hum. She sipped thoughtfully at her hot chocolate.

Marjorie nodded. “A garden that would continue to grow forevermore.” She didn’t need to glance outside the water-washed windows to know the garden was out there, drowned and drooping beneath the strength of the storm. Thunder faithfully followed lightning.

“Where is Evangeline’s grimoire now?” queried Agnes.

“It’s never been found,” Marjorie said nonchalantly. “Grandmama believed it was buried somewhere in the garden. Hidden away from the world like all the other secrets.”

Agnes was downhearted. “That’s unfortunate.”

Marjorie wasn’t sure she agreed with the old writer. She knew the power of secrets, knew they were kept underground for a reason. While numerous descendants had searched futilely for Evangeline’s grimoire, perhaps it was for the best that it was lost. Because if it held the instructions for a garden that ate secrets and never died, what else did it contain between its ancient pages?

The women talked for another hour. The puddle of melted wax on a chipped teacup saucer marked the late hour. Agnes retired with a yawn, the staircase creaking under her slippered feet.

Marjorie collected the dishes and cleaned the kitchen. The night was wasting away but she was in no rush to return to her cold and empty bed. She thought about what to make for breakfast tomorrow. A parcel of pork sausages still sat in the icebox—she could grill them with some globe tomatoes.

Claws scratched against the backdoor, breaking Marjorie from her thoughts. A shrill mewl seeped through the wood. She tugged open the backdoor and a dark shadow darted over the threshold. The particular and unpleasant smell of wet fur filled the kitchen.

“Cassiopeia, you’re absolutely drenched,” Marjorie complained. The slender grey cat left tiny footsteps across the sandstone tiles, brushing up against her legs. “No, no. I’m not hugging you when you’re damper than a fish.”

A hostile crack of thunder speared the cottage. Marjorie startled and Cassiopeia scattered under the kitchen table. For the second time that day, gooseflesh prickled at her skin, leaving a sickening pattern down her forearms.

As her thudding pulse started to slow, Marjorie decided it was time to retire to her bedroom. Tucked under her blankets was a better place than any to wait for the storm to die.

She went about emptying the buckets and bowls positioned around the cottage to catch the water leaks during the night. Tomorrow she would use all the collected water to wash a load of clothes. She was crossing the small foyer with a ceramic bowl when something slammed against the front door.

Marjorie dropped the bowl in fright. It smashed into a sharp and unsolvable puzzle at her feet. Gooseflesh flared, visible even in the half-darkness, all the candles burning dangerously low. She stared at the front door, bones frozen in place. It rattled rudely against its hinges.

“Hello? Is there anyone home?” The voice trickled through the door, nearly stolen by the wind. It occurred to Marjorie that this stranger must be shouting to be heard over the perilous weather. “I’m looking for shelter from the storm.”

Flower Marrow had never turned away a potential guest, especially not someone looking for haven. Whittling her fright into something useful, Marjorie stepped over the broken bowl and hurried to the door. She opened the door halfway, not wanting rain and wind to steal inside.

Caught between the shadow of the storm and the edge of candlelight, stood a man in a mask of rain and mud. Shoulders wide and secure like a harbour. Taller than anyone Marjorie knew in Spindle. His dark and windswept hair hung in wet ropes to his collarbones. His eyes were indecipherable as they landed on her like an arrowhead.

Marjorie’s breath hitched on an exhale, mouth parting with an impossible sigh. The sight of the man crowding her doorway held her captive like a wife seeing her husband return from war. It could have been minutes or hours that she stared at him.

The tempest quietened suddenly, calming as if it had finally delivered its fateful gift. The thunder became nothing more than a feline’s purr, the lightning a flicker, the rain a drizzle.

“Good—good evening,” Marjorie faltered. “Are you looking to rent a room?”

“Yes. I apologise for the late hour.” His voice was deep and hoarse, like he hadn’t used it for an age. He loosely gestured at his outdated clothes flat to the bone with rain. “And the water I’m sure to drip onto your floor.” He nonchalantly wiped away some of the mask with the back of a large-knuckled hand, revealing skin so fair it was like he loathed sunshine.

She tamely stepped aside, inviting him inside with all the hospitality she could conjure. Grandmama had always told her kindness was the most important thing she could offer to the world. While the garden feasted on secrets, it remembered the warm and gentle hand that tended to it.

“It’s a good thing you’re not made of sugar,” Marjorie said blithely.

After closing the door, she gracelessly skirted the man glistening with rainwater. He took up so much space in her quaint foyer, that it was impossible not to brush against his arm as she moved around him.

It was also impossible not to notice how the wet fabric clung to his body, divinely outlining his arms corded with muscles and defined torso. Her cheeks flushed with warmth, and she inwardly scolded herself for being so easily flustered.

He carried the scent of the storm and the soaked garden. “Are you the mistress of this establishment?” he asked, watching her intently with honey-gold eyes. Rainwater dripped down his temples in glossy beads, and Marjorie had never been so envious of something before.

She hadn’t even been this envious when Peregrine Brownstone married some other girl instead of her after she’d given him her maidenhead at Midwinter Festival years ago. Not that she fondly remembered the night. The whole experience had been clumsy and lacklustre.

Whenever Marjorie ached with lust now, she gave it to the garden. She made a sentimental and girlishly romantic ritual out of burying her lovelorn desire. When she’d dreamed of the handsome blacksmith gripping her hips with calloused hands, she commissioned a key from him and buried it. When she’d thought of kissing the seamstress and sighing into her soft mouth, Marjorie purchased a piece of ribbon and laid it in the ground under the primroses. Her desire was safe with the garden.

“I wouldn’t call Flower Marrow an establishment by any means. But yes, I suppose I am,” she muttered, wringing her hands. Her entire face was burning now. She wished she was under the kitchen table with the cat. “Miss Marjorie Fewin.”

Those strange coloured eyes narrowed. “Fewin?”

Marjorie took a careful step back. “Only name I’ve ever known.”

“Of course you are a Fewin daughter,” he grumbled. Marjorie packed down her perplexity like dirt, a shard of the broken bowl biting into the edge of her foot through her stockings. Whatever tension had steeled his gaze softened. He laid a hand over his heart and tilted his chin to her with respect. “Wyatt Holloway.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Holloway,” she lied so sweetly. Her blush probably gave away the lie, but she pressed her lips into a serviceable smile. The same one she used to take secrets from townsfolk and show guests around the property, reminding them not to unlatch the garden gate. The same one she used to keep Flower Marrow afloat.

She looked down at the fragmented mess on the floor. Cassiopeia meowed from the kitchen, reminding Marjorie of the late hour. She sighed with exasperation—the storm had toyed with her today like a conman playing a fool.

“My knocking startled you,” Wyatt apologetically realised. He instantly dropped to his knees, gathering the broken pieces of the bowl.

Marjorie quickly joined him. “You really don’t need to do that—”

He fervently caught her gaze. “Please, let me help.”

They were bent so close together that Marjorie could count his lashes one by one. Could see the rainwater still stuck around the dips of his nose and mouth. Marjorie effortlessly convinced herself that the rainwater on his skin would taste like the sugar water she left out for dehydrated bees in the summer.

Suddenly she was parched, gazing dropping to his lips. One unbidden and irrational thought echoed in her mind. Let me be yours. Let me be yours. Let me be yours.

Wyatt watched her in return, eyes soft like butter. Marjorie wanted to believe he was as transfixed by her as she was by him. She couldn’t read anything in his lingering gaze, and she hastily sealed her attention on the ceramic shards on the floor.

Together they cleaned up the mess, Marjorie avoiding his calming scent that reminded her so much of her beloved garden. Rainwater continued to puddle wherever he placed his measured steps.

Marjorie failed rather pathetically to keep her eyes from the ridged ladder of his stomach visible through his drenched shirt. Grandmama would be horrified to learn what Marjorie was thinking about instead of offering him food and dry clothes.

She dragged her fingertips down the slope of her neck, the dull bite of her nails stabilising like a rake through soil. “Did you want something to eat? I have bread and cheese—”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Just soaked to the bone.”

“Terribly so.”

His cheeks creased with a grin, those strange eyes crinkling at the sides. Mud still masked portions of his face but Marjorie thought he was beautiful as he wrapped the broken bowl in a tea towel. So beautiful with damp skin and grime under his nails.

Marjorie couldn’t shake the sense that Wyatt was uncannily familiar. The feeling persistently wove around her ribcage like ivy vines. His face wasn’t a memory she’d forgotten because it was the kind of face she would have buried in the garden.

Rainwater rhythmically dripped to the floor.

Wyatt searched her gaze so passionately, as though he was begging her to recognise him. But he remained the perfect stranger. Marjorie told herself the rest was just late-night delusion, that they were just two people near the same garden.

She cleared her throat. “I’ll show you to your room and the bathroom. I think there’s some clothes of my brother’s that might fit you.”

Wyatt nodded graciously. “Thank you, Marjorie.”

He followed her through the cottage as Spindle slept well now that storm had passed. Followed her how thunder followed lightning.

#

She’d overslept.

Marjorie never overslept, and it left her disoriented as she fumbled with the ribbons that kept her stockings high above her knees. She worried that Agnes was already awake and waiting for breakfast. Then she remembered Wyatt and her worry doubled. She didn’t remember her dreams but she was sure he’d been present.

Marjorie skipped whole steps down the groaning staircase. She finished tying off a loose braid as she swept into the kitchen. She’d hoped to find it empty and cast with rainbows from the morning light filtering through the suncatchers pinned over the windows.

Unfortunately, Agnes was already seated at the table. She animatedly read aloud to Cassiopeia from a newspaper. The cat perched on the table seemed to be actively listening, ears twitching.

“I’m so sorry,” Marjorie said, immediately reaching for the packet of coffee beans. “I didn’t mean to sleep in.”

“Hush, child,” Agnes said, peeking over the top of the newspaper at a frazzled Marjorie. “Nothing to be sorry for.”

“You must be famished.” Marjorie searched the counters, collecting utensils and ingredients. Embarrassment filled the gaps between her ribs. Breakfast had never once been late at Flower Marrow. “I was going to grill sausages and tomatoes, but I can do something else. Maybe pancakes?”

When Agnes didn’t reply, Marjorie turned from the counters, a spoon in one hand and a bottle of milk in the other. Her heartstring pulled tight in her chest.

Wyatt Holloway stood in the doorway like an oak tree—mighty and unmissable.

“Good morning,” he said in that low timbre that could make even the most shrewd of women swoon like a hothouse flower. Wyatt was scrubbed clean and fresh, black hair a smooth sheaf reaching his shoulders.

He’d found some suitable clothes from the bundle Marjorie had fetched him last night—brown pants, cream shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and leather suspenders crossing his back. His honey-coloured eyes keenly searched the stupefied kitchen.

Agnes swivelled around to Marjorie, eyes wide with wonder. “Dearie, there’s a man in your kitchen.”

“Mr Holloway arrived last night looking for shelter from the rain,” Marjorie explained, her voice thin and reedy. She set down the spoon and milk on the table and returned to making coffee. Her hands needed the distraction, needed the safe routine of preparing food. “Wyatt please meet Agnes. Another Flower Marrow guest,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “Take a seat. How do you take your coffee?”

He settled into the chair beside Agnes. “Black and boiling.”

“Do you live in Spindle? Or are you a drifter?” the older writer prompted, the newspaper forgotten in exchange for something much more interesting. Marjorie continued to peek over at the table as she decided on scrambled eggs.

“I’m returning in a sense,” Wyatt said, extending his hand for Cassiopeia to test. The cat bowed for a petting despite not liking strangers. It had taken three springs for her to warm to Agnes. “Been away for a long time. But in a way, I never left.”

“You should stay for the rest of spring,” Agnes said eagerly, skipping over his cryptic words. “There’s nothing like the Fewin garden during the springtime. Absolutely magical.”

Wyatt’s voice deepened into something saw-toothed and dark. “A magical garden?”

“A powerful hedge witch planted the first seed centuries ago,” Agnes gladly shared. “Isn’t that right, Marjorie?”

“So the tales goes,” she replied, bringing over the pot of coffee and two mugs. She poured out one for Agnes first and then Wyatt. Their fingertips touched ever so briefly as he accepted the handle. Not even the plume of steam prevented their eyes from aligning.

“Seems like the seed was powerful,” Wyatt said egregiously. “Not the witch.”

Agnes laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

The conversation sat like the pit from a stone fruit in Marjorie’s stomach. She mindlessly cracked eggs into a frypan, thoughts warping. She watched the yolk split and splatter with a growing frown.

Not once had she thought that maybe the seed had been powerful over Evangeline. The idea threatened to unravel her history, and she wondered if anyone in her bloodline had ever bothered to question the garden spell or if they just continued burying secrets, safe and satisfied in their familiar belief.

A corner of her heart told her it never mattered either way; perfectly chosen seed or clever hedge witch. The spell had required both elements to work. The garden wouldn’t exist without the other. Another corner of her heart—the darkest corner—told Marjorie in a whisper that the garden couldn’t work without its seed and witch.

“Would you mind if I used your likeness to describe a character?” Agnes asked Wyatt as she waited for breakfast. “I could write a fine romance about you.”

Marjorie had little appetite, wanting nothing more than to be out in the garden.

#

Marjorie didn’t notice the blight in the garden right away. She was more preoccupied with the box of handwritten letters that had risen out of the dirt.

As expected, the storm had left everything soggy and humid. Thick mud stuck to the soles of Marjorie’s boots and spattered her stockings.

She’d been surveying the garden for damage when she had come across the top of the box sticking out of the earth. Thinking it a little strange, Marjorie kneeled by the box that spoke of a scandalous affair.

“The storm must have blown the dirt away,” Marjorie muttered to herself. She couldn’t think of any other reason why the secret had resurfaced. Marjorie buried it again, tapping the mud smooth with her palms. “All safe and sound again,” she sincerely told the secret.

A little deeper in the garden, she nearly tripped over the chain of a necklace. She crouched and gathered up a tarnished locket, the gold bleary even under the spring sun high on its pedestal in the sky. She buried that secret again too.

She found a large but shallow hole next. Trepidation tightened her shoulder blades as she walked the rough perimeter of it. She entertained the idea that someone had dug up a secret they no longer wanted buried. But the garden gate was always closed and no one had ever stolen into the Fewin garden before.

The miasma assaulted Marjorie then. It was the reek of something sour and rooting—of something dying. She wanted to choke as it filled her nose and mouth. The source was a nearby plant, the flowers wilting and the soil sodden and mouldy.

Her nose wrinkled at the sight of the perishing plant but her heart was heavy with worry. Marjorie checked the surrounding plants and trees for any signs of the blight but found none. It seemed to be isolated. However, she couldn’t recall Grandmama ever mentioning dying plants before.

The Fewins kept a record of sorts about the garden—a wide and flat book with pages largely empty besides the foxing down the edges. Marjorie had never read it and certainly never had a reason to write in it. Now that book seemed like holy scripture.

Holding her breath, Marjorie plucked one of the withering flowers and hurried back through the garden to the cottage.

She found Wyatt sitting on the backdoor step in the sun, watching the garden raptly. Cassiopeia slumbered between his spread legs. Majorie slowed her paced and tried to tame her rioting pulse. She stowed the flower in a pocket before he could spot the ugly thing.

His eyes flashed like golden coins as he looked up at her. “Are you okay, little hedge witch?”

Marjorie inhaled a grounding breath; the stitch in her side pinched sharply. “I don’t consider myself a hedge witch.”

He hummed his disagreement, tilting his head. “You have dirt smudged on your cheeks. Fallen leaves in your hair and filth on nearly every inch of your clothes. You smell only of herbs and Agnes told me you can grow anything under your green thumb.”

Wyatt rose to stand before her, eyes pinning her down as though she were a rare butterfly he wanted to study under a magnifying glass. She had to lift her chin a little to see his eyes. She forgot about the stitch in her side and the flower in her pocket. The only thing she could think of was the sudden and urgent ache between her thighs.

“I bet there is no other place in this world where you’d rather drop to your knees. From what Agnes tells me, Fewin hedge witches give a lot to this garden.” He leaned closer, watching the way Marjorie’s breasts heaved against the seams of her stays, watching the way colour blossomed across her sun-freckled skin with a blush the colour of rose petals. “But you give more than just secrets to this garden, don’t you? Putting your fingers into the dirt after they’ve been between your thighs.”

Mortification lanced her heart. Marjorie had no idea how Wyatt knew she gave her desire to the garden. She’d never told anyone about her lovelorn ritual.

Marjorie felt her composure breaking. She wished she was more like her Grandmama, who surely would have slapped a man if they said something like that to her. But she had always been a timid girl.

Instead of saying that the garden belonged to her and that she belonged to the garden, Marjorie skirted around Wyatt without a word. She had more pressing things to attend to than the beautiful stranger at Flower Marrow.

Marjorie ransacked the office to find the book. She eventually found it under a stack of postcards from her brother, but the relief was short-lived. She sank to the frayed carpet and cradled the book as she read each page twice.

There had been a drought eighty years back that nearly starved out Spindle but the Fewin at the time generously fed the town with produce from the garden. One of the pages with ink so faded Marjorie had to squint, spoke of a storm that latest five days, but aside from some uprooted trees, everything in the garden had survived.

Twilight came to bridge the day and the night together, and Marjorie hadn’t found a single instance where a blight had infested the garden. She closed the book with a clap of dust and rubbed at the thudding in her temples.

Something was wrong with the garden and Marjorie didn’t know what to do. The only thing she could do was prepare dinner for her two guests. Once the dinner of peppercorn steaks with roasted pumpkin was over, Marjorie had made a decision. 

She went into the garden and ripped out the blighted plant, from the flowers to the roots.

#

The blight had spread despite the reaping.

Marjorie had strolled into the garden before dawn broke the sky into halves with more hope than trepidation. She’d been wrong not to clutch to the worry.

For the garden was dying and the secrets were rising.

Over a quarter of the garden was affected with the blight, seemingly unfolding from the strange hole she’d found the previous day. Marjorie wasn’t sure what was worse—the dying nature or the hundreds of secrets jutting out of the earth.

Marjorie sobbed as she reburied secret after secret. Her knees were sore, hands scratched and cheeks stinging from the salt of tears when she returned to the cottage a few hours later.

She then remembered it was Market Day.

Every fortnight, Spindle became festooned with stalls and food carts in a gleeful event. The whole town gathered with smiles and stuffed purses. Marjorie always sold her jam and tea under a laced umbrella. If she failed to make an appearance, Spindle would know something was wrong at Flower Marrow.

She couldn’t let that happen even though her heart was in the dirt.

A batch of jam simmered on the stove in a saucepan as Marjorie labelled jars. The air thickened with lemon juice, sugar and dissolving strawberries.

Wyatt sought her out like a bloodhound. He leaned against the counter, eyes skimming over the bubbling concoction to Marjorie’s tear tracks. She tried not to notice the straw in his hair or how he wet his bottom lip with his tongue.

“The holes in your roof are fixed.”

Astonishment made Marjorie pause. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I’m glad to be of service. The staircase is next.” He lifted a shoulder like repairing her house was nothing. It felt like everything to her. She stared incredulously at him, jam and jars forgotten. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You’re no more than a stranger to me…” She shook her head, trying to flush the foolishness in her stomach. It had nowhere to go but into her heart. “But you feel familiar.”

Wyatt crossed his arms, the action accentuating the veins that mapped his hands and forearms. “Do I now?”

“Familiar like the dirt in my garden.”

“Your garden?”

Marjorie stirred honesty into the jam with a wooden spoon. “Everything in my life is inherited, from the cottage to my clothes. And while I know Fewins have tended the garden for generations, it’s the only thing that feels entirely mine. That it belongs only to me.”

“I’m sure it feels the same way about you, Marjorie.” Wyatt reached around her, dipping a finger into the smouldering mixture to taste it. He hummed his satisfaction. “Sweet.”

He went for another taste and she slapped at his hand. “That’s not for you.”

Wyatt moved closer and grinned, creases bracketing his mouth. “Then what sweet thing is for me?”

The scent of the cooking strawberries was heavenly around them, a cloud of sweet, sweet lust. Marjorie could hardly order her thoughts.

She twisted away from him. “I—I have work to do.”

Wyatt watched her flutter around the kitchen. “You have a whole garden that needs you,” he declared monotonously. “Why are you making jam?”

“It’s Market Day.” Her voice and heart were hollow. “I never miss Market Day.”

She avoided his heady attention—which was no small feat—as she organised what she wanted to take into town. She collected her hand-stitched pouches of loose-leaf tea and stacked jars into a hand-painted crate.

Her beautiful garden was dying and the secrets she guarded were rising, and all Marjorie could do was pretend everything was well. Just get through Market Day, Grandmama told her. Tomorrow you can figure out what is ailing the garden.

Wyatt removed the saucepan from the stove. “Let me come with you.”

“You don’t have to do—”

“You do too many things on your own,” he interrupted, as if he’d known her for years instead of days.

“Fine,” she said. “You can carry the crates and the umbrella.”

#

She was a nice and good-natured girl, it was true. If Spindle ever had a favourite Fewin, it would be Marjorie. She could walk through the cobbled streets and pass the half-timbered buildings without a fuss. Dogs never barked, cats slinked around her ankles, girls gave her braided flower crowns, and most adults spoke warmly with her.

Marjorie was quiet and reliable and compliant as she handed over a tea to help with menstrual symptoms to Miss Dale. She’d already sold most of her stock—the apricot jam had done surprisingly well this time.

Wyatt lingered. She’d expected him to explore Spindle, but instead, he lounged against the empty crates, observing how the townsfolk interacted with Marjorie. Occasionally, he stood at her shoulder and whispered gossip he shouldn’t know against the shell of her ear.

Like how the butcher was having an eccentric affair with the young man that delivered mince and chops—Marjorie had buried T-bones in the garden as evidence months ago. Or how Lacey Bayweather couldn’t stop stealing—various trinkets were scattered beneath Majorie’s white roses.

It wasn’t until Marjorie waved at a mother and her son at the neighbouring stall peddling sweetmeat that it clicked.

“I wouldn’t let that boy get too close to your cat,” murmured Wyatt, lips feathering against the delicate skin below her ear. “He has a disturbing fascination with death.”

It wasn’t that Wyatt shouldn’t know any of these things. He simply couldn’t know any of these things because they are all secrets buried in the Fewin garden.

#

Marjorie sat in the garden, the hemline of her dress stained with grass and prickled with thistles. None of those things were extraordinary. However, the book she’d clawed from the dirt was.

Desperate for answers to the strange Mr Holloway and the blighted plants, Marjorie took a spade into her garden the following morning. She dug and dug and dug until she found it. Right where Grandmama said it would be.

Evangeline’s grimoire.

She found every single answer she needed inked on the ancient and worm-eaten pages. They only turned her into a sad and lovesick creature. Mosquitos buzzed in the gloaming as Marjorie wandered the garden, grimoire clutched to her chest and spade dangling from her fingers.

She passed plants that were drying because something vital was missing. Passed the hole that was actually a grave as she strolled to the back of the garden where nature levelled into a clearing of high grass and wildflowers.

Caught between the shadow of a waning moon and the edge of the setting sun, Wyatt waited for her. He saw the grimoire and sharp-edged spade. “Little hedge witch,” he said softly.

“Evangeline cut her palm and buried a seed to make this garden. That’s how the tale goes,” Marjorie said, voice trembling, the seams of her heart unravelling. “But that’s not quite right, is it?”

Wyatt tilted his head, brows crumbling over those strange eyes. He made to touch her—an embrace or a strike, she couldn’t be sure—but his arms fell.

Marjorie tossed the grimoire to the earth, the pages spilling open to an anatomical sketch of an eldritch creature of the forest. “You were the seed she buried.”

Wyatt opened his mouth but Marjorie pitched the spade into the grass, narrowly missing him. “The storm disturbed the dirt enough for you to climb out.” Marjorie continued with tears stuck in her throat. “That’s how you knew those secrets. That’s why everything is dying. Because the prince of the garden is no longer buried.” 

“I knew you’d figure it out.” He sidestepped the grimoire like it was litter, the timbre of his voice dark and tempestuous as the storm that delivered him. “Out of all her descendants, you remind me of Evangeline the most.”

He transformed before her, the mask of humanity thinner than a veil. She’d thought he was tall and sinewy before, but now she had to tip her chin all the way back to catch the tapered ears poking through the tassels of his shadow-black hair. Solid and resplendent like an ancient tree with snarled branches that evoked beautiful nightmares, scratching against windowpanes. The borrowed shirt shed from him like autumn leaves, no longer fitting his Fae physique. A bark-like pattern covered his pale skin, etching over the hills of his shoulders and fading into a moss green at his hands large enough to be considered paws. Something flicked in the grass behind him—a tail that ended in the shape of a heart like flowers from an anthurium plant.

Marjorie gasped.

Wyatt gave a malicious and self-deprecating smile. “Am I that horrible to look upon?”

“Grandmama’s favourite flower was a Clerodendrum. More commonly known as a glorybower,” she said haltingly, voice a lush whisper between the wildflowers. “Rare and strange and beautiful. You… you remind me of that flower.”

He closed the distance between them within seconds. He cradled her face between his palms, searching her gaze with aching sincerity. “Let me return all the desire you’ve sweetly given to me.”

Marjorie blushed with realisation. All those nights where she’d dropped to her knees and buried tokens of lust and longing, she hadn’t only been giving them to the garden.

Wyatt traced a smudge of dirt on her cheek with a thumb. His unnatural eyes glowed like honey under lamplight—gorgeous and garnished with angst and something Marjorie had only read about in novels where the heroine was desired and cherished.

She nuzzled into his palm, suddenly feeling gluttonous. “Take me in the garden.”

Her assertiveness didn’t surprise Wyatt as stars blinked awake above them. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it.  He grinned rascally. “It’s the most appropriate place for us.”

Marjorie wanted to cross-stitch the deep lines around his mouth onto her stays to hold him closer forever, flush against her chest.

He caught her mouth with his, carefully and kitten-soft. The tenderness of it all could have broken her heart if she weren't ravenous. Marjorie rose onto her toes, hands travelling over the landscape of his shoulders. She parted her mouth, eagerly giving him access. He licked into her mouth in a devastating kiss that promised to ruin every other kiss from someone else.

Desperate not to part from his mouth, she guided Wyatt down to the ground, teeth dragging at his bottom lip. He growled in pleasure, the sound going to her core. They made a bed out of the grass, petals crushed under Marjorie’s back. Then he was on his knees, nudging her legs open so they bracketed his body.

Wyatt studied her through a heavy-lidded gaze, hands skimming down her stockinged thighs as he lifted the layers of her dress. Marjorie tried her best to remain still, but all she wanted to do was writhe against him and pull him back to her kiss-bruised mouth.

He tugged at the ribbons holding her stockings in place. “Did you buy these ribbons from that seamstress?”

“Yes,” she panted, lust delightfully clouding her mind. She felt warm all over, skin flushed pretty and pink.

“You imagined her slowly unlacing them, didn’t you? Fingers walking over the seams of your clothing, touching you through the fabric before leaving lovebites on your breasts?” His words mirrored his actions—fingers tracing the edges of her bodice before leaning closer to place wet kisses across the tops of her breasts.

Marjorie sighed at the suction of his mouth, arching into his touch. The throb between her legs was acheful. She tried to roll her hips against Wyatt but he drew back sharply. Before she got the chance to complain or whimper, he bunched up her dress and stripped away her underclothes.

“You imagined that blacksmith right here, didn’t you?” Wyatt pressed the heel of his palm against her core. Marjorie gasped at the decadent pressure, unable to restrain herself from grinding against his hand, needing the friction. Wyatt splayed his other hand across her stomach, fingers long enough to touch her ribs. “His calloused hands gripped your waist, and you didn’t even mind the blisters and grease. He fucked you hard and fast in your dreams, didn’t he?”

Marjorie couldn’t form a single word as Wyatt mercilessly teased out her arousal until she was slick and glistening. Even her thoughts had abandoned her as he strummed at the rosebud at the juncture of her thighs. She moaned like a fallen angel, head tossed back into the grass.

“I need more,” she demanded. Needed him closer and deeper and where she couldn’t reach on her own. Two fingers circled her again, gathering the wetness there, before pressing against her entrance. Marjorie propped herself on an elbow and clasped Wyatt’s wrist. “I don’t mean your fingers.”

He kissed her again, deeply and passionately. Then he collected her hips and deftly turned her over. Laying her on her belly in the dirt and the grass and the wildflowers. Wyatt’s tail curled around her waist like a safety rope, and he peppered her spine with kisses as he lowered himself over her in a mating press. So close that they could press flowers flat with adoration between their bodies.

He sank into her slowly with a feral groan, lost in the warm squeeze of her channel. Marjorie quivered at the heaviness and hardness of him as she accepted all of him. A ribbon of ecstasy that promised divinity coiled in her belly.

“Wyatt,” she whined. He occupied so much space it was nearly unbearable and left her lungs empty of breath. Her eyelids fluttered closed at the overwhelming feeling of him deep inside her, the stretch sore but opulent.

The garden prince started to move so carefully it was torturous. Each luxurious thrust pushed her closer, knotting that ribbon tighter and tighter. Simultaneously too much and not enough.

Wyatt burrowed his face into her neck, nipping at her skin. “Such a good girl,” he muttered. The praise made her mewl, silken walls clenching around his cock.

He clasped her chin, raising her head from the ground. “You belong to me the way I belong to you. And we belong to the garden. Are you listening, little hedge witch?” She barely nodded in his secure grip, teeth gnawing at her bottom lip. “Once you’re sated from pleasure, you’re going to grab that spade and cut out my heart.”

Marjorie faltered. “What?”

“You know the spell from the grimoire, Marjorie. You’ve heard it all your life,” he said, voice ragged but unwavering as he relentlessly rutted into her. “Cut out my heart and bury it. The garden and the secrets will be well again.”

“No,” she protested through the headiness. “You were supposed to leave this place. Forget the garden and every Fewin. You’ll die without your heart!”

“I have a new heart,” he claimed, lifting her a little to snake a hand beneath her, gliding over her pelvic bone and settling between her thighs. “She’s kind and good. Maybe one day she can love me the way she loves this garden.”

She wanted to sob into the crushed wildflowers. “Wyatt—”

“You’re not going to lose me or the garden,” he promised, fingers circling her clit with determination. “Now be the good girl I know you are and come for me.”

The ribbon snapped abruptly, and she choked on a cry, the pleasure rich enough to melt her bones like wax under flame. Wyatt faithfully followed her, spilling his seed within her with a deafening moan.

She fumbled for the spade she’d tossed into the grass, the edges biting into flesh as she clutched it, wet rubies sprouting across her fingertips. Marjorie didn’t want to leave Wyatt’s powerful embrace, but the spell rang like a folksong in her mind with blood and dirt.

Under the petals, over the thorns. Salt of earth, marrow of bones.

[gamesindustrynormal]

2024 Independent Games Festival Finalists

Best Student Game

goodbye.monster (Monster Team)

Once Upon a Jester (Bonte Avond / Crunching Koalas)

Pile Up! (Remoob / Catoptric Games, IndieArk)

Planetka (TeTerka)

RAM: Random Access Mayhem (Xylem Studios Inc.)

TRY AGAIN(the Rejects / USC Games/the Rejects)

Honorable Mentions: A Day With Mochi (San Felicete Studio / Rubika Supinfogame), Barkane: The Folds of Calamity (Chase O'Brien & VGDev), Birds Aren't Real: The Game (USC Games), Cyberside Picnic (Michael Luo / Cathode Radiator), Entangled (Fibula Studio), Lime Juice (Benbees), Re:Fresh (Merge Conflict Studio)

Excellence in Audio

A Highland Song (Inkle)

COCOON (Geometric Interactive / Annapurna Interactive)

Nour: Play With Your Food (Terrifying Jellyfish / PANIC)

Rhythm Doctor (7th Beat Games / 7th Beat Games, indienova)

Tchia (Awaceb / Kepler Interactive)

Venba (Visai Games)

Honorable Mentions: Anthology of the Killer (Thecatamites, Tommy Tone, A. Degen / Thecatamites), El Paso, Elsewhere (Strange Scaffold), Let's! Revolution! (Antfood, BUCK / Hawthorn Games, BUCK), Planet of Lana             (Wishfully / Thunderful Publishing), Stray Gods: The Roleplaying Musical (Summerfall Studios / Humble Games)

Excellence in Design

Chants of Sennaar (Rundisc / Focus Entertainment)

Cobalt Core (Rocket Rat Games / Brace Yourself Games)

COCOON (Geometric Interactive / Annapurna Interactive)

Cryptmaster (Paul Hart, Lee Williams, Akupara Games / Akupara Games)

Final Profit: A Shop RPG (Brent Arnold)

Isles of Sea and Sky (Cicada Games, Jason Newman, Craig Collver / Cicada Games, Jason Newman, Gamera Game)

Honorable Mentions: 20 Small Mazes (FLEB), Peaks of Yore (Anders Grube Jensen / TraipseWare), Price of Flight (WATERBOX), Timberborn (Mechanistry)

Excellence in Narrative

1000xRESIST (Sunset Visitor / Fellow Traveller)

A Highland Song (Inkle)

Mediterranea Inferno (Lorenzo Redaelli/EYEGUYS / Santa Ragione)

The Cosmic Wheel Sisterhood (Deconstructeam / Devolver Digital)

The Wreck (The Pixel Hunt)

Venba (Visai Games)

Honorable Mentions: Goodbye Volcano High (KO_OP), Saltsea Chronicles (Die Gute Fabrik / Die Gute Fabrik), Slay the Princess (Black Tabby Games), Stray Gods: The Roleplaying Musical (Summerfall Studios / Humble Games) The Archivist and the Revolution (Autumn Chen)

Excellence in Visual Arts

Anthology of the Killer (Thecatamites, Tommy Tone, A. Degen / Thecatamites)

Clash: Artifacts of Chaos (ACE Team / Nacon)

Darkest Dungeon II (Red Hook Studios)

Little Goody Two Shoes (AstralShift / Square Enix Collective)

Phonopolis (Amanita Design)

Venba (Visai Games)

Honorable Mentions: 30 Birds (RAM RAM Games/Business Goose / ARTE France), Chants of Sennaar (Rundisc / Focus Entertainment), Goodbye Volcano High (KO_OP), NIDUS (Caleb Wood), SLUDGE LIFE 2 (Terri Vellmann, DOSEONE / Devolver Digital)

Nuovo Award

1000xRESIST (Sunset Visitor / Fellow Traveller)

Anthology of the Killer (Thecatamites, Tommy Tone, A. Degen / Thecatamites)

Cryptmaster (Paul Hart, Lee Williams, Akupara Games / Akupara Games)

Kevin (1997-2077) (Kevin Du)

Mediterranea Inferno (Lorenzo Redaelli/EYEGUYS / Santa Ragione)

NIDUS (Caleb Wood)

The Forest Cathedral (Wakefield Interactive, Brian Wilson / Whitethorn Games)

Honorable Mentions:  BlueSuburbia (alienmelon), goodbye.monster (Monster Team), In Stars and Time (insertdisc5 / Armor Games Inc.), Nour: Play With Your Food (Terrifying Jellyfish / PANIC), The Cosmic Wheel Sisterhood (Deconstructeam / Devolver Digital)

Seumas McNally Grand Prize

1000xRESIST (Sunset Visitor / Fellow Traveller)

A Highland Song (Inkle)

Anthology of the Killer (Thecatamites, Tommy Tone, A. Degen / Thecatamites)

COCOON (Geometric Interactive / Annapurna Interactive)

Mediterranea Inferno (Lorenzo Redaelli/EYEGUYS / Santa Ragione)

Venba (Visai Games)

Honorable Mentions: Chants of Sennaar (Rundisc / Focus Entertainment), Final Profit: A Shop RPG (Brent Arnold), Goodbye Volcano High (KO_OP), In Stars and Time (insertdisc5 / Armor Games Inc.), Rhythm Doctor (7th Beat Games / 7th Beat Games, indienova), Tchia (Awaceb / Kepler Interactive), The Cosmic Wheel Sisterhood (Deconstructeam / Devolver Digital)

#igf

[strelles-universe]

Clan Names - Tree Based

Acorn: Used by all clans equally. A brown furred cat, someone silly or playful.

Alder: A ThunderClan name. A red or russet furred cat, someone cautious or careful.

Aspen, Poplar: Used by all clans equally. A yellow or golden furred cat, someone intelligent or stoic.

Bay: Used by all clans equally. An easy-going or relaxed cat, someone who doesn’t let things bother him.

Bark: Used by all clans equally. A brown or gray furred cat, someone who is protective.

Beech: A RiverClan or a ShadowClan name. A sleek or shiny coated cat, a prideful and aggressive cat.

Birch: Used by all clans equally. A white or silver cat, someone with a sleep coat, a silver tabby, one who has a lanky build.

Cedar: Used by all clans equally. A brown or tan cat, someone who is headstrong and determined.

Cherry, Mazzard: Used by all clans equally. A red or russet furred cat, a sweet smelling or kindly cat.

Chestnut: Used by all clans equally. A deep brown or russet brown cat, someone who is strong or personally defensive.

Cypress: A ThunderClan or a ShadowClan name. A russet cat, snarky and teasing; one who is a troublemaker.

Elm: A WindClan name. A pale gray and white cat, someone who is speckled or tail.

Hawthorne, Mayhaw: A ThunderClan name. Defensive but beautiful, someone who is pretty but also intimidating.

Hickory: A ThunderClan name. A golden or yellow furred cat, someone who is comforting and reassuring.

Larch, Tamarack: A ShadowClan or a ThunderClan name. A yellow or pale cream furred cat.

Mangrove: A ShadowClan name. A cat with who is gray or white; long-legged cat with thin fur, short furred legs.

Maple: Used by all clans equally. A dark brown or dark red cat, someone who is generous and kind.

Oak: A ThunderClan or a ShadowClan name. A deep brown or red cat, loyal and reliable.

Pine, Fir, Spruce, Conifer: A ThunderClan or, New SkyClan or ShadowClan name. A dark brown furred tabby, usually a mackerel, a long-legged cat.

Rowan: Used by all clans equally. A red furred or deep ginger cat, someone who is speckled; powerful or of great inner strength.

Sycamore: Used by all clans equally. A pale cream or blue cat, usually a calico or a tortoiseshell; powerful or reliable.

Twig, Sprig, Bough, Branch: Used by all clans equally. A brown cat, someone who is consistent or cautious.

Needle: A ShadowClan name. Someone with angular features, teasing; sharp-tongued or excessively violent.

Nut: Used by all clans equally. A cat who is open with their feelings, silly or gullible, someone who is friendly.

Willow, Osier: A RiverClan name. A caring or calm cat, someone who is dependable or flexible.

Wisteria: Used by the lakesides equally. A long furred cat who smells nice, whimsical and beautiful.

#strelles au #strelles worldbuilding #strelles naming conventions #pride names and meaning #strelles the greenwood empire