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crevicedwelling · 7 months

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mantis i found in a tussock of rushes on a cliff face at the beach. so mysterious (one of the australian grass mantises, Archimantis)

a slender prowling beast

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birdstudies · 4 months

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December 21, 2023 - Costa Rican Ground-Sparrow or Cabanis's Ground-Sparrow (Melozone cabanisi) Found only in central Costa Rica, these New World sparrows live in lowland and mountain forests, woodlands, coffee plantations, and thickets. Foraging on or near the ground alone or in pairs, they feed on seeds and insects, though the details of their diet are unknown. They build cup-shaped nests from grass, rootlets, stems, dry leaves, and horse hair in grass tussocks, hollows, or bushes. Females lay clutches of two or three eggs. Classified as Near Threatened by the IUCN, their population is declining slowly due to residential and commercial development in their small range.

#costa rican ground-sparrow #cabanis's ground-sparrow #new world sparrow #melozone cabanisi #bird #birds #illustration #art #woodland #birblr art

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jillraggett · 4 months

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Plant of the Day

Wednesday 3 January 2024

Planning containers for the coming season then Hakonechloa macra 'Aureola' (Japanese forest grass) might be a useful addition to a display. The narrow leaves have broad yellow to cream stripes, edged in light green and form a low dense tussock.

Jill Raggett

#Hakonechloa #Japanese forest grass #ornamental grasses #containers #shade garden #plants #horticulture #gardens #garden #essex #Beth Chatto garden #variegated #foliage

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assortedvillainvault · 1 year

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ok if acceptable I'm dropping one more before closing time

"I remember you" with a reader being the reincarnation of someone the Horned King once loved

*Clutches chest* ROOOSSEEE-

This hurts me. In like, the best way. Here we go, modern reincarnation because I low-key would like to get lost in the Welsh Mountains forever (I have deadlines).

Also please forgive the Google translated Welsh at the end I did not have the time to look up proper medieval Welsh and asking someone real to translate would have been good to think of before I started operating on 5% brain. If anyone following me is a native Welsh speaker pls DM me or leave a comment and I'll correct Google's attempt.

The Horned King x Reincarnated!Reader : 'I Remember You'

You have no fucking clue why you're here.

'Here' being the Ass-End of Nowhere, Wales. No phone reception, no services, no people and no tourists. Except, uh, yourself. Obviously.

You got up, drove out, picked a random direction between two hills and. Started walking. You don't even know why.

You just know that there's something further into the mountains that your soul is ITCHING to get to. You've always felt it, but recently ignoring it has started to feel like being pulled through barbed wire.

The ground is rough and uneven, tussocks and hidden rocks threaten to turn your ankles every other step. The trees that twist their way along the crevices of the high moorland are all but draped in moss and thorns. The mountains arching up behind them are unwelcoming, cold and cragged.

It's...eerily quiet. No birds, no people...even the sheep seemed to stop at some hidden border a few miles back. Just the low moan of the wind accompanies you.

As you walk, you find yourself stealing glances at the sky. You tell yourself it's for birds - Kites and eagles maybe - but you have to keep a strange disappointment down that it's nothing larger. What are you expecting for fucks sake? Dragons??

You're so busy scanning the skies that you topple arse over tea kettle down the next scree slope like a graceful spaghetti mannequin with a screaming feature.

You manage to scrabble and hiss to a stop, skin on your arms and legs scraped raw. And upon looking up suck in a breath that has nothing to do with your sliced up hands.

It's as though a giant scooped the earth away and set it on fire for good measure. Bare reddish black rock contends with a bitter snarl of dead grasses and lonely tree corpses. Beyond lies a dessicated crevass that looks like a lake drained away overnight.

Beyond that, is a castle.

You blink and tear the vision that seared across your eyes - of a fully fleshed gothic fortress - away. What lies before you is a ruin. The bones of the structure, at best.

The barbed wire in your soul is all but yanking you toward the ancient structure. You don't notice that the path you tread towards it is one you can find without looking, despite the terrain.

The bridge, rotted and rusted as it is, is mostly secure. You keep your weight to the bolted metal crisscrossing the wood as you make your way across, slow and steady and feeling as though phantom archers have their sights on you from atop the wall.

As you pass under the archway to the courtyard, you shiver violently. The feeling of passing under so familiar that it almost clawed it's way out from your skin.

The very air seems to hold it's breath as you make your way deeper into the crumbling structure. Water drips from the stonework, the doors all long since rotted from their hinges. Tools lie forgotten on the cobbles. If it wasn't so creepy it would be an archaeologists dream.

Why does no-one around seem to know this is here? Why is this place so undisturbed?

You stumble into what must have been the Great Hall.

Cold sunlight shafts through holes in the ceiling, the corners in absolute darkness. Skeletons lie in piles across the floor, roughly around where large tables should have been, weapons scattered akimbo as though they didn't even get a chance to use them before they fell.

Your eyes are dragged to the dias. There's a body on the throne.

It's slouched, slumped, as if whoever this was had thrown themselves back on the seat and collapsed in exhaustion. The mothbitten red robe and fur stole is strung with spiderwebs connecting them him to the throne, but this isn't what yanks on the barbed wire in your soul.

The pair of great, regal thorn like horns protuding from the figures hood are angled towards you.

Your feet carry you forward.

The figures face is obscured but you know it, the fingers curled loosely still with flesh, after all this time, no weapons around the dias but no evidence of wounds on the body as if he would need them, as if they could ever lay a finger on their King-

Your hand trembles, reaching out to touch the nearest horn irrestisably, not even daring to breathe.

The corpse lurches.

An arctic vice closes on your wrist, bones grinding as he yanks you to your knees on the stone. His fist is impossible to pry loose even as you scrabble at it, nails ripping at leathery hide- heart pounding-

His second hand closes on your neck and you freeze.

Twin red lights blaze from under the hood. Pupils in a black socket that focus hazily on your face, blinking as if rising from a dream that still has its hooks in him. The hand on your neck squeezes and you gasp, eyes bulging, wrist forgotten as you plead with your hands against the unstoppable force around your neck.

Brows twitch as he watches you struggle. Marginally, the fingers loosen and you suck in air, sounding like a broken bellows compared to the cathedral-esque empty quality of the air passing through his chest.

Gently, reverently, knarled fingers parse hair from your forehead. You didn't even realise he'd released your wrist. Your throat remains in his grip.

You meet his gaze as the last of the fog clears from his sockets. His voice, rusted and broken from disuse, still rumbles from his throat like a shuddering landslide.

"Rwy'n eich cofio, fy annwyl."

"I remember you, my dear."

#thalassa responds #rose this is one of the best asks ive ever gotten thank you #i hope you like this!!#the horned king x reader #disney villains x reader #the horned king #disney villains #x reader #HOOOO let me tell you this was a major self insert moment #what will it take to get me a lich king bf honestly #lich simps arise

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sunniskyies · 3 months

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𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐞-𝐄𝐲𝐞𝐝 || 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐎𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐟𝐢𝐜

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏: 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Finnick Odair x original female character 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: All warnings can be found on the series' masterlist 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 6.37k 𝐀/𝐍: Starting off the series with a long chapter! This series has been sitting in my drafts for a month now, but I just can't let all the hours it took go to waste !! So I'll be dropping the chapters whenever I complete them

𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐞-𝐄𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝟎𝟑 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟐𝟑𝟎𝟖

1… 2… 3…

The soft white sand responds to the footfalls, creating small wisps of powder that stick to the soles of her feet as she runs.

13… 14… 15…

The footsteps pound down the stretch for packed, wet sand that precedes the waters edge.

18… 19-

The girl’s strides are cut off by the sloshing of waves around her ankles, and she continues wading deeper until the water reaches her hips. With a quick dive, she plunges into the cool water. She floats beneath the surface until her lungs ache, relishing the cold that sinks into her skin.

Gasping for air, she floats on her back for a moment, bobbing over the waves and watching the sun try to haul itself over the horizon like a lazy egg yolk. Soon her exposed skin dries and begins to chill, so she returns to splashing around in the waves like a kid, diving and laughing loudly. In this sliver of time when the sun is first stretching its limbs and the waves are stirring from their slumber, this beach belongs to her. The girl soaks in the icy water and the soft sand, her ocean-blue eyes drinking in the way the lazy egg cracks open, spilling fiery orange and salmon pinks across the sky. This moment is all hers.

Unbeknownst to the girl, someone else is sharing this moment. Further up the sandy curve of the beach, a man sits nestled between two dunes. He too is watching the sunrise, enjoying the tranquillity of this silent hour of the day. Well, he was, but a girl had appeared not long ago and began swimming and squealing in the tide. He watches her, the sun plastering a rim of golden light around her figure that sets her blonde hair aglow, fascinated.

The girl realises with a jolt that she must have been here for about 10 minutes. She clambers to her feet in the water, getting traction on the seabed to scramble back to the beach. Eventually back on the sand, she jogs up to the dunes to a particular swathe of tussock and beach grass that is concealing her bag. Her cold fingers fumble at the buckle, finally reaching inside and revealing a soft dry towel.

After loosely drying the droplets of water from her gooseflesh skin, the girl bundles her soaking tangle of curls up in the towel. She wrinkles her nose at the crease lines marring her Academy uniform, but hastily starts pulling it on. She is going to be late—again—and she really doesn’t want to be kicked out. Leaving her damp bikini on underneath, she first pulls on her navy-and-white tracksuit pants and then her athletic compression shirt. It is a white-and–navy sleeveless shirt with a zip up the middle, and it has the crest of District 4 printed over the heart. Finally, she pulls on the Academy issue jacket with a matching crest, its fabric matches the dark nylon pants.

The girl takes off on foot, her messenger bag pulled over one shoulder, the sloppy towel wrap undoing itself from her hair as she begins running down the road towards the centre of town.

This girl’s name is Eloise Thorne. She lives in one of the more privileged townships dotted along the coast of District 4. The only reason she dares describe it as ‘privileged’ is due to the important buildings residing there: The Victors’ Village, the Peacekeeper’s Centre, and the Capitol train station, to name just a few. This means all the best-off citizens of the fishing District live here, bringing money and business.

At the very centre of the town is a square. That’s where the Mayor lives, and the Justice Building, and the Communication Centre. And of course, where the Reaping takes place every year. Fanning out from there, quaint streets with open-air eateries and shops hum with life in the height of summer. The docks that hem the coast are always empty of boats in the day, as all of them are out at sea with sweet aestival winds in their sails. They haul in bountiful catches of halibut, bass and tuna. Everyone gets paid in summer.

The kids spend the long days on the beach, learning how to sail and fish in the sun. The houses are often repurposed boat sheds, painted pastel colours with vibrant doors. The roads joining them are coated in a layer of sand from high tide, and flowers and weeds use this to grow up through the splits in the tarmac and around the foundation of most of the coastal houses.

Eloise thinks it the most beautiful place to live. But life here isn’t absent of discomfort, the Capitol makes sure of that. The Peacekeepers that run the District have strict rules, curfew is strictly at 8 pm, and the fishermen hardly get paid for the fish they catch. Even here, in this part of the District, money is tight. Many families suffer from illness, starvation, or poverty, and the outskirts of town are worse. Whippings and executions are not uncommon either. Kids disappear from schools, working long hours to feed their families. And of course, there are the Games.

Eloise reaches into her bag as she runs, stuffing her towel in and extracting a jar of product. She finger-combs the sweet coconut-smelling ointment through her wet tresses before putting it back. She continues running, bare feet on cracked concrete, until she reaches the friendly paint-chipped face of the Academy’s front door. It is 6:10. She’s late.

Pushing inside, the hinges creak a greeting. As quietly as she can, Eloise pads through the concrete halls. The plaster walls are peeling awfully, and the whole Academy is only a storm and a half away from crumbling to the ground. The institution resides in the shell of an old abandoned school, as they can’t apply for funding to run the Academy from the Capitol. This is because it’s technically illegal to train children before the games, but the Capitol never actually does anything about the career Districts doing so.

Eloise makes her way up a couple of flights of stairs and weaves through hallways. She counts the wooden doors until she finds the right one. She hesitantly grasps the handle and opens it as quietly as possible.

Despite her efforts to not disturb the students inside, familiar faces all turn to look at her. Noah, Annie, Jasper, Mako, Vera… and standing in front of them is their head coach. Eloise feels a premature headache coming on.

“Thorne!” Coach Maris barks, her face already reddening. Eloise grimaces, stepping fully inside and skirting the wall to put her bag down on a bench and pull on her shoes.

“Sorry, Coach Maris,” Eloise mumbles, shuffling to join the semicircle the pupils have made around the dark-haired woman.

“How many times have I told you? If you're tardy, you're out!” She hisses. “If you don’t want to be here, don’t come!”

“I do want to be here, Missus! I was just late! It won’t happen again,” Eloise pleads. Coach Maris rolls her eyes.

“Don’t lie to me, Thorne. Your hair is sopping; you were in that damned ocean again.” Eloise winces, fingers absently tucking the damp strands behind her ears. Luckily, Coach Maris drops it, turning her attention to growling instructions to the 17-year-olds. They are supposed to work with weapons today, and Eloise feels elated. It feels like they are always doing some kind of stamina or flexibility exercises. Weaponry is a treat.

Eloise eagerly beelines for the sticks, grabbing a weighty staff. If she closes her eyes, she can almost imagine it's a metal trident. And that’s what she does, spending a couple hours training with it as if it were one. They couldn’t afford real tridents at the academy, but a stick was just as good for practice. Swiping and spinning, slashing and stabbing. Eloise is gracefully accurate with the weapon, using it as if it's an extension of her arm. This is really the reason Coach Maris hasn’t expelled her yet, because like it or not, Eloise Thorne is her star pupil.

Today she imagines she is in the arena of the second Quarter Quell, a lush pasture teeming with abundant, albeit poisonous, life. She pictures the fluffy clouds high in the sky, and then conjures up an image of a career tribute standing before her, threatening a broad sword. She plays out fighting him in her mind, every blow and every disarm until she’s beaten him dead and bloody. She recreates this now in the Academy, fighting an invisible enemy.

She does this again and again with different famous arenas, famous tributes until soon she tires of the stuffy Academy jacket, unzipping it and depositing it with her bag. Without the layer, Eloise’s skin chills in the large unheated concrete room. The athletic top is basically a glorified tank top with a high neck, and comes up quite high on Eloise’s stomach, her midriff now open to the cold morning air.

“You were late.” A voice states from behind her, and Eloise whirls around to see Annie standing in front of her, a knowing smile tugging at her lips.

“Astute observation, Cresta. I never would’ve realised.” Eloise smirks, rolling her eyes. Annie just laughs.

“You were at the Victors’ Village again.” Annie sing-songs, turning away with a playful grin and walks back towards the weapons.

“Hey!” Eloise protests, catching up with her and linking her arm with Annie’s so she can whisper in her ear as she walks. “I totally was not! I was just at the beach too long, s’all.”

Annie snorts, elbowing her ribs. “Yeah right! You’re always late when you're doing your delivery.”

“Whatever!” Eloise grumbles, breaking away and grabbing her staff. She brandishes it at Annie. Annie laughs, grabbing an identical one. She is probably the best with the weapon after Eloise, and they both began sparring.

Within a minute Eloise had Annie on the floor, her staff pinned in a way that if it had three prongs, the red-haired girl would be skewered. “Whatever, Cresta.” Eloise taunts.

Annie laughs again, clasping her outstretched hand and hauls herself up. “Yeah yeah, okay. How ‘bout we spar again once I’m in my nice house in the Victors’ Village, hm? Then you can bring me fruit, too!” She needles. Eloise gives her a good-natured shove. She knew she had won.

Everyone knows that Annie Cresta would be a career tribute in next year’s games. She had been at the Academy since she was 12, and now that she was in the 17-year-old class, it would only be one more year until she would volunteer. Eloise had only been at the Academy since she was 13, almost 14. But she took training very seriously, exercising outside of class as well. But unlike Annie, Eloise wasn’t planning on going into the Games. Yes, sure, she admired the Victors. But she trained instead to be strong enough to survive in the oppressive society that was Panem.

Eloise had watched her mother become unable to support her and her daughter after her father had died, resorting to re-marrying to a boring man with two daughters to survive. She doesn’t want that to be her, and so, the only way is to be strong enough to work for her wages and be self-reliant.

All the students end up spending half an hour doing a mock sparring tournament, winners versus winners until Eloise comes out on top. But her victory is interrupted by Coach Maris, yelling, instructing the students to do an hour of cardio followed by another half hour of target practice. The last hour was to be spent doing yoga and discussing survival strategy. All the kids groan, breaking out into a rotation of jogging, biking and various other cardio workouts.

Eloise doesn’t talk to anyone until the final hour, focused fully on her exercises and the target. No one tries to chat with her, either. They’ve learnt by now that Eloise goes into a world of her own when she’s focused.

The five-hour lesson finishes at 12:00, and the class of 13-year-olds start filing in for their turn. Eloise runs back to her bag as soon as they are dismissed, quickly stripping her clothes, shoes and bikini top to don a strapless sundress with a subtle white-and-blue paisley print. While the others will be going home for the afternoon, Eloise has a shift at work. Her hair is dry now, and she lets the thick dark blonde curls fall around her shoulders from the bun she had put in an hour earlier.

Leaving the repurposed classroom, shooting a hasty ‘thank you’ at Coach Maris, Eloise runs down and out of the Academy and starts jogging through the streets towards the beachfront. It’s midday, and the summer sun is baking down on the concrete, the burning on the soles of Eloise’s now-bare feet is the real reason she’s running. Unlike Coach Maris, her employers will not mind if Eloise is late to her shift.

It takes about 5 minutes to reach the Blue Eye Grocer & Merchant. The small storefront is worn by time and the weather, wood blasted pale by seasalt from years of facing the ocean. The small corner store sells the essentials the locals need, fish-shaped loaves and glass bottles of milk. Cheese and butter and vegetables, but most peculiarly, beer.

The corner store used to just be a nameless merchant, but soon they began stocking a lot of grain and beer products from an exporting brewery called ‘Blue Eye’ in District 9. They stocked their products so much so that they began to consider themselves somewhat of an outlet for the company in District 4. They eventually committed to this, renaming themselves the Blue Eye Grocer & Merchant, and it had been this way since before Eloise could remember.

Eloise loves the Blue Eye, it might be one of her favourite places in District 4. It’s so quaint, the owners couldn’t be sweeter and it is full of regular, friendly customers. The windows are always open, making the breezy curtains and windchimes billow in the salty air. There is always the smell of fresh bread, because while they are in no way a bakery, they still bake their own bread for their shelves.

Also, Eloise loves that the shop shares a name with her favourite flower. Blue-Eyed Grass grows all over the coast of District 4, and it has been pillowing her small seaside house since she was young. The tiny flowerheads resemble that of a spiky forget-me-not, and Eloise has always loved their sweet little faces, keeping vases of their rubbery stems beside her bed. While other people saw synchronicity in angel numbers and butterflies, Eloise finds omens in seeing that flower.

Eloise pushes through the glass door, the bell announcing her appearance in cheerful song. A curly cascade of dark brown hair appears from behind the counter, chocolate eyes lighting up at the sight of her.

“Elly!” Jenny-Grace shrieks, running around the counter and wrapping her in a hug.

“Jelly!” Eloise snorts, hugging her back. “Anyone would believe you hadn’t seen me in months!”

Jenny-Grace pulls away, grinning. “It’s almost been 24 hours. How am I supposed to thrive in these conditions?” Jenny-Grace puts a hand to her forehead in mock despair. She too wore a sundress, a long yellow one with puff sleeves. Eloise laughs, and walks out into the back room.

“Any shipments?” She calls over her shoulder. Jenny-Grace shakes her head.

“Nah. The last one we got was the Blue Eye crates yesterday. You would know, you took a couple empty ones to carry your… delivery.” Eloise can hear the smile in her voice.

“Oh my gosh! Why is everyone on my ass about that today?” She groans, beginning to count stock. Jenny-Grace moves back to the till, giggling.

“What did you drop off this time?” She asks.

“Whatever was growing in the garden. Peaches. A punnet of cherries.” Eloise replies, remembering the perfectly ripe peaches she had carefully selected, gently nestling them in the beer crate. She shakes it off. “Mum had also made another batch of coconut shampoo. Threw in a jar of that.”

Jenny-Grace Reed is her best friend. They are the same age, and while they had been at school together since they were little they really became friends when Eloise got her job at the Blue Eye at 13. Jenny-Grace has already been working the till for a few years, financially supporting her grandmother and brother. She has dark skin, and her naturally black hair is bleached brunette from the District 4 sun.

Because Eloise transferred from regular school to the combat Academy soon after starting work at the Blue Eye, they make a point of hanging out after work and various school hours. This means that they are practically always seen together in public, and the town residents started calling them Jelly and Elly, never seeing one without the other. Jenny-Grace is the most supportive of Eloise’s obsessively busy training schedule, and they often spend their hang-outs with Jenny-Grace being her personal cheerleader while Eloise runs and climbs and skewers things with tridents.

“Ooh I love that stuff. Except I wouldn’t dream of wearing coconut things, that’s your scent. Does your mum have any mango stuff left?” Jenny-Grace asks. Eloise nods.

Her mother basically always has product. She doesn’t work, after Eloise’s father Hugo Thorne died she went into a mental slump. Even now, a decade later, she is too weak to work at the docks and too fragile to work in retail. So she spends her time at home crafting lotions and ointments, and sometimes jewellery too. Eloise often sells these things at the market for her. Eloise and Jenny-Grace make an effort to use her creations to show their support, and Eloise found herself only using coconut scented things while Jenny-Grace developed a fondness for mango. They also have bracelets she had made, a string of tiny metal Blue-Eyed Grass flowers for Eloise and a string of cowrie shells for Jenny-Grace.

“Worried about the reaping tomorrow?” Eloise asks hesitantly, finally voicing the thing that had been gnawing at her mind for the last fortnight. The 69th Hunger Games. But Jenny-Grace shakes her head.

“Why should I? I’ve worked since I was 10 so me and August don’t have to apply for tesserae. He’s only entered 3 times and me 5. The odds are in our favour.” She snorts at the ridiculous saying. Eloise feels herself relax at Jenny-Grace’s confidence. She too was only entered 5 times, but she was never concerned about herself being reaped, she could look after herself. She only wanted Jenny-Grace and her brother safe. And her two stepsisters as well.

They spend the rest of the afternoon working. It is easy stuff, really. Tending to customers, counting stock, cracking seasalt over loaves. Eloise always thought the elderly couple paid them far too much to just sit around and gossip, but she also knows the sympathy they held for the two girls. Jenny-Grace without her parents and Eloise without her father, they are probably paying them time and a half from pity alone.

Their shifts end at 6:00, so they close up the store and depart with a tight squeeze. Eloise heads back out of town, in the vague direction of the Academy. She lives approximately halfway between the centre of town and the slums. Jenny-Grace does too, just on the opposite side of town instead.

Curfew is strictly 8:00 pm, and anyone caught outside after hours by a Peacekeeper is up for a whipping or a couple nights in the stocks, especially women and children. That gives Eloise a couple of hours, and there is no doubt she is going down to the docks.

She swerves down an ally, and after a while she pops out at the seafront again, surrounded by the bustling metropolis of the docks. This part of town is full of life at this time, the boats coming in after a long day fishing. Sweaty, tired men walk off of the boats, lifting barrels and nets, eager to finally get home to eat and sleep. Eloise pulls on her Academy jacket over her skimpy sundress, because while she knows these kinds of men well, she doesn’t rule out their grabby hands.

She weaves between men hefting crates, barrels rolling and cranes swinging. Eloise is used to this chaotic, bustling crowd. She knows the knack of getting around where other people would be overwhelmed. It’s easy to get lost in the labyrinth of seafront pubs and merchants as well as the busy docks and jetties. But Eloise loves it, similarly to how she loves the quiet break of dawn in the morning. They are both moments that make her feel alive. Dodging and ducking, she eventually finds the mooring of the ship she wants.

The Wayfarer patiently sits docked while eight or so men clamber around her, hauling barrels of fish and fishing equipment out of her stomach. One of the men, a burly weathered man in his late 40s, spots her. His dark green eyes light up, a grin splitting his face around the grizzly black beard it sports.

“Eloise!” He practically bellows, placing down his barrel and closing the distance between them in only a couple of strides of his long legs. He scoops her up in a fishy hug.

“Magnus!” She laughs as he places her down, the other crewmates now noticing her and smiling. Eloise follows Magnus back to the barrel, trailing after him as he works unloading the day’s catch onto The Wayfarer’s designated minecart-like-thing. Every vessel has one, a largish metal buggy on a set of train tracks that runs down the waterfront, right down the pavement between the pubs and the docks. The fishermen use this to carry the catch to the holding tanks further up the coast each night.

“Wha’cha doin’ down ‘ere tonight sweetheart’’? Thought you was working at the Blue Eye today?” He asks, heaving the barrel up onto the cart as if it weighed less than a penny.

“I did. I had training in the morning, too.” She hops up onto the edge of the cart so she was level with him as he worked. “But curfew’s not ‘till 8, so I came down for some extra practise,” Eloise slid in a sly smile at her request, playfully batting her eyelashes.

Magnus laughs. “Of course, but don’t stay too late this time, I don’t wan’ no Peacekeepers givin’ you trouble again.” Eloise winces, absent mindedly rubbing her wrists where the shackles had held her all those moons ago.

“Don’t worry, I’ve learnt my lesson.” She assures ruefully.

“Nice skirt, Thorne.” Levi, one of the ship’s young deckhands grins as he deposited his armful in the cart, tugging the bottom of her dress. Eloise lets out an unladylike snort.

“It’s actually a dress. A pretty chilly one too.” She complains, wrapping her arms around herself in the cooling afternoon air. Levi wordlessly pulls off his canvas overcoat, tossing it to her. Grinning, Eloise pulls it over her bare legs.

The Wayfarer's crew work for another 45 minutes until all the fish are trundling down the tracks along with the other boat’s hauls. At this point in the evening, a good few of the docks’ fishermen leave, eagerly going home to their families. But many of them stay, the pubs and bars conveniently perched on the street finally getting their business for the day.

But Eloise never goes in them. She can’t bring herself to set foot in a pub, not knowing which one of them is the one her father had died in. He was young, drunk after a stressful day at sea. Feelings ran high, and a fight had turned into a crime scene. The Wayfarer’s crew knew this, and when Eloise was around they spent the evening outside sparring and drinking rum in the evening air instead.

Finally done, a few of them peter-out, but six of them stay, taking turns buying rounds of drinks and bringing them out to sit on empty crates and talk while Eloise and Magnus practise sparring. It’s a simple ritual, one that her mother would probably faint at. But it’s not always fight training, Eloise often comes down to find the boys still working late into the night fixing the boat or equipment. So she helps out, even when she isn’t getting paid for it.

She got employed at the docks the same time she began training at the Academy and working at the Blue Eye. The surge of determination at 13 had rewritten how her life ran, once idle and purposeless now busy and fulfilling. She doesn’t work at sea with the men, instead she wove nets, fish hooks and helped keep the machinery running smoothly, and then helped load and unload the The Wayfarer in the morning and evening. Her shifts were on the days she didn’t work at the Blue Eye, as the employers at the docks were surprisingly very understanding and accommodating to her schedule.

“Not many women workin’ here.” They had said, “Good to have fresh blood.”

And they were right. Most of the women worked in the bars and pubs as waitresses, something for lonely men to gawk at. Eloise hated it, but looking into the pub windows that seeped warm light into the dark evening, full of rowdy, drunk men, she was gladder than ever that she had found her crew. They never made her feel uncomfortable, if anything she felt safer around them. And of course, without Magnus how would she be so handy with a trident?

“You’ve gotta grip it harder when you strike wi’ it.” Magnus said, showing her how to hold the trident loosely when manoeuvring, then tightening her hold to plunge it into the imaginary chest of her offender.

“That’s it, Thorne!” Levi calls from atop his crate when Eloise manages to make Magnus stumble during one of their pretend bouts. Eloise grins up at the young man, accepting the drink he offers her.

Just then, a door to one of the taverns swings open with a resounding bang. A dishevelled, yet undeniably handsome man stumbles out into the crowded street, his steps unsteady. A bar manager follows, forcefully trying to guide the inebriated man away from his business. Eloise pauses, her attention caught by the commotion.

Through the gaps in the busy crowd, the man's unfocused sea-green eyes meet Eloise's. The blonde man's gaze flickers with a momentary spark of recognition. "It's the girl from the beach," he slurs, his garbled words hardly carrying over the din of the waterfront. Before Eloise can react, he is half-shoved, half-carried into the night by the frustrated bar manager, leaving behind a flustered Eloise.

“What’s Odair doing here?” Levi asks, eyes flickering between Eloise’s flushed face and the space the man had once occupied.

Eloise swallows. “I don’t know. Probably numbing himself down before mentoring those tributes tomorrow.” She says, trying to look nonchalant with a shrug. Levi shoots her a wicked grin.

Eager to hide her face, Eloise turns around to pick up her trident again, but Magnus was already stashing them back in the boat. “Hey! I wasn’t done kicking your ass yet!” She calls. Magnus shakes his head.

“Nah girl. You best be getting home now, them Peacekeepers get real tight the night before.” He grunts. Eloise sags.

“Alright then. I’ll see you later Mag.” Eloise sighs, reaching him for a hug.

“Keep yourself safe tomorrow, kiddo. Don’t go bein’ a hero.” He says, ruffling her curls.

Eloise nods. “I won’t.”

"Yeah, well, we'll see you tomorrow evening Thornsy. You've got a shift," Levi says, approaching Eloise with a grin. Eloise hugs him too, planting a kiss on his cheek. She knows that means ‘stay safe’.

“Yeah yeah. I will.” Eloise hugs a few more of her friends before jogging away with a wave. It’s getting uncomfortably close to curfew, but luckily Eloise doesn’t live too far away from here.

She reaches her house just as curfew ticks over, and walks up the stepping-stone pavement to her front door. Her house was one of the ones repurposed from a couple of old boat sheds, a tiny thing with windows that rattle in the wind. Her stepfather Remus Mariner constantly complains about their home, but Eloise loves her little cottage.

Her mother painted it white with a blue trim when they first moved in, in an effort to make the cut-and-shut building more cohesive. The paint is peeling now, and roof tiles dot the small lawn out front. The garden isn’t maintained, grown up in a jungle of wildflowers.

Eloise pushes through the door and is welcomed by a sauna of fish-smelling steam. The kitchen, dining and living room were all one room, and her mother stood over a steaming pot of broth. Remus is sitting at the table reading a newspaper and puffing on a pipe, and her two stepsisters, one of them comfortably seated on the other's lap, sit in another dining room chair rolling the little one’s hair around strips of cloth.

“El!” 12-year-old Cova exclaims, jerking her head around to look at her.

“Hold still!” Marlowe growls through gritted teeth. “I’ll never get this done if you keep wriggling.”

Eloise sets her bag down and makes her way around to the girls.

“Here,” she soothes, gently taking Cova’s blonde locks and wrapping it tightly around the fabric before securing off with twine. “Are you doing your hair all pretty for the reaping tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Marlowe responds, the 15-year-old looking disgruntled. “I didn’t need your help though.”

Eloise just rolls her eyes and joins her mother at the small kitchen counter. “Anything I can do?” A hunk of fish and a handful of root vegetables sit stewing in a pot above the fire.

“It’s dark outside, Petal. Where have you been?” Her mother responds in that tremulous voice she always has. She sounds brittle, almost.

Eloise just starts slicing a loaf of bread for dipping, sneaking the loose, seaweedy crumbs into her mouth. “Jenny-Grace’s.” She replies simply.

Her mother visibly relaxed. “Oh, okay. Fetch some ale for your father, Petal.”

Eloise crinkles her nose at the request, but not wanting to upset her mother she settles for a quiet ‘he’s not my father’ under her breath. Stooping down, Eloise fishes out a bottle of ale, smiling softly at the familiar Blue Eye logo printed on the front. She spins around, leaning over the table to place the bottle down in front of the man her mother married.

Remus Mariner. Thirty-nine years old and fully grey, a well-maintained moustache on his upper lip. His eyes, deep and brown, have passed onto his two daughters, Marlowe and Cova. They are his one redeeming quality, as while she loathes the boring man, she loves her little sisters dearly, and she sees his love for them reflected there too. He isn’t a bad man, just painfully self-entitled and useless. Eloise believes Cressida can do better, but at least his wages ensured her mother a gentle life in the home.

Remus doesn’t thank her, just grunts. He also doesn’t thank Cressida when she places a bowl of steaming fish stew in front of him. What a knob!

They all eat in silently except for Cova’s constant stream of chatter interrupted here and there by Marlowe complaining about this, that or the other.

“I heard that while Finnick and Mags are away at the games allllll the other Victors are going to teach special lessons at the Academy. Isn’t that so cool? Eloise, you have to talk to them you have to!-” Cova prattles on around a mouthful of stew.

“Honestly Cova do you ever stop talking? Some of us are more preoccupied about the reaping you know, it really is a great worry.” Marlowe huffs, interrupting little Cova’s spiel. Marlowe Mariner seems to think she is the rarest, most precious gem in Panem. All she has been fretting about for the last month is how she’s ‘entered 3 times!’ and how frightened she is of her practically guaranteed ‘impending doom!’. The girl has always been stuck up, seldom a nice word for her older stepsister or a helping hand. But Eloise never really minds, always having her own snippy retaliation that sends the black-haired girl running to Cressida wailing allegations of bullying.

Eloise smiles to herself, not about whatever argument the two stepsisters were having, but because she knew no one at this table knew her hidden talent. Yes, they all knew she works two jobs and attends the combat Academy, receiving monthly letters of performance reports, but none of them have seen her with a trident in hand. If Marlowe, so set on the idea of going to the games, saw her take down a 110 kg man with an elegant twist of her arm, the poor girl might just pass out.

Eloise cleans up dinner while the girls and their father say goodnight and her mother goes to bed, the warm sudsy water sending her body to sleep. She fantasises how the day tomorrow will go, the tributes getting on that luxury train to be taken to their eternal glory or certain death. She pictures herself sitting in glimmering spotlights with Caesar Flickerman and three-thousand people in the audience, a beautiful gown on and a videotape of the 69th Hunger Games highlights running in the background broadcasting her victory.

She turns off all the lights, and quietly tip-toes into the girl’s shared room only to find Marlowe and Cova still awake, chatting. Eloise slithers off her sundress and changes into a simple ruffled nightgown, slipping into the bed on Cova’s right. They all used to have their own beds, but somewhere along the line the girls had pushed all three of the thin mattresses together so Cova could roll around and still have someone to cuddle with, and it has just stayed that way. Marlowe and Eloise on each side with Cova sandwiched in the middle.

“El. Who do you think is gonna be reaped tomorrow?” Cova whispers loudly. Eloise finger-combs the girl’s hair, pretending to ponder.

“Hm. I don’t know. Who do you think?” She murmurs back.

“I dunno either. I hope it’s Annie Cresta, then we’d have a whole three Victors in one decade.” Cova whispers, failing to keep her enthusiastic voice quiet. Eloise smiles to herself in the dark, thinking about how she had beaten Annie twice that day.

“You know it doesn’t work like that, right? They don’t just pick the best fighters” Marlowe hisses from across the bed, the eyeroll evident in her tone. “Often it’s actually the kindest hearts who face life's toughest challenges.” She laments, her voice completely serious.

Eloise wants to burst out laughing at Marlowe's sorrowful tone. That girl has been reading too many romances!

“Oh yes. We promise to grieve you when they take you away tomorrow, Marlowe.” Eloise remarks dryly, and earns a pillow to the face.

“I’m serious! What if I’m reaped?” Marlowe wails. Eloise sighs fondly at the foolish girl, pulling her two younger sisters in.

“Shhh.” Eloise soothes quietly, stroking her thick dark hair while she sniffles quietly. “You won’t be reaped. And if you do-which you won’t- one of the Academy kids will volunteer for you. Cova’s right, they’ll want to have three Victors in one decade.” Cova, wedged in between Eloise and Marlowe, snuggles up against Eloise until they all resemble a pile of toasty marshmallows in their matching nightgowns.

Eloise begins quietly humming songs to help the two girls fall asleep, and listens contentedly as their breathing synchronises, slowing as they drop off into slumber.

But Eloise struggles to fall asleep herself, no older sister to sing her lullabies or stroke her forehead to soothe the racing thoughts in her mind. After hours of nodding in and out of sleep, Eloise tires. She untangles herself from the pile of marshmallows, pressing a fleeting kiss to their foreheads, and slides back out of bed.

Pulling off her nightgown and changing into a pair of shorts and a tank top, Eloise sneaks silently out of the house on bare feet with her shoes in her hand. Pulling the shoes on outside, Eloise begins jogging. She aims to run a loop around town, minus the straggly outer suburbs. She calculates that it must be past midnight, the moon glistening past its peak, high in the sky.

The rhythmic thrum of sneakers on concrete lull Eloise, clearing her mind and making her eyelids droop. She really should be more alert, if a Peacekeeper catches her outside after curfew they are well within their right to shoot her. But the curfew means the Capitol doesn't bother supplying electricity to the lampposts, so it’s easy to stay out of sight in the shadows, and she goes on these nighttime runs often. She knows what she’s doing.

Undeterred by the threat of capture hanging over her nighttime runs, Eloise persists in her clandestine runs, finding pleasure in succeeding to defy the oppressive laws the Capitol inforce. She wasn’t unaware of the punishment for being caught, no. She had endured that herself before. But marks on her back from the Peacekeeper’s cruelty spur her on, and she never stopped doing her own little act of rebellion ost nights since.

It takes Eloise an hour and a half at a steady run to loop the town, sneaking back into the house and sliding silently under the covers again. Eloise wasn’t surprised when passing the Victor’s Village to see soft light spilling from one of the houses. Eloise had a hunch after seeing Finnick Odair dishevelled and intoxicated that his mind was as plagued with nervous anticipation as Eloise was. She didn’t know why, his family and friend’s lives weren’t on the line like hers were.

Pushing thoughts of the confusing Victor from her mind, Eloise rolls over, her back pressing up against one of her sisters. Her run tired her out enough that even her racing thoughts can’t defeat the sleep that finally pulls her under.

#ph☆ebe's scribbles #hunger games fic #finnick odair fanfic #hunger games fanfiction #finnick odair #the hunger games #fanfic #fanfiction #finnick odair x oc

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todaysbug · 6 months

Text

October 27th, 2023

Banded Tussock Moth (Halysidota tessellaris)

Distribution: North America; from southern Canada to Texas and central Florida.

Habitat: Usually found near deciduous forests throughout their range. Adults are occasionally found flying around artificial lights.

Diet: Larvae feed on many trees and shrubs such as alder, ash, blueberry, chestnut, elm, grape, hackberry, oak, hazel, walnut, willow, poplars and tulip trees; adults feed on the liquids of decaying plants.

Description: The banded tussock moth gets its name from the long bristles protruding from the body of its caterpillar, resembling a patch of tussock grass. These hairs are not harmless, though; these fine hairs are like tiny fiberglass fibres which can easily pierce the thin skin of mucous membranes, such as the inside of a predator's mouth. While this will rarely cause any bleeding cuts in humans, the irritation from these hairs may cause a short-lived rash, especially in children. Adults are equally capable of protecting themselves; the decaying plants they feast on are rich in alkaloid compounds, which they then integrate into their tissues. This makes them an unpleasant snack for would-be predators, which quickly learn to avoid eating both the banded tussock larvae and adults. Due to this physical and chemical protection, these moths are quite conspicuous and slow-moving, happy to rest out in the open knowing.

(First picture by Jenn Forman Orth, second by me)

#today's bug #biology #bugs #ecology #nature #entomology #moths

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shitty-eyepocalypse-domains · 2 years

Note

Vast domain where you’ve hiked up a steep slope and now have to get back down. It seems much, much steeper going down. (That’s not even supernatural. Slopes always do that.) The trail peters out immediately. The soil is sandy and loose, with rocks that look sturdy but slip instantly out from under you. There’s always something to catch yourself on when you fall, but only barely — a skinny grass tussock, maybe, or a half-rotted dead branch — and only after you’ve nearly lost your balance completely, so catching the handhold comes too late stop the icy adrenaline stab. Your hands are cramping; will you even be able to grab the next one? Flat ground never actually gets any closer, of course, no matter how long you climb.

Holy shit this could be a goddamn statement. On that note, I am one of those people who absolutely get scared going down even a teensy hill cause ~anxiety~ lmao so mark that down on your increasingly accurate knowledge of my fears list.

#the magnus archives #the archivist #jonathan sims #tma #tma podcast #the eye #the eyepocalypse #shitty eyepocalypse domains #shitty eyepocalypse domain submission #the vast #the falling titan #simon fairchild #mike crew #im not joking btw i am scared of going down small hills :(#also thanks to everyone on the last post #yall had great suggestions #agnes is kinda vibing with me rn but well see :p

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dilemmaontwolegs · 2 years

Text

The Miracle - Ch.6

Morpheus (Dream of the Endless) x reader (no gender/pronouns mentioned) Summary: Things are changing in the Dreaming as it heals from the many wounds suffered over the years, but the greatest healing comes from forgiveness. Warnings: none WC: 1.7k

Ch.1 || Ch.2 || Ch.3 || Ch.4 || Ch.5 || Ch.6

Forgiveness. In theory it is such a simple thing to do, but the reality was much harder. You didn’t even know where to begin as you stared at your reflection in the mirror that almost covered one wall of the bedroom. You were growing irritable the longer you stared, the space behind your shoulders still lacking anything resembling wings.

Exhaling the frustrated breath you had been holding, you swept from the room in search of a distraction. The first attempt was thwarted by Lucienne when she informed you that her history lesson with Hope was about to begin so you took aim at the throne room.

“Morpheus?” you called out, voice echoing off the harsh stone surfaces in the empty room. Backtracking from the room, you walked the halls until you came across Mervyn - a bucket full of some dark liquid you were probably better off not knowing.

“Have you seen Dream today?”

“Not since he went to the House of Secrets this morning.” Merv shook his big pumpkin head before hoisting the bucket up, its contents spilling over the side. “But if you do see him before me, ask him what he wants me to do with this shit.”

“You don’t actually mean…” You took a step away from the sloshing bucket. “I’ll, um, definitely send him your way when I find him.”

In need of fresh air, you made your way to Fiddler’s Green and took a rest under a tree you hadn’t visited in many years. The knotted trunk was thicker than before and its peak was higher but the leaves were still the vibrant green they had been when you had climbed it to the dragon’s nest.

You peered up between the branches but found no sign of the nest and felt the sudden urge to find the Three Graces, as they triplets had been named in the end. You ran your fingers through the strands of grass around you before rising to your feet.

“Thank you for the company, Mr Green.” The trees swayed in a phantom wind as he waved his goodbye and you continued in your walk through the Dreaming.

You couldn’t remember the last time you had simply meandered through the lands with no destination in mind. You always seemed to have somewhere to be and didn’t take the time to just breathe in the sweet scented air. It was refreshing, replenishing even.

You felt his presence before you spotted him and a smile graced your lips when he stepped into the path and wrapped you in his arms. “You look exhausted, my love.”

He hummed in your ear before stepping back and looping his arm through yours. “The brothers have been getting along rather well, Lucienne suggested I check in and see what was the matter.”

“And?”

“Cain hasn’t killed Abel for almost four days,” he said with a short laugh, “but Lucienne is right to worry, it is very unusual for them. Where were you heading to?”

You chuckled at the thought and shook your head at the brothers. “I’m off to find my dragons. Did Mervyn find you?”

The wrinkle of Morpheus’ nose gave you the answer before he even nodded. “I’ll spare you the details, but the Hippogryph will be missing from guarding the gates for a while I should think.”

Dream stopped as the path reached the edge of Fiddler’s territory and opened to tussock grass that stretched across the plateau. He bent down and began to unlace his boots, kicking them off before tossing them into the pocket realm hidden in his cloak.

“What are you doing?” you asked as he turned to you and waited. “What?”

“Take off your shoes,” he ordered as a smirk teased his lips, “or I will.”

He lowered himself to one knee as you stayed where you were and your mouth parted at the sight of him looking up at you. His hand held your leg steady as he lifted it and pulled your shoe off before moving to the next, tossing them into his cloak too.

“Someone wise once said it is good to feel the earth beneath your feet.” He caught the curl of your eyebrow and chuckled, lacing your hands together before heading into the knee high grass. “Earth, Dreaming - it's all the same, it’s grounding to walk barefoot.”

The grass tickled your feet and you felt the warmth of the soil that had been absorbing the sunshine all day. It was as if you could feel the realm itself, an extension of Dream, and your steps became lighter.

The ground vibrated with life, from the small worm aerating the soil for growth to the roots reaching down deeper for a stronger foundation. It reminded you that you were all connected no matter how small your role was.

“I am going to recreate the Corinthian.” You stumbled at Morpheus’ admission, groaning as you stubbed your toe.

You blinked at his serious face before stammering your question, “Why?”

Morpheus shrugged, kneeling into the dirt so he could fuss over your toe as he spoke, “It’s time. We have all changed and now I feel ready to create him as he should have been. With the support of Lucienne and you in keeping the Dreaming running smoothly, I can invest my time into educating him on his purpose.”

“Have you forgiven him for what he did to the humans?”

“He was a nightmare that I created. I cannot forgive him, such as I cannot forgive the wolf for biting, it is its nature.” Morpheus rose to his feet and brushed his lips across yours before trailing them along your jawline. “I forgave myself so that I might try again.”

You jolted away with wide eyes. “Take me to the library.”

The terrain blurred as you were whisked into the Library of Dreams and you darted along the aisles, searching the list of names until you found yours. You could feel the questions radiating off Morpheus but he kept his thoughts to himself as you flipped through the book, your story.

The pages of your life read with a familiarity that was also foreign. It was your history but from an objective perspective and held no emotion to the facts. You inhaled the information, turned the page and repeated until you reached the last page that was almost completely blank.

The rest was up to you.

“You found your answer,” Morpheus stated with a proud smile. “I knew you would.”

You rolled your shoulders as you felt a pressure building in your back, the pops and cracks of your bones shifting. A nervous smile curled at your lips and you placed your book back on the shelf. “Did you now?”

“Absolutely,” he said with a kiss to your forehead. “My miracle is capable of anything.”

Wind whipped your face as you stood at the precipice of the wall above the gates. A strong updraft was blowing in from the ocean beyond but you were still nervous as you saw the drop below. “Will you catch me?”

Morpheus took your hand and kissed your knuckles. “My love, I would never let you fall.”

You could feel the bone structure of wings beneath your skin, but they had not yet made an appearance. Your stomach was in knots as you teetered on the edge and took a deep breath.

You were an angel, you were a human, you were a miracle, and you could fly.

You leapt from the wall and cast your arms out into the open air, feeling the burn of the wind drying your eyes. The setting sun was reflecting off the ocean and sand with a golden beauty that stole your breath and you finally felt free.

Wings erupted from your back, larger than ever before, and the screaming wind was silenced as the plumage caught the updraft to soar along the coast. Laughter turned to tears as you beat your wings and found they weren’t just reflecting the setting sun but each feather was gold. Gold like Morpheus’ sand.

You swooped back towards the gates and Morpheus held his arms wide open with an even wider smile. You caught him, wrapping your arms and legs around him before flapping your strong wings and rising higher towards the palace.

Morpheus radiated pride as he wiped the tears from your face and ran his fingers through your feathers as you glided around the north spire. “How do you feel?”

There was only one word to describe it. “Whole.”

You flew until your back ached and your body begged for a bath to soothe the overused muscles. It was well after dark when you returned to the palace but you were too impatient to wait to visit the Silver City, hunting down Michael to thank him. Morpheus had merely kissed you goodbye and given you a push to the door, trusting you would return to him.

When you stepped into the bedroom he hadn’t been to sleep but he also wasn’t pacing the room which was progress for him. He knew you well enough to have taken the liberty of expanding the width of the bed to accommodate your wings. You smiled gratefully as you saw that, your heart unwilling to shift them back under your skin after missing them for so long.

“You never told me how your book ended.”

You hoped it never had an ending as you turned to your reflection in the mirror on the wall, that it would always remain as it was right now: ‘To be continued…’ You smiled at your reflection and saw Morpheus shift from the bed to join you. His body warmed your back and tickled your feathers as he pressed himself into you and rested his chin on your shoulder.

“I love you,” he whispered sweetly in your ear.

You turned so you could see his starry eyes when you spoke to him, “I love you too.”

Turning back to your reflection, you looked into your own eyes as you voiced the hardest truth you had faced. “I forgive you.”

Tagging: @wt-fvck @nightly-polaris @lu123sworld @selene07sblog @mikariell95

#the sandman x reader #the sandman fanfic #the sandman x you #the sandman imagine #dream of the endless x reader #dream of the endless imagine #morpheus fanfiction #morpheus x reader #morpheus imagine #morpheus x y/n #morpheus x you

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balladofthewhitehorse · 11 months

Text

Snippet of a rewrite of the Longbow Fic

‘’Shoot the damn hare.’’ Anger budded, welling up like a mountain spring as she glared at the boy beside her. England’s face scrunched in equal frustration, nose wrinkling (summer freckles, not dissimilar to her own, across the bridge) as he finally let the arrow loose - and into a thick tussock of grass, startling the hare. Predictably, it moved as if lightning had struck it, and vanished over the hills with a few agile bounds. ‘’For-!’’ A curse wrenched itself from her throat, Wales staring across the hills, as if contemplating going after the hare by herself.

‘’You can’t leave me-!’’

A voice interjected, Wales stiffening as she drew in a world-weary breath. No, she couldn’t do anything like that; Not since Anarawd had come to a deal with Alfred, not since Gwynedd had told her to call this one brother. ‘’Wasn’t going to.’’ Wales replied coolly, reaching for the boy’s hand as they slowly picked their way through the thickets

#hws england #hws wales #it's not that i hate the original #it's more than my HCs have changed #as well as the way I interpret how they came into being #and I figure the treaty between Alfred and Anarawd was a good place to set the beginning in

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tribbetherium · 1 year

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'The Early Rodentocene, 2 million years post-establishment.

Isla Genesis. A small tropical island riddled with sheer cliffs and coastal zones grown over with tussock grass, and an abandoned test site. The birthplace of the planet's fauna. A world oddly empty, nothing flying its skies or swimming its seas. Here, a small gopher-like hamster, clearly already divergent from its ancestor but still recognizable as one, scurries about the ocean cliffsides in search of the abundant grass seeds. It hurries past a small tarnished object buried in the sand, perhaps once a piece of equipment left behind, now weathered beyond recognition. All the traces of the experiment have slowly been rubbed out by time as nature takes hold, yet even this span of time is but a flicker in the scale of this planet's history.'

-------

Been getting lots of asks about the Rodentocene so felt like whipping up a couple of Rodentocene one-shots. Also looking back at my old art styles 2 years ago and sheesh.

#speculative evolution #speculative biology #spec evo #speculative zoology #hamster's paradise

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fragrantblossoms · 1 year

Photo

Headland covered with dying tussock grass / British Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition, 1914-1917 / Paget plates by Frank Hurley

#Frank Hurley #photography #fragrantblossoms

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frodo-with-glasses · 1 year

Note

Tree, Boromir and Faramir

There aren't many trees in Minas Tirith. There's the White Tree, of course, but from boyhood it was drilled into Boromir and Faramir that the White Tree was sacred, and even during their rowdy games of Swords or Elves or Guard and Robber in the courtyard, they always stayed far away from the guards and the fountain and the old tree.

Just outside the city wasn't much good, either. The Pelennor Fields stretched for miles outside the city walls, with the low grasses and tussocks being the only green thing visible as far as the eye could see; most of the buildings in Minas Tirith were made of stone, and the ones that did incorporate wood were built with logs imported from other parts of the kingdom. Trees usually came to Minas Tirith as naked, straight logs on carts drawn by stout horses.

That's why a real, live, standing tree was such a treat.

On the rare occasions that Denethor had business outside of Minas Tirith, Faramir and Boromir would nag and beg their father incessantly to take them with him. Often times, there was some excuse why they couldn't come; "you must stay here and attend to your studies", "the road will be dangerous", "this is a simple business matter, and there will be no time for two young lads to stay and frolic". But sometimes—sometimes, on a miracle—he would agree.

Faramir was only a boy when he saw the forest for the first time, and he fell in love in an instant. The smells, the colors, the variety of life, the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. Boromir's heart was still with the City, and he was dubious of the mud and the fallen leaves that could conceal animal droppings. But the moment he heard a voice call his name from above, and looked up, and found his little brother grinning down at him from his perch on a stout tree limb several feet over his head, the contest had begun.

The rules were simple, and immediately understood: whoever could climb the highest was the winner. Faramir had been sitting in an oak; Boromir heaved himself up into a maple; Faramir scrambled almost all the way to the top of a tall fir, so high that the branches were thin and swayed alarmingly underneath him.

Boromir thought he'd found a winning tree—many large limbs, starting near the ground and spiraling upwards around the trunk far up to the canopy—but the moment he leaped up to hang on one small, bare, leafless limb, it cracked in his hands, and the dead wood snapped off the tree and came crashing down.

Boromir had the good sense to let go as soon as he heard the crack, but it was a long way to fall. A moment after his boots thumped onto the leaves on the forest floor—and the impact shot up his legs and made his knees shaky—he felt a heavy blow to his shoulder and collapsed face-down. The limb fell, and its dry twigs and fingers snapped all at once with a CRASH.

"Boromir!" Hurried footsteps, and heavy breathing, broke the silence that followed. "Boromir!" Faramir had shimmied hastily down from his perch, and was running to his brother.

Boromir groaned, and grimaced, and pushed into the dirt with his hands and sat up. His shoulder was sore, and he rubbed it gingerly as he leaned against the tree and tried to catch his breath.

"Are you all right?" Faramir had skidded to a halt in front of him, and now looked at him with wide eyes and trembling hands.

Boromir saw the fear and worry in his little brother's face, and wanting to dispel it with laughter, he mustered a smile. "Of course!" he said. "I did not fall very far."

"It seemed so to me," said Faramir. "You are hurt; I can see it. We should have been more cautious. Father will be furious if he learns of this."

"I am not hurt," Boromir repeated, although he had to cover a wince as he sat up straighter. "And Father does not need to know."

Faramir hesitated. "If you are certain."

"I am certain. Although," he said slowly, "I do not wish to climb any more trees. I do not think they have taken a liking to me."

That got Faramir to laugh, and he stood up straighter. "You jest! Trees here do not have the gift of thought; the likes of those can be found only in the stories of old, or in lands far away. Yet if these could think, I'm sure they would find you heavy. Have caution, or you shall get yourself killed."

"Who is heavy?" Boromir scooped a pine cone from the forest floor and threw it at him, laughing, as Faramir ran away.

For just a moment, Boromir was alone, and he took the chance to press his aching shoulder and hiss through his teeth. He wouldn't let Faramir see him like this. He didn't want him to worry. But for just a moment, he leaned against the trunk of a great tree, caught his breath, and sourly plucked out a small twig from where it had stuck into his jacket.

WORD ASK GAME!

#word ask game #faramir #boromir #lord of the rings #lotr #my writing #apparently i am unable to stay away from angst even when writing stupid fluffy childhood shenanigans #oh you sweet summer children; if only you knew

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