#where my nose is scabbing over from how often I blow it

[glompcat]

I have been in sinus hell for a week now and I am begging my nose to adjust to the heat being on already

#I have reached the stage #where my nose is scabbing over from how often I blow it #and on top of it all #when the sinus headaches hit #I get a toothache #that isn't a real toothache #it's my sinuses acting up #but fuck does it hurt

[goldenavenger02]

I've had everything (no one's listening)

He waited until the sobs slowed a bit before opening the car door and grabbing a roll of paper towels and handing a couple to Lloyd, "hold that on your face, and tell me what happened. Don't tell Kai I swore around you, but you look like shit."

Takes place after Wrong Place, Wrong Time

•••

"Be patient with him, Jay. Sometimes the greatest enemy we face is ourselves, and that's especially true for Lloyd. Remember where he came from. He's the son of Lord Garmadon. It's going to take him a while to see the light." Sensei Wu's words rang in Jay's head as he drove through the outskirts of Ninjago City.

All four of the ninja, plus Nya, were patrolling the city, looking for any sign of Garmadon now that the mega weapon had been destroyed, and while Kai was way too vocal about his hopes that Garmadon was gone for good, they all knew that wasn't true.

They had all noticed Sensei getting more protective of Lloyd, almost as if the Tomorrow's Tea incident had sped up the likelihood of Lloyd fulfilling the prophecy sooner than later.

Meanwhile, all Jay could think about was how just a month ago, Lloyd was unable to control his powers and was exploding light bulbs like there was no tomorrow, which forced him to hit the gas.

Garmadon wasn't the only reason they were searching the city and the outskirts; Lloyd had disappeared that morning, with zero sign of him or his gi anywhere, sending all of them into a panic.

Zane tried to reason that it was stress, Kai seemed to think that he went to go find his dad himself to fight him, Cole thought that he went to join his dad and was trying to run away from his destiny, Sensei just wanted him found.

Jay didn't know what to think.

'After what happened at Darkly's, he seemed to be on the straight and narrow, but he could've joined up with his dad. I doubt he would start the battle early, but at the same time, maybe he wants to get it over with. Or maybe he really is stressed, and just needs a breather.

But Jay did know one thing as he turned and started to drive off the road. 'We have to find this kid.'

As he continued to drive, all Jay could see was sand blowing across the road, closer to his parents' junkyard than the city.

'He's probably just in the city at the comic book store or something, there's no way he would've gotten all the way out here.' Jay told himself as he started to get ready to turn back when he saw it.

A figure with blonde hair, dressed in green, with his arm outstretched towards the road. Lloyd was alive, and was hitchhiking home. Jay immediately reached for the radio and sent out a transmission as he pulled back onto the road and slowed down.

"I found him. I found Lloyd."

He didn't wait for a response before shutting off the radio in order not to spook Lloyd before pulling up to him, wincing when he saw the fact that his lip was busted with dried blood around it, his right eye was turning black and there was blood dripping from his nose.

"Did you get involved in a cage match?" Jay spoke, getting out of the car to fully assess what had happened, "or did you lose a bet?"

"I-I can't go home," Lloyd sniffled, his lip starting to bleed again, "m-my uncle will be so angry."

"Hey, hey," Jay soothed and pulled the kid into a hug, "your uncle will be happy you're alive, and mostly okay."

He waited until the sobs slowed a bit before opening the car door and grabbing a roll of paper towels and handing a couple to Lloyd, "hold that on your face, and tell me what happened. Don't tell Kai I swore around you, but you look like shit."

"I-I just wanted to help," Lloyd started, applying pressure to his lip, "I'm older now, I-I can fight. So when the sensor at the Bounty went off, a-and it was some thieves, I deleted the alert and went after t-them."

Jay couldn't help but smile, even though he had a feeling that he was supposed to chew the kid out for acting recklessly, he couldn't help but admire Lloyd's bravery and determination.

"Okay, here's the plan," Jay announced, opening the door so Lloyd could get in the car before he followed, "we're closer to the junkyard then the city, so we'll get you patched up there while I come up with a cover story."

Lloyd nodded, moving the paper towel off of his lip as Jay pulled back onto the road.

"And keep pressure on your lip."

•••

Jay struggled to maneuver the wheel so he didn't hit anything when they pulled inside of the junkyard, immediately greeted by his parents waving and his mom yelling...something.

"Alright, they probably will ask questions, but they aren't gonna rat you out, okay?" He explained, pulling in beside the jalopy and turning off the ignition.

"P-promise?"

"I promise." Jay smiled and got out, helping Lloyd out behind him before going over and hugging his parents, "hey, guys."

"Hey, son." His dad greeted, patting him twice on the back before letting go.

"It seems like every time you come, you've gotten bigger." His mom smiled, before looking over at Lloyd and immediately rushing over to him, "What happened to your lip, sweetheart?"

"He got into a fight, we were closer to the junkyard than the city." Jay explained, seeing the tears in Lloyd's eyes and deciding to explain for him.

"Okay, come on in, I'll fix you right up." She insisted before leading Lloyd inside.

Jay followed closely behind, watching as his mom immediately handed Lloyd an ice pack after he was sitting on the couch.

"Alright, there you go, sweetheart."

"Thanks, Mrs. Walker." Lloyd mumbled, mostly because it hurt to talk, before putting the ice against his face.

"I'll be right back with the first aid kit." She gently squeezed Lloyd's shoulder before going into the bathroom, giving Jay the chance to sit beside Lloyd.

" 'm sorry, for running off, and for scaring everyone," Lloyd spoke up, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, "I just…"

"It's okay, Lloyd," Jay insisted, wrapping his arm around his shoulder, "you got bored of being cooped up and wanted to help, I get it. You should've seen how often I got hurt cause I decided to do something besides sit around here."

"R-really?"

"Oh yeah. I met your uncle when I was testing out a pair of wings I made myself, and the amount of times I got hurt testing those was...ridiculous." Jay chuckled, smiling more when he saw Lloyd smile, even if it pulled at the scab on his lip.

"My point is, no one wants you to go stir crazy, we're just trying to keep you safe," he continued once Lloyd's smile faded, "in fact, next time you feel like you're going to lose your mind, come find me. We'll go find an arcade or something."

Lloyd nodded and leaned against Jay's shoulder as Edna came back out of the bathroom with the first aid kit.

"Let's see what we can do about your nose," she told Lloyd before turning to Jay, "mind seeing if there's any popsicles left, honey?"

"Yeah, I'll go look." Jay nodded, gently squeezing Lloyd's shoulder before going to the freezer and letting in a breath of relief.

'I seriously hope that we're never going to have this problem again.'

#ninjago #lego ninjago #season 2 #legacy of the green ninja #jay walker #edna walker #ed walker #lloyd montgomery garmadon #lloyd and jay #my writing #hurt/comfort #light angst #this is one of my earlier ninjago fics so i hope it's still good

[thesightstoshowyou]

Okok Pennywise fluff? If you can. Just a cute little thing with pennywise. If you need an idea maybe Pennywise seeing s/o dancing in their room on a rainy night then he decides to join in? And then cuddles after ?( ^ω^ ) hope you are doing well and this isn’t too much to ask.

I am doing very well! Thank you so much for the ask. You are very sweet, anon. I gotta be honest with you, though. I struggled with this ask! With the way I write him, I have difficulty seeing Pennywise in fluffy situations. But, I’m always up for a challenge. I’ve come up with a compromise that I hope suits us both. I’m calling it “creepy cute.” Enjoy :)

For familiarity, I’m sticking with the same reader from my other Pennywise fics on my Masterlist.

Warnings: Horror elements, nothing too crazy

             A movie plays on the television, one whose title you cannot recall. A heartfelt scene between generic man and woman characters reflects off your glassy eyes. Absently, you scratch the scabbed over bite marks on your shoulder.

             Your eyelids droop. You hover on the precipice of sleep, the movie’s soundtrack now a distant drone in the back of your mind. The muted colors on the screen begin to morph, growing bright and loud. A clown wearing red and white face paint dances around a neon stage, giggling and kicking red balloons that fall from an unseen ceiling.

             Your eyelids flutter. Pennywise points to the side of the screen and grins wide with too many teeth.

             Wakey, wakey. There’s someone at the door.

             BANG BANG BANG

             You jerk awake, sitting bolt upright. Disoriented, you look wildly around the room. The television is off—hadn’t it just been on—and the living room is quiet and mostly dark, only illuminated by the light from the kitchen. Rain pummels the windows and wind howls through the trees outside, lightning and thunder cracking overhead.

             You take a shuddering breath and realize you must have been dreaming of the clown again. They happen so often anymore, the dreams. You think you should be used to them by now.

             Dragging a hand down your face, you stand and head to the kitchen. You peek in the fridge and open cupboards, your body anxious to move and relieve your jitters. You decide to make a snack. Maybe food will calm you down.

             You choose a playlist on your phone, hoping some music will fill the uncomfortable silence broken only by the pitter patter of rain on the roof and the rumble of thunder. You push the tab on the toaster, mindlessly swaying to the music crooning quietly from the speaker.

             You sing along, tapping your fingers on the counter in time with the beat. You pause, falling still. Unease settles heavy in your gut.

             Your skin crawls. You tense. There’s something behind you, right behind you, breathing down your neck, hot, metallic breath that reeks of death—

             You whirl around, eyes wide and heart hammering. The kitchen is empty, save for yourself. You draw in a shuddering breath, gripping the counter in an effort to steady yourself.

             He’s here, somewhere, toying with you. You’ve long since abandoned the hope that these little occurrences are all in your head. The reality is far more frightening. Something hunts you.

             You shriek when the toast pops out of the toaster. Gripping your chest, you smile sardonically and shake your head. Fuck, you’re gonna have a heart attack—

             Suddenly, the lights go out with a click. You’re plunged into darkness. Your music slows unnaturally, tone deepening, a low growl replacing the lyrics and rising to a deafening roar.  

             You slap the screen and pause the song, your breath coming in rapid gasps. You sprint to the light switch, flicking it off and on to no effect. Trembling from head to toe, you wait for the laugh, the bite, the long, gloved fingers closing around your throat, the next trick.

             Nothing. The rain and wind still rattle the windows. Lightening briefly illuminates the kitchen and thunder booms. Nothing.

             Then—

             BANG BANG BANG BANG

             You yelp, clapping a hand over your mouth. Someone is pounding on the door, just like in your dream. Maybe it hadn’t been a dream after all….

             Slowly, timidly, you make your way down the hall toward the front door. You stifle a whimper as you round the corner to the entryway.

             BANG BANG BANG

             The door rattles with the force of the blows, the frame splintering, wood chips skittering across the floor. A scream tears from your throat and you jump back, tensing and wanting nothing more than to flee.

             Do you run? No, you’ve done that before. You can’t escape him. Then, do you open the door?

             You wait. And wait. Silence. Lightening flashes, thunder rumbles. Silence.

             Where did he go?

             You turn and run straight into a solid chest. Bells jingle. A white glove wraps around your throat, cutting off your next panicked shriek.

             “Rude, rude, girl to leave poor Pennywise out in the rain.” You meet his glowing yellow gaze, drool dripping from his full, bloody lips to splatter onto the floor between you.

           You don’t fight. There’s no point anymore, no escaping him. There was only ever one outcome. This doesn’t mean you are any less afraid, however. You’re shaking so badly your teeth are nearly chattering in your mouth. You wonder what fresh horror he has in store for you tonight.

             Pennywise tips his head to the side, leaning over you, observing you. He hums thoughtfully. The hand around your throat moves to your jaw and he gives your head a playful little shake.

             “Little thing.” Odd. It almost sounds affectionate, the way he says it, instead of condescending as it does normally. He leans low, burying his nose in your hair and inhaling deeply, “Want to know how your fear tastes? Sweet, honeyed, sticky, sticky girl. Addictive.” The last word is purred against your cheek.

             With a giggle he takes your hand, spinning you in a circle before pulling you back against his chest. His other hand wraps around your waist and he sways back and forth, just as you had in the kitchen. He takes a huge step, long, gangly leg reaching into the hallway, towing you with him as he goes. He’s swaying still, waltzing down the hall toward your bedroom. Frantically, you think this is, without a doubt, the most bizarre thing that has ever happened to you.

             As he swings you around, he hums a tune that sounds vaguely familiar but, at the same time, impossible to place. You struggle to keep up with his long strides, stumbling along awkwardly as he half drags, half swings you down the hall. He pauses at the doorway to your room to kick it open, laughing when it bounces off the wall.

             Once inside your room, Pennywise scoops you up and tosses you onto your bed as though you weigh nothing. You bounce, nearly rolling off the other side completely. Before you have a chance to right yourself, he’s gripping your calves, pulling you toward him.

             You expect him to tear off your clothes, but he surprises you once again by bundling you up in his arms and curling up on the bed. The way he holds you, tucked neatly under his chin, drowns your face in the ruffles of his costume and you must crane your neck to avoid suffocation. This close you can smell everything, the rotting carrion scent of his breath, the musty smell of his costume, the metallic tang of blood still lingering on his lips from who knows what.

            You can’t see his face from where you’re smashed against his chest so there’s no way to tell what he’s thinking; if he’s leering at you with all those teeth on display. What is he planning? The suspense is going to make your heart burst.

            “Wiggly thing. Hold. Still,” he commands, crushing you harder against his chest and burying his face into the top of your head. Immediately, you still, your panicked breaths making the dingy ruffles billow. What is happening?

             Is he…is he cuddling you?

             You were wrong before. This is the most bizarre thing that has ever happened to you.

            “Poor pet. Too many thoughts. Human minds are always so frenzied, a thousand wretched insects fluttering, buzzing….” As he muses, he pets your hair, twisting the strands between his spidery fingers. He playfully tugs a strand before resting his hand on the back of your neck.

             Minutes pass where you stare, wide eyed, at the ceiling. Pennywise hasn’t moved, aside from the steady rise and fall of his chest. You’re so confused, anxious thoughts reaching, reaching for an explanation.

             You jerk when a low rumble starts up in his chest. At first you think it’s a growl, but when it continues, an incessant, deep, rolling sound that vibrates in your own chest, you realize it’s something else. You gape.

             He’s…purring. Purring, like a cat!

             You give up. The more you try to understand this unusual situation, the more curious it gets. There’s nothing you can do about it anyway. You’re trapped here in his arms until Pennywise decides he’s had enough.

             The clown titters quietly above you. He must realize he’s won. You sigh and will your tense body to relax.

             Eventually you do relax. Your frantic heart rate slows, your gasping breaths even out. The gentle drone emanating from his chest is oddly soothing and soon your eyes droop. The heat from his body lulls you into a cozy, semi-conscious state. Slowly, hesitantly, you slip into slumber.

             In the morning, he’s gone, the mussed bedsheets the only hint he was ever there at all. 

#pennywise #pennywise the dancing clown #pennywise x reader #horror writing #my writing #it movie #it #it 2017 #it 2019 #it chapter 2 #reader insert #slasher fandom

[thewingedwolf]

Not Telling: A Study in How Much We are Actually Told About The Characters, Part One of Two

AKA that meta I started writing/promised to post fully a year ago and then never finished or posted bc I’m a mess. It’s being posted in two parts because it got a bit long.

So we all have our own idea of what the characters look like although many people believe the characters look roughly the same, with some minor differences from headcanon to headcanon. But what does the text itself tell us? The answer is...both more than I expected but also in keeping with Not Telling, not a whole lot at all.

I want to start this with a caveat that I kept very good notes on TT, ACoK, and TaT, mediocre notes on KoA and passable ones for QoA lol. however, it does give us a decent picture of what everyone looks likes. This is like 70% quotes and 30% extrapolation, but I try to explain my thought process on some of my conclusions.

Eugenides:

There’s a few instances that I remember reading (mostly in The Thief) that I forgot to mark but I know all of those dealt with his height and hair - that his hair is long, that it’s dark, and that he’s smaller than Pol and the Magus. So here we go:

“..the man wearing it was tall. Taller than I was, of course, but taller than the magus as well.” - Note that he’s talking about the one of the gods here, which indicates that

eugenides is very short at this point

the magus when compared to other people is probably pretty tall

“Scabs that were black against my prison-fair skin.” - Indicates that his skin has lightened noticeably since he was in prison although that’s the only indicator we get about what he looks like until literally the very ending with...

“He mentioned an Eddisian mother to explain his dark coloring.” - Which is exactly what I mean in Not Telling - we are told enough to have a clear blue print of him, but we are left to fill in the details of how he looks.

About his wound: “it’s taken a divot out of your face...it might heal clean.” and “I was quite certain I’d have a feather-shaped white scar.” - Note that Eugenides thinks this is a sign of approval from the Eugenides the god.

We get just as little in The Queen of Attolia, although note that this is the first time we are getting Gen from someone else’s point of view, instead of him describing himself:

“...his dark hair covering his face...He’d grown...he was not quite her height, but with his hair cropped short under his helmet, she hadn’t looked twice at him when she had seen him.” - that’s the only real description we get of him in the beginning of QoA before It Happens, and it’s from Irene’s point of view. There’s also several references to him looking “young” “naive” and “guilless” - young pops up about half a dozen times, and she remarks often on him being “a boy” and “half-grown.” Obviously part of that is guilt, but I did want to note that when we’re in Gen’s mind, he doesn’t focus on how short or young he looks, but when we’re in someone else’s mind, they immediately zero in on how young and small Gen is.

There’s a lot of descriptions of him after The Thing but it’s all involved in how sick he looks ie bruises showing against his yellowed skin, being so pale that his scar looked dark against his skin, that he’s lost a lot weight, stuff like that. It gives us the sense that he is very sick but no real indication of how he looks when he’s not suffering from fever and blood loss.

“His dark hair blended into the darkness behind him…” - first physical description in KoA

“The Queen was several inches taller than Eugenides…” in KoA during the dance scene

“His usually dark skin was so pale the scar on his cheek showed against the lighter skin around it.” - during the assassination attempt

“Costis was sufficiently taller than the king…” - I think this is our first reference to Costis being very tall, but of course nowhere near our first reference to Gen being short.

“His face was pale, his normally dark skin yellowed.” - My note has nothing to do with his look, but the fact that his skin is usually dark but is now both pale AND visibly yellow makes me think his liver was damaged by the assassin and that’s why it took so long to heal.

“He chose Mede coats with the long bell sleeves because no fighting man who’d seen the muscles in the king’s wrist would have underestimated him the way the Attolians had. His other wrist with no hand at the end of it appeared oddly narrow and delicate. Costis tried not to stare and found himself looking instead at the king’s scars. The long line across his belly was an angry red, but there were other marks: ragged tears around his knees and elbows, and lighter shining bands around his ankles that could only be the mark of fetters, as well as the various lines left by edged blows on his chest and arms, and one long one on his thigh. There were also a number of bruises, some newly purple and black and some fading almost to nothing. Costis wondered where they could have come from.” - WHEW long description for the first time and its all about Gen’s scars.

“...skinny and prison pale, incongruous with the clean clothes the Magus had picked out for him.” - Sophos’ PoV from AcoK. This seems to imply that Gen is usually darker than he is in the Thief - which we’ve been told before, that he’s darker skinned but stints in prison and a number of serious injuries seem to frequently make him look sickly and pale - but also that he’s usually heavier - whether that means, like Sophos believes, that Gen is normally not as skinny or that he’s gained weight since becoming Attolis is anyone’s guess.

“I kept going until I could see his face, see every detail—the quirk of his eyebrow, the twist at the corner of his mouth, the mark on his cheek, where he’d said the Attolian guards had once shot him when he was running away…” - Kamet’s description of him.

“I remembered him as a boy, small for his age. I found him taller, broader in the shoulder, much older than the intervening years would explain, with a hook where his hand had been—wholly changed, in fact, but for the scar on his face and that smile.” - Gen is finally like a normal height lmao, but also he’s gotten bigger in general, which seems to imply IMO that re: Sophos’ assessment earlier, most of the weight (and likely muscle as Costis points outback in KoA) is the result of his time in Attolia and not weight he lost in jail. But whether THAT is due to him like, eating more potentially or having a different fighting style/routine that is bulking him up, or just a natural consequence of getting older or a combination of the two is again, your guess.

Helen:

“By far the least attractive of the women stood up.”

“She had black hair, like Attolia, and her gown was red velvet...tended to stand like a soldier. The ruffles on her shoulders made her arms seem long enough to reach to her knees. Her nose had been broken and reknitted crooked, her hair was cut short like a man’s and curled so much over her simple silver crown that crown itself was nearly invisible.” - all Gen’s point of view.

“She was short and too broad to be called petite. Her father had been broad shouldered, Attolia remembered, and not over-tall. Eddis had a serious expression.” - From QoA, in Irene’s pov. It seems the shortness of Gen is something that runs in the family.

“She’s ugly...she’s short, she’s broad-shouldered, and hawk-faced with a broken nose. I would say no, she is not ideal...I’ve seen men fall on their knees and get to walk across hot coals for her after one of those smiles.” - Gen talking about her with the Magus. I feel like it’s relevant that Gen calls her “the least attractive” when he’s with her, but only “ugly” when talking about her with other people.

“You look a little vulpine yourself.” - probably more a personality quirk than anything, but I still wanted to include it.

“Eddis reached to touch her own crooked nose. ‘If I laughed,’ she said, ‘it is only at the idea that we make a matched pair now, you and I.’” - for both her and Sophos here. Love flirting in the form of pointing out your irregularities, girl’s got game.

“The queen of Eddis is as beautiful as the day and as brilliant as the sun in the sky..he chuckled and quoted Praximeles about beauty being in the heart and not the eye..” - obviously Sophos’ opinion is colored by his love for her, but STILL, he does offer a description that she’s beautiful, is immediately contradicted by Akretenesh, and then basically thinks “it’s not my fault you’re stupid as fuck.”

Irene:

“Her hair was black and held away from her face by an imitation of the woven gold band of Hephestia. Her robe was draped like a peplos, made from embroidered red velvet. She was as tall as the magus, and she was more beautiful than any woman I had ever seen.” - Gen’s PoV in the Thief. We have a hint of his feelings for her in the way he describes her, and also there’s her Hephestia cosplay as well.

“Her hair was held away from her face by the ruby and gold headband that crossed her forehead just above her dark brows. Her skin was flawless and so fair as to be translucent. She dressed as always in an imitation of Hephestia.” - Gen calling out her Hephestia cosplay lmao. I also notice that she’s specifically not just “fair skinned” like Sophos or other Attolians, she’s described as almost weirdly pale.

Sophos:

I KNOW I forgot to mark a scene where Eugenides describes Sophos in TT as like...fair or pink-cheeked or something like that but I’ll be damned if I can find it.

“They were both obviously well bred...I wondered if they were brothers...the older one had darker hair and was better looking.” - obviously the older is Ambiades.

“One member of the crowd, a young man with a broken nose, a lip twisted by scar tissue, and dirty clothes that combined to suggest a person of violent and criminal habits…” - good description that also tells us that Useless the Younger looks significantly different since we saw him four books (and several years) ago. It’s not just that he’s older, or scarred, it’s that he *looks* dangerous now.

“I was taller than Malatesta by inches.” and “I wasn’t heavier than [Hyacinth] but I was taller and bore him to the ground.” - both give us an approximation of his height, weight, and strength.

“I felt my upper lip and rubbed my thumb against the scar tissue. I could feel it distorting my mouth. My nose had a new bump in the middle of it as well.” - scar healing badly

“Measuring myself against [The Magus], I realized we now saw eye to eye.” - considering several references to how tall The Magus is (which we’ll get to), this means Sophos is incredibly tall.

“...my hair all cut away and ragged.” and then they mention they dyed it. Once they get to Attolia however, “A barber came in to trim and shave us, taking off the last of my darker hair and leaving it tidy, if short.” So it’s gone back to his natural color, but this implies he usually wears his hair long.

There’s also a mention of him eating a lot, which isn’t a physical description, but does, IMO, imply something to his size - like how many sheer calories a lot of Olympic athletes have to eat a day.

“I smiled until I felt the scar tissue tighten...I had never let him see what I looked like when I smiled: my uncle.” - ICONIC.

ALSO - Sophos is frequently compared to animals. These animals include a lamb, lion, rabbit, bunny, puppy, and then back to lion.

Costis Ormentiedes:

I couldn’t find any description of him beyond a few references to him being tall in KoA which either means that I just missed it bc I got to emotional over KoA (which is likely) OR we don’t get a real description of Costis until TaT which is an interesting choice. ONWARDS:

“He was a very large Attolian…” - Kamet’s first impression of Costis, yet again reminding us how big Costis is

“He was a typical Attolian: sandy-brown hair, a broad face, light-colored eyes. Altogether he had a simple, straightforward look to him, and he seemed perfectly serious.” - gives us a general idea of what Attolians as a people look like.

“He was large, as I already knew, and a soldier. He had the scars on his hands and forearms and the unmistakable muscles from swinging a sword day in and day out. I had no doubt he was good at what he did - he rather reminded me of an ox, very strong, not terribly quick - but I thought killing was his work, not his pleasure….he moved easily, so he was no veteran crippled’s in his country’s service, but he was too young to have done his twenty years - my own age, or perhaps younger.” - Lots of information here from Kamet. The ones that stick out to me are: moves easily, which means Costis has likely not even been minorly injured before, but he has scars, which of course means he’s had a lot of flesh wounds. The other thing is that Kamet instinctively knows that Costis doesn’t like killing - I don’t know if that means Kamet is a good judge of character or if there’s something about Costis, whether it be the way he carries himself, or something physically like his expressions, his youth, his eyes, that tells Kamet this, but it *could* be something physical.

Kamet makes several references to Costis being hot lmao. He uses the word “attractive” several times in several different chapters and others agree with this assessment.

“She sent him to the potter to see if he could use a young man with a strong back.” - more comments about how ripped Costis is.

Kamet

Couldn’t find any description of Kamet in QoA, and he doesn’t really describe himself in TaT. I’m worried I missed something, but this is what I found:

“Normally as warm-toned as myself…” - Kamet comparing his own skin tone (undertone?) to Laela’s.

He also describes himself as small and skinny compared to Costis several times - once saying his face is roughly at level with Costis’ chest - and mentions flogging scars on his back.

EDIT: THANK YOU FOR COMMENTS, we get this like in QoA about Kamet: “The slave’s almond shaped eyes and red-brown complexion set him apart from the Attolians.”

—————

Not sure how to end this but anyway that’s what we’re given for the main PoVs. Surprisingly, we get more description for Helen than we do for Irene, and barely any for Kamet. There were some things that I had misremembered - I thought Gen was described as “brown skinned” but instead it’s “dark skinned” or “dark coloring” and I thought he described Helen as ugly more than once, but it’s just to the Magus, when they’re discussing Sounis’ potential marriage, which is....interesting to me, and sounds a lot more like Gen trying to downplay his cousin so the Magus will fuck off, especially when he offers Agape as an alternative that is, notably, prettier and also holds significantly less power. I also thought Costis was described as “blonde” or “fair haired” like Sophos but instead he’s “sandy brown” and I think the idea of him being Blonde was a fandom thing that I just misremembered.

#the queen's thief #megan whalen turner #the queens thief #rani attempts meta

[rankdisasster]

obstacle 1

Billy Hargrove x fem reader

“24 & 41 w some soft billy 🤧” requested by anonymous.

#24: “You’re trembling.”

#41: “I feel like I can’t breathe.” from dialogue prompts

warning(s): slurs, violence, panic attacks

a/n: angst but it gets better I promise!! title of the fic comes from a fucking phenomenal Interpol song. also beware if you send me a number from a prompt list there’s no way I know how to make it short like a drabble, I only know how to draw it out pretty much haha.

—

“What the fuck is the matter with you? Huh?”

Billy’s back had been shoved up against the wall, his lip trembling and eyes red rimmed with unshed tears. His father’s fingers are tightly clutched around his jacket, ugly nostrils widely flared, looking down at his own son as if he were a mistake; as if he were the scum of the fucking earth. And Billy knows that that’s true, too.

“I had to get a call from the sheriff, at—” his father breaks eye contact for a split second to eye the clock that hangs on his son’s bedroom wall, “three-thirty in the goddamn morning, only to be told that my gracious son has been caught stealing chocolate bars from the drugstore, like some fucking delinquent. How do you think this makes me feel, William? As your own flesh and blood,” his father sighs and pats his own chest, pretending like he’s hurt because Billy made a fool of himself and embarrassed his family. Of course, only his father would be making all this about himself yet again and not seeing with his blind dumb eyes that it’s a cry for attention and help.

It was impulsive and stupid, Billy can admit that at least.

He was hungry, he felt like acting out, and there just so happened to be a drugstore nearby and thought it’d be kinda funny. Billy assumed that the security would be shit, and he also assumed he’d be smooth enough to not get caught. He played the part pretty well, at least what he considered to be convincing. Whistling and peeking at his surroundings as he casually stuffed around twelve, maybe even more chocolate bars down his pants and coat pockets and then sprinting like a bat out of hell to the parking lot.

He swore he was in the clear, and would eventually get to enjoy the candy bars and have a funny story to tell you later. Have a happy ending to one of his shenanigans for once, instead of ending in tears and blood. That is until the way-too-beefy-for-this-job clerk behind the counter saw him and called him out before chasing him down, slamming his entire front into the concrete. Holding him there until the boys in blue show up and handcuff his hands behind his back before shoving him in the backseat. The bruises from the comfy cement came out nice and big, Billy already checked them out in the bathroom mirror at the station. Seriously, he’d never seen a guy get that protective over Kit-Kat bars since he was in grade school.

After fucking begging the officers to just let him off the hook and promising it’ll never happen again, that it was just a silly fluke; they had betrayed him, and unsurprisingly at that. Like all authoritative figures have done to him his entire eighteen years of living. The pricks really did it, they really called his dad on him, and now here we are.

“Answer me this instant!”

Billy flinched at the deafening tone his father used to screamed right into his face. Their noses are practically touching. He can even smell his father’s alcohol consumption through his breath, and it’s so fucking grotesque that Billy wants to throw everything he ate that day up.

“I got popped for stealing chocolate, s’not the worst thing I’ve done,” he weakly murmurs, cursing himself internally because he felt a tear bust out of his left eye. He can’t cry in front of this monster, he fucking can’t.

Why can’t this be over with already? Why not just a slap on the wrist, one and done? This shouldn’t be as bad as the time he got caught tripping on acid in the woods that his weird ass classmate Mike gave to him. Yet he’s still here, spitting on Billy’s face and gripping him tighter, voice thundering louder. Susan doesn’t ever give a fuck about what’s happening to her step son, so why would Billy be foolishly praying that she would save the day this time? The helpless boy even imagines a scenario ending with his little step sibling Max stepping in and calling the cops. But all that’s just wishful thinking. Those things only happen to people who are cared about, and nobody gives a rats ass for Billy’s well-being in this household. Not even the cops would throw his nutcase of a father in jail and swallow the key.

The cops only care about petty misdemeanors, such as teenagers stealing candy bars from drugstores. They wouldn’t bat an eye at seeing a troublemaker like Billy with bruises and scabs scattered all over his face. They don’t care. None of them do, and none of them listen either.

“Yeah yeah, sure. It’s just a couple candy bars, right? But here’s how thieves work,” Neil starts his lesson, looking down his nose and pointing a finger at Billy’s face accusingly. “First, it’s just a candy bar. No big deal, right? You’re just having a little fun. Then, it gets bigger. You get away with that, then one day, you think you can get away with stealing a car,” he takes Billy’s jaw in one hand to keep him in place before giving his cheek a quick sharp slap, leaving it stinging and flushing red. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

The first punch is always a shock, and has the teen holding his breath waiting for what the next one will feel like.

“You are a fucking disgrace, a worthless juvenile with nothing better to do,” his father winds up for round two, even grinning like a sadistic bastard. He grins even wider when he sees his son’s face leak with more tears, and hissing when he wipes his own face too hard from brushing the evidence of the blow with his finger. More insults are thrown at him, like “faggot” or “disappointment”. He’s heard it all before, but it’s seeping further into his skull now, right along with his dear old dad’s fist. Cutting deep, deeper than it ever has, and not just in his face.

And Billy, paralyzed and hopless while lying on the ground, realizes that his father had to have been right all along.

Throughout his teens he consciously wondered if he actually was the reason Mom left, or if that’s just his dad fucking with his head. Which usually happens to be the case. But now, Billy is petrified that he’s telling the truth, and he’s giving it to him raw, like a sick reminder of his utter worthlessness. Maybe he will grow up to be no good, just another bum and a thief, getting caught doing more stupid shit. Billy wonders if this is really a sign that he should wise up before it’s too late.

His dad has finally stopped knocking his head into the wall and sucker punching his nose and cheeks, now seemingly satisfied with the work of art done to the boy’s face. With blood pouring from the boy’s nose like a faucet, he scrambles to plug it up and hug himself while bracing for a potential next hit. To Billy’s relief, his dad up and leaves at that, slamming the door behind him with a scoff and more damaging insults murmured under his breath. As soon as the door is shut, the boy fumbles to shove open his window, rushing to crawl the fuck out and nicking his injuries on the way out. He can’t fucking take this anymore.

By the time he’s out in his driveway, tears are still flooding out of his fucked up purple eyes and he rips open his Camaro door. While starting up the engine, he shakes his head before speeding to the only safe place he knows.

Your room.

—

When Billy makes it to your house, still just as hot of a mess as he was when he was being beaten and screamed at, the way up to your room was no picnic. He skinned his knee on the way down, falling three or four times before finally making it. His strength isn’t at it’s best at the moment. He carelessly shoves your window open and stumbles as he climbs through, landing directly on the floor. His back is to your door, and he adjusts himself to sitting with his legs crossed as he waits for your return. You’re probably downstairs, or in the bathroom. He doesn’t fucking know, but he wouldn’t doubt that you’d leave him too, like everyone else had when they discovered how much of a burden all his issues really are. History often repeats itself, and maybe it’s a mistake unveiling his mask and shitting all over you with his fucked up problems, but he doesn’t know where else to go.

Yours and Billy’s relationship strictly consisted of fun. Just joking around without any drama, maybe once in a while getting up to no good together. When you two would drink heavily in your room on weekends, sometimes he’d kiss you but you wouldn’t talk about it in the morning. Because that’d be just too much to deal with, and the packaged guarentee he got with you was that you weren’t anything to deal with. You were the most laid back, good time he’d had in this town. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d snuck up to your window and crawled in, however, it will be the first time he ever showed up this vulnerable and seeking comfort. Your comfort, specifically.

Billy’s back is still facing the door when you finally arrive, and you let out a squeal in fear before recognizing it’s him. You’d know that mullet, that jacket, and those tight blue jeans absolutely anywhere. It was your good friend Billy sitting on your floor.

“Holy shit man, you scared the Jesus outta me. Gimme a warning next time, ay?” you laugh, holding your chest to slow your quick heart down. It’s pretty late, and it’s a typical Saturday. You’re in your pajamas with a rejuvenating green face mask smothered all over your skin, as well as a bowl of cookie dough icecream in your grasp. It almost went flying when Billy had frightened you, and that would’ve been a bitch to clean off the carpet.

“I have some cookie dough icecream here. I could get you your own bowl too, if you want,” you offer, not yet hearing a peep from the boy seated on the ground. He’s eerily quiet, but you’re still oblivious to it all. “I heard this gossip around town, and oh my god, it totally reminded me of you. Some dipshit got caught stealing a bunch of Kit-Kat bars from the store right by your place,” you chuckle, then worry a bit as he remains unresponsive.

“Billy?” you tread lightly as you tip toe closer to him, then observe his shoulders shaking, and then his entire body too as if it were freezing in here or something.

“You’re trembling,” you notice, now terrified of knowing what happened to this boy to make him this freakishly twitchy. You hastily put your hand on Billy’s shoulder before the ice finally breaks. He turns his head to you , finally exposing the dried blood that’s still down his nose, as well as the black and blue all over his face. His tears were falling silently at first until he steadily starts to sob violently, letting you cradle him in your arms and shush him soothingly.

“I’m— I, I didn’t mean to, it was just s’pposted to be a joke, but I messed up so bad, he got so mad at me this time, and—“

“Who? Who got mad at you?”

Billy’s vision is blurring rapidly, to the point of barely seeing any shapes or colors. His chest is heaving up and down way too fast to be normal, and he thinks he’s about to have a fucking heart attack. His dad would probably throw a parade if his son moved into a hospital instead.

“I feel like I can’t breathe,” he panics, whole body still trembling while holding you tight enough to hurt as his salty tears land on your shirt. You could give a fuck about your mask that’s still on your face and getting slightly ruined. Little bits of it is now smothering Billy’s hair, and that makes you want to smile, but this is no time to be smiling.

“Do you want some water? Fuck, I think I have a water bottle in my bag—“

“Please don’t leave me,” he implored, halting you from getting up by burying his beaten face into your chest.

“You got it! I’m staying right here, I swear. Um, I might remember the steps to doing mouth-to-mouth, if you need that?” your eyes are wide and apprehensive, praying to whatever God in the sky that Billy doesn’t die in your arms tonight. That seemed to get him to crack a smile, a weak one, but small progress is still progress. “I’m serious! I might be wishing I payed more attention in class when they talked about this stuff, but I’m here for you. I’m practically PhD certified,” you assure him, sounding less than convincing. Your ignorance is working it’s magic though, humoring Billy and making him finally take deep breaths at a normal rate, instead of the hyperventilating he’d been doing a second ago.

“Pfft. Sure, yeah, I can tell I’m in real good hands here. You got any a’ that cookie dough left, Doc?” he sniffles and licks his lips, staring at the bowl that still has a decent amount of scoops of the dessert left unmelted.

“Hell yeah, and there’s more where that came from. In fact, when you leave tonight, or tomorrow— whatever, you can stay as long as you want— I expect you to gain at least five pounds from this,” you hand the bowl over to his grabby hands, smiling sweetly as he scarfs it down. He suddenly stops for a moment and shrieks when he eats too much too fast, giving himself brain freeze. “You eat faster than my dog.”

“I’ll take the win on that challenge, actually,” he grins, inhaling more of the creamy dessert, letting out occasional hums when he gets an especially good bite of the sugary cookie dough.

After a beat of silence, you decide to get up and put a record on your record player, sticking with a classic Tom Petty album, setting it on low so that there’s some background. You know Billy favors it too, remembering all the drives you’d go on together with Petty playing through his speakers. You head to the bathroom which is only a small distance of five steps away, you grab a washcloth and wet it with warm water to clean Billy’s gross bloody face. You’ve never seen a guy look as fucked up as he did right now in real life. Only in the movies had you seen blood oozing from somebody’s face, or splotchy bruises like polka dots sitting on somebody’s face. Basically, you had no idea how to help him, but you were gonna try. He came to you after all, he trusted you enough to let you see this side of him.

“Is this the part where you give me that line, shit, what is it? Oh yeah, ‘you should have seen the other guy’?” you ask as you go up to him, making sure you’re as gentle as a feather while dabbing the damp lukewarm cloth on his battered cheekbones as he continues to eat.

“Nah, the other guy is just fine if you ask him,” Billy scoffs, finishing the bowl and putting it down next to him. He zips up his jacket further up his neck, then shoves his hands in his pockets as you tend to his wounds.

“You cold?”

“Eh, kinda. Not really though,” he answers, but you’re able to read between the lines at his body language then reach behind you to your bed, dragging a blanket over. Ignoring his protests about not needing to be babied this hard, you wrap it around him. He just shuts up and nods his thanks, holding it tighter by proving you right about how chilly he felt.

“I’m sorry about all this, by the way. I probably freaked you out, and I’m kinda wishing I hadn’t done that,” he sighs, in hindsight realizing how humiliating his meltdown was.

“Don’t apologize for showing emotion. That’s a fucked up male habit,” you scold, the boy nodding vigorously.

“It was me, you know,” he says , resulting in you raising your brows at the questionable ambiguity. He rolls his eyes at having to explain himself then goes on. “I did it. I uh, stole all those Kit-Kats from the store.”

You pause your cleansing his face then can’t hold in your giggles anymore at the fact that you were fucking right, of course Billy would be the one to do a thing like that.

“Yeah yeah, laugh it up Y/N,” he claps his hands, sarcastically urging you on.

“C’mon, that’s some priceless shit!”

“At least someone found it funny,” he grumbles, staring down at his hands and the soft blanket keeping him warm.

“What’s the matter with you?” you ask playfully, covering your mouth muffle your boisterous laughter.

That stiffens the boy up, thinking back to his father’s words, “What the fuck is the matter with you, huh?”

“Holy shit, you should’ve called me! I so would’ve been there to like, cause a distraction, maybe flirt with the cashier so that you could take a pack of those expensive cigarettes you’ve always wanted to try,” you laugh, then take his silence into account and find him shutting down again. You don’t know what you said, but you had to make it right.

“Hey, hey now. Don’t get all emo on me again, we were just starting to have some fun,” you peek his undamaged chin up, looking at him in the eyes and trying to stay positive, or better yet keep him distracted from his demons that won’t quit.

“Do, um. You don’t think I’m gonna grow up a low life asshole, do you?” he asks, wanting to hear it from somebody that he’s doing a good job. Making somebody on this earth proud, because pleasing his dad is a lost cause, and getting back his mom is about as likely.

“No. Why? Is it that you think you will?”

“Kinda, yeah. That’s what everyone drills into my head anyways,” he laughs, but you refuse to because that isn’t funny.

“Well if you give me all their names, I’ll go to wherever they’re at and sock them in the face. I don’t care if they’re bigger than me, I’m fucking doing it. Let’s go, come on. What are their names?” you assert without an ounce of humor. Billy’s lips curl into a smile, huddling further into the soft blanket you had given him. He isn’t at all in control of how fucking wide his lips get when he grins, all from the fact that his short stack best friend would do all that just for him. He suddenly wants to rub it in his sad sack of a father’s face that somebody really cares about him.

And he wants to really kiss that somebody right now.

“Think it’s time you wash that uh, whatever that is,” he gestures to the face mask that’s since dried when he came, “Off your face. I could come with you, if you want.”

Your blush is hidden under the green goo, and you nod your head in confirmation before grabbing his hand to lead you two to the bathroom.

“What is it even for, anyway?”

“Oh. For like, exfoliating, and... honestly, I don’t know. It could be complete bullshit, I just threw it on hoping something might happen,” you give up trying to explain your attempt at keeping up with personal hygiene, then Billy just shushes you and points to the sink to hurry you on washing it off.

With a good three minutes of Billy staring intently at you splashing your face with water, you self consciously look away and grab a towel to dry off. He looks you down once more, shakes his head, then leans in and caresses your cheeks with both his hands. His kiss is long and makes you feel so warm and tingly everywhere, but you’re mostly worried about fucking up his face doing this. As if on cue, your nose bonks his, making him moan.

“I’m so so sorry, did that— that hurt you, didn’t it?” you ask with dread, before he shuts you up with another kiss, not letting what his dad had done to him stop him from enjoying you. After making out by the sink for as long as he could hold out for, the two of you pull back and take a breather, still panting and smiling so happily. He pets your perfect cheeks that rest in his palms, and he hums in thought before speaking.

“Your skin’s real soft,” he observes.

“Yeah? Thanks, I um. Guess the face mask isn’t total bull after all,” you laugh, most of it coming from the nerves.

“Huh. I could try it sometime, yunno, only if you keep your mouth shut about it,” he playfully threats, poking you in your stomach as you continue laughing from how it tickled you.

Billy decides to stay the night at yours, playing the little spoon in your arms tonight. Tom Petty is still quietly singing from your record player, the empty bowl that was once filled with cookie dough icecream still sitting on the floor. The boy’s face hasn’t gotten much better, and he knows he’ll have to deal with his dad again tomorrow. It’s inevitable, really. But he knows now that you’re by his side, ready and willing to even whoop his dad’s ass if he gets him hurt again. And that��s more than enough for Billy to feel like he can really pull through.

—

happier about how this one turned out:) thank you all so much for being so kind and patient and everything. the people who write on here are wonderful, the people who read on here are wonderful, everybody is so amazing and I can’t express how grateful I am!!

I really wanted to write the reader as being kinda clueless about what to do with taking care of him, cause I’ll be honest, I have no idea what I’d do if a guy like him ever came to me looking super fucked up😂

#billy hargrove #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove imagine #stranger things #stranger things fanfic

[thegrumpygroomer]

The New Groomer’s Guide

Hello! If you’re following this account, I’m assuming you’re either already a groomer or interested in becoming one. And for both, I’d like to say: Welcome! For today’s post, I would like to pass on the knowledge I gained and kinda wished I could’ve figured out earlier. Many of you might go “yeah, duh” to a lot of this shit. Other’s might go “haha, yeah.” Hope you get something out of this either way.

1) It’s more than just ‘playing with puppies’- In this sense, I was kinda lucky. In my interview, my boss actually leveled with me and said “look, this job isn’t glamorous. It’s not about playing with puppies and having a good time. We clean dog assholes for a living.” That always stuck with me.

I’ve met some newbies that clearly didn’t get the same talking to as me. Or they thought it was fewer dog assholes and more puppies.

Either way, you learn quickly whether or not you want this just by that.

2) You will get bit- You’ll start out being wary of some dogs. Typically, those are the ones you should worry about least. I don’t know if you’ll ever get bit bad enough to make you bleed, but I’m talking from my own first and second-hand experience. I’ve seen some of the best groomers who’ve been doing it for far longer than me, stride out of the back with a bleeding hand. Sometimes it can’t be avoided because them motherfucker’s quick.

On the bright side, you can see it as training for a zombie apocalypse. No bitch-ass dead bitch gonna get you when Fido already taught you how to stay away from teeth.

3) Get a good pair of tweezers- This is something just about everyone forgets to tell you directly. Hair splinters are a BITCH. I have about twenty little shits permanently infused into the side of my pinky finger. They get to stay put for now because they didn’t cause any pain and alert me to their presence. To me, the ones on the palm are the worst. Especially the little white ones.

You will have a very intimate relationship with tweezers. One of those tiny magnifying glasses might help too.

4) Maybe get yourself a face mask and goggles too- Hair. It’ll be everywhere. There will be days you’ll walk out from drying your dog and your hair will have a new layer to it. You’ll find it hard to breathe then blow your nose and find out that husky from a week ago is still lodged in your nasal cavity. It’ll spiderweb all over your eyes. So, protect yourself so you can breathe and see.

Also, nail dust is a thing so the mask can be used again.

5) You’ll make a dog bleed- This is a very sad reality of grooming. But, there will come a time when you’ll draw blood. Maybe it’ll be a nicked paw pad, maybe your blade caught a scab. Most likely, it’ll be cutting a nail too short. No matter what, you’ll probably have a similar reaction to both me and a few people I trained.

You’ll cry and be afraid of doing it again. You might even react more than the dog you think is bleeding to death. It’s going to be okay; you’re going to get through it. It’s probably the crappiest part of the job but it is still a thing to prepare for. But, if you want this, you’ll have to get up from the floor where you passed out and learn all the steps to take to keep this from happening again.

And a better way of reacting if it does. Can’t have groomers always passing out.

6) You’ll gain breed prejudice- Huskies and German Shepherds? Get the fuck out of here. Yorkies? Those little shits better calm down! Border collies? Dude needs to take an ambient or something. Pit bulls? Fuck yeah! Always room for a pit bull bath!

You might think it’ll be obvious. Of course, you’ll love one type of dog over another. It’s not. Not at all. I’m more wary of a Pomeranian than I’ve ever been of a dog that comes up to my hip and I was attacked by a Shepard mix when I was seven.

This one’s pretty cut and dry. Hate some breeds, love others. There’s no telling what direction it’ll go.

You’ll never wanna do a pug nail trim though. That’s pretty universal.

7) Your tolerance levels are gonna change dramatically- When you do get a puppy, it’s both the best and the worst. Because, holy hell those little shits are adorable. But also, holy fuck this dog has never done this before and is scared shitless of everything! Puppies take practice and patience. A whole shitload of it. And that’ll be where your tolerance level should skyrocket. Remember, it’s a baby. It doesn’t know any better. (this should also hold true for any first timers and older dogs. Or just straight up nervous animals)

Now let’s talk about where tolerance will have the opposite effect: people.

Many will still have the whole “customer is always right” philosophy. Unfortunately, this is one of those places where that simply is not true. If you neglect to brush your dog? He gets a shave down rather than a light trim. You wanna shave you’re golden retriever because she’s shedding? That’s not how things work, ya dumbass!

I lost count of how many times I wanted to tell someone to do their fucking research before buying an animal. I didn’t get into this job to torture dogs.

It often helps to think that maybe this owner doesn’t know better. But, when you know for a fact they should know better, then you’re just going into the back to slam your head against the wall for a little while.

Also, those are the people who will usually become your request clients. So, you’ll have plenty of time trying to explain this shit to them. Enjoy!

8) You’ll be blamed for dumb things- The other day someone called to blame a groomer for giving a dog a mole. Not nicking a mole, GIVING him a mole. As if she had some kind of lame superpower to add something that usually takes forever to develop. Another time, I was accused of not giving a dog a bath because he went home and, the next day, “smelled like a dog.”

I don’t know why some people feel the need to do this. Maybe they lost touch with what it’s like to be a person with emotions. Maybe they think these are the best ways to get free things. Maybe their lives are just so miserable they need an outlet to dump all their crap. And what better scapegoat than a person in retail/service? You know, the one you just paid to get literally shat on?

(little gross extra for you: you will clean up shit. Sometimes, you’ll find it in your pocket. Don’t wear nice clothes to work…)

9) You’ll be in pain, like, 80% of the time- That’s a low ball too. I’m not a person who likes to be touched anymore than necessary. I don’t really hug unless I know you pretty well. I really like my personal space and strangers should never be in it.

But I would kill for a good back massage right about now.

If I could look into the future when I was in high school and saw this life, I would’ve done better in P.E. to prepare for it. I’m naturally a pretty strong person. I can lift some pretty heavy dogs without much of an issue. Even so, there are times my body screams at me for it. My main reason for wanting to go back to the gym is for upper body strength.

And then there’s carpal tunnel. It’ll be a bitch and you may need surgery down the line if you’re not careful. Just something to keep in mind.

Aches and pains will be a normal part of your day. Just think of them as a reminder that you are alive, I guess.

Now, I know you’re thinking that you just heard me bitch and moan about all the terrible shit in this job. Why would you wanna stay? Ore you may be thinking “Okay, so this is the part where they say something nice and return a bit of hope to our hearts.” Well, fuck you! I’m not some kinda straw man, Buzzfeed ass bitch here for your entertainment!

…..

Anyway.

10) it does have its upsides- I’ve had a lot of different jobs, most of which were a creative field. One of them paid a lot better than grooming. Many of them had their benefits like… not having to clean literal shit out of your pocket. But, it’s rare to find a job that can actually be fun.

All the bullshit I listed above is true; it’s all happened to me or around me. But most of the stuff are things that happen to everyone. That in itself brings you a certain amount of community. The people in the salon are very close-knit; it becomes almost like a family. And, like a family, we fight and bicker. But within that same hour, we’re laughing at bad puns and poop jokes. Immature? Maybe. But there’s not many other jobs where you can make these jokes without worrying about offending someone or just making things awkward.

There are days where I’m actually excited to go to work. Not many people can say that. Years ago, I couldn’t say that! So, I guess I’m lucky in a way.

This is not a job for everyone, don’t get me wrong. But when a job is geared for a certain type of person, it kinda sets up for a truly strong, supportive relationship.

-

Alright. Enough of this mushy sentimentality. This has been my New Groomer’s guide. Or, as it probably should’ve been titled “Ten things I wish someone told me when I became a Groomer.” But, ya know, I didn’t like that title.

Hope you enjoyed!

#grooming #dog grooming #groomers #a groomer's guide #learning one day at a time

[ladygloucester]

A Common Enemy - The Getaway

Previously…

When he opened his eyes, instantly knew something wasn’t right. In the middle of the night, a soft pinch in his leg had brought him back from sleep. Ready as he was for anything and everything, the last thing he could imagine was happening. Slowly, that brown haired woman had crawled into his lap, and her head was resting against his belly, on his thigh. He couldn’t help it. His fingers carefully caressed her curls, disarrayed around her head and so silky to the touch. Tentatively, his hand almost decided to rest by itself on her arm, and it was welcomed with a sleepy smile. His lips drew another one of his own, before easing himself back to sleep.

But that was different. Sun was about to come up and the camp would soon wake up, but Claire was nowhere to be seen. The cape was discarded by his side, but no sight of the rope or any other thing missing. His brow furrowed, trying to figure out which way she had go. Getting on his feet without making a sound, he looked for footprints, hints, a trail. It was easy to spot. Almost looked like she wasn’t trying to hide it. And she was… walking, not running.

What the hell, Sassenach…

Concern started to get a grip on him. What if she got lost? Or if someone took her? A cold sweat began to form a thin layer on his forehead, despite the morning cold. The footprints were irregular. It almost looked like she was… looking for something? There were some here and there, and then a few around a bush before heading back to the main trail. He was about to call her name when he heard her.

It was a low hum, but full of musicality. Jamie sighed, leaning back on a tree while observing her, completely unaware of his presence. She was singing to herself an old tune, and he was close enough to figure out the words.

‘Pray let me alone,

     I have hands of my own;

Along with you I will not go,

     To hear the fond tale

     Of the sweet nightingale,

As she sings in those valleys below;

     For I am afraid

     To walk in the shade,

To walk in those valleys below,

To walk in those valleys below.’

     ‘Pray sit yourself down

     With me on the ground,

On this bank where sweet primroses grow;

     You shall hear the fond tale

     Of the sweet nightingale,

As she sings in those valleys below;

     So be not afraid

     To walk in the shade,

Nor yet in those valleys below,

Nor yet in those valleys below.’

His heart was pounding hard in his chest. She wasn’t the best singer, but there was something extremely appealing about seeing her without being noticed. Seeing the drizzle curl her locks, her hands white as a dove’s wings fluttering around the bushes. The delicacy of her fingers tearing out stems and flowers. The aplomb that covered her actions, deciding whether that plant was correct or poisonous. It was hypnotizing.

It took him a while to figure out what she was doing, until she turned around with her skirt slightly pulled up forming a precarious basket full of herbs. But the sight of him suddenly startled her and her hands dropped the cloth, and with it, the precious load it was carrying.

“Holy Mother Mary!” Claire’s hands flied to her chest, as if trying to keep her heart inside her chest. Jamie lifted his hands apologetically and hurried up to her, kneeling and picking up the herbs she just dropped. “There’s nothing here for a heart disease,” she mumbled, still trembling from the scare.

“Sorry there, Sassenach. Wisna my intention at all…” Jamie truly looked distressed for having startled her.

“How long have you been there?”

“Errr…” A blush took over his face, furiously, as he searched for words. “Not long, no. I was worried, woke up and ye weren’t there. For a moment I thought something happened to ye.”

They finished collecting the herbs back in her skirt and stood up. Claire looked at him curiously, and tilted her head.

“You didn’t think I ran away?”

“Only for a second. Before I found your trail. It was… weird.”

“Well, I was looking for something we could use on that wound,” she pointed at his thigh. “I didn’t like the look of it and wanted to…” This time it was her turn to blush. “Well, you’ve been really attentive (for a captor, at least) and I just wanted to pay you back.”

His eyes pierced hers, blue as the Scottish sky on those rare days when the clouds laid away. There was something magnetic to them. Even though the situation was far from ideal and she should be more afraid than anything, Claire couldn’t help it. She trusted that redheaded highlander that took off his cape to keep her warm and was ready to fight one of his own to protect her. Jamie broke their gaze and stood up, offering his hand to help her up. Even with the years of sword fighting and hard work, his palm was soft, and his long fingers encased hers with tenderness, slightly caressing the back of her hand with his thumb.

“Better go back before Dougal wakes up. He willna be happy if we’re missing. But before…“ Jamie unsheathed his sgian-dubh from his boot and swiftly cut the rope around her wrists.

“Ye dinna need it, Sassenach. You’re my prisoner, ken? I trust ye not to run into the wilderness and end up eaten by wolves.”

Claire rubbed her sore wrists, grateful to feel the blood circulating back into her hands. They were stiff and where the rope had been tighter, achy scabs were forming.

“I’d thank you if I knew why you’re keeping me prisoner. I’m no one. No one that matters, at least,” she muttered.

The camp was still quiet when they returned, and the embers of last night’s fire still crept in the stone circle. Claire kneeled by it, produced a pot with some water from a nearby canteen and set it over the fire, rekindling it with small blows. Soon the flames timidly crackled and the water started to smoke. Breaking the low hem of her white underskirt, she threw the cloth in the pot and let it boil.

Jamie observed her every move as if a wizard of some kind was about to perform a trick on him. There was something to her manner, the way she moved her pale hands, with skill and not an ounce of self doubt, that he found fascinating. Patiently, he waited sat by the tree while she prepared a concoction with the herbs, and when the steam of the result filled their nostrils, Claire took the pot and kneeled beside him. Then, doubt appeared for the first time as her gaze took turns between his eyes and his thigh.

“Mind if… if I…“

“Suit yerself, Sassenach.” Jamie’s smirk lifted one corner of his mouth, while he pushed aside the folds of his kilt. The skin underneath was red and purple, and blood had dried round the wound.

With a sigh, Claire took the dirty bandage and slowly tore it from the wound. It wasn’t a pleasant sight, when she finally discarded it. The gash was deep, but the edges were smooth and she could sew it up in no time… if only she had the means to do it. Frowning, she extracted the cloth from the aromatic pot and after wringing it out, she started to pat the wound cautiously but with a firm touch. The dried blood and the dirt needed to go if he wanted to keep the leg from rotting.

“I assume you don’t have needle and thread, do you?” Her voice came with confidence and resolve, and Jamie arched an eyebrow.

“Look in my pouch.”

Claire turned her head to look at him and the surprise in her features made him smile. She grabbed the small leather sack he was offering and started to go through the things it contained. The sudden show of trust made her blush as she realized those probably were his only possesions. A big iron key, beautifully engraved, a small wooden snake, soft to the touch after the years of erosion, charms and polished stones, a piece of blue crystal… Finally, tied by a small leather ribbon, she found a big curved needle and some thread. Relief took over and she let out a content sigh.

“This will probably hurt. I’ll try my best, but please, do not move,” Claire advised with a serious tone that instantly reminded Jamie of her sister, and how she patched him up whenever he hurt himself. That memory clouded his eyes for a second and stole his voice, so he just nodded to her improvised nurse and diverted his gaze.

Puzzled by this unexpected change of demeanor, Claire blinked and turned back to his task. After cleaning it, the wound had a much better appearance. Air filled her lungs deeply, before sticking the needle into the tender flesh. The leg stayed still, but corner of her eye she saw the pain pursing his lips. She vowed to herself she’d do it as fast and painless as she could, and in just a few minutes, the wound was properly sewn, patched and cleanly bandaged.

Claire let herself finally sat down after the tension escaped her shoulders. It was different than other times. She was used to screams, and tears, and complains, but that highlander had just hissed once when she hit a particularly painful spot, and stoically stayed silent and still through the whole deal. His hand went straight to the bandage, as if to check if it was secured, and bend the knee to test it before standing up and offering his hand for her to reciprocate.

“Sassenach, I have to admit. Ye have good touch.”

Jamie decided to keep Claire’s little ramble to himself. Telling Dougal she had escaped under the noses of eight grown up highlanders wasn’t going go earn her any sympathies. And she needed every single one of them. Her status as a Sassenach, an English woman, and to top it all, Jack Randall’s servant (or so she said) wasn’t a pretty thing to be. While they were packing up the camp, Jamie’s eyes often wandered back to her. She was sitting by their tree, classifying the herbs she had collected and tying them up. A cloud of displeasure settled on his brow. She could’ve escaped and yet, she stayed and assisted him.

When they all climbed up their horses, Jamie helped her ride in front of him again. With one arm solidly wrapped around her waist, he spurred his stallion and followed the group. When the rest of the men had passed by them, Jamie came closer to his ear and his breath made her skin shiver.

“Mind what I told ye? No running through the woods or wondering around to pick up herbs. For now, and until Dougal says otherwise, ye’re comin’ wi’ us.”

“Coming with you, where?”

That damned stubborn highlander wouldn’t give her a single clue. Her questions were answered with silence or, in the best case, with another question redirected back at her. She got fed up and rode without a single word, trying to stay as straight on the horse as possible. But when the hours grew long, she slowly crouched back until her back rested against his chest. There was a strange comfort to it, feeling his wide body behind her, allowing herself to place her head against his neck… It was something she had never experienced before.

Jack was completely opposite of this man. Where he met her with coldness, here she felt warmth. His distant behavior diverged from this closeness. Jack’s lean finesse against Jamie’s muscular build. His black, sleek hair instead of wild, vivid red curls. If she could, she’d bet there weren’t two men more different than these. But still, she belonged to Randall. And for all she had managed to know him in the last two years, he wasn’t going to let go of her easily.

Two years already…

No. Randall wasn’t going to give up his favorite toy. Love wasn’t a part of their relationship. Submissiveness wasn’t an option. It was survival. She had tried to fight back. To resist. But when she realized the consequences were worse than the suffering he was inflicting her in those moments, she learned to survive. To lower the head. To look in the eye only when required to. To bury her defiant attitude, her curious soul, her nonchalantly demeanor in a dark, deep place where they never crawled back.

She thought of escape everyday. At least, for the first months. But without family, without friends, that was being a real prisoner.

Here? This is a walkabout.

A snide blew from her lips at the thought, and she felt Jamie’s chest move behind her.

“Never kent oaks were so waulie.” She could feel his chest rumbling with the deep, rich tone of his voice.

“Oh, didn’t you? With those tiny acorns, tingling in their branches, don’t they remind you of anything?”

“Weel, never… Sassenach!”

#outlander fanfic #outlander #outlander fic #ladygoutlanderfic #jamie fraser #jamie x claire #claire beauchamp #a common enemy

[addicted2tomatoes]

It Can Only Be, Bitter Sweet

Summary: It's dark and deep. The rich colours swallowing, chewing me up. Then, there is light. 

WARNING: Tragedy, violence, suicide attempt, original story

Available on Inkitt

Whispers haunt my disorient mind. Bleached lamplight dives in through the ghostly curtains, dancing along the towering walls. Red washes away the peaceful melancholy, flooding it with agony. The cold air caresses my punctured arm picking at the broken scabs and nudging more blood from my veins. Its instigator lay a distance away. Its smooth sharp edge dyed in this dirty red colour. It’s okay. This body lives for Mother. Mummy’s little boy. So it should die for her. She doesn’t love you. Mother is better off without me. No one needs me. Surrounding colours blur into one, finally resting on a deep dark black.

Warmth beckons me to consciousness, removing me from a disturbed sleep. Soft beeping awakens me completely. A bitterness fills my mouth, I failed.

The bell chimes with another day's end. Should I try again tonight? My body aches, bandages and blemishes riddle my scrawny figure. No girl, I jest with myself, no one would find me attractive, but that’s okay. Okay, alright, all fine. People of this small town don’t. Everyone knows everything about anyone around here.

I notice a presence moving towards my desk. She stands, introducing herself as Lucy followed by a dazzling smile. New I suppose, not often round these parts, they never stick around me for long, no one does. Why would they? I’ve heard what they say about me. The boy with the wounds. They ask and I tell them I’m fine. All fine, okay, alright. She pulls me from my musing with one heart-stopping statement.

‘Let’s be friends!’ she said. Not again. Not another one. I simply nod at her. Unsure of how to respond. She shyly smiles at me and scurries away, her earth coloured hair following her joyous steps. Her rose coloured cheeks burnt in my memory.

She’s here again, Lucy, day after day balancing the torturous night with her blinding smile. I get home, it’s dark. I see her and the bleak world lights up again. She never asks, and I thank her for that. She might be the reason I even bother coming to school, let alone anywhere. Lucy: light, born at dawn, daylight. She epitomises her very name. She captures my soul, her essence, her being.

‘Maybe, I’ll visit you someday?’ directing her inquisitive eyes at me. Time stood still. Thoughts race around and around my head. Overwhelmed, I nodded in response. I duck my head, praying she hadn’t noticed the burning heat in my cheeks.

The daze fades and I realise my mistake. My head snaps back to her only to find empty space. She's gone. I'll tell her tomorrow. Grabbing my gear, I trudge out of the now empty classroom and back to the dark night.

I drag my feet across the pavement, an unconscious attempt to prolong my return home.

I close the door behind me tracing the familiar wooden grains filled with memories. Both good and bad. Silence bellows through the dark hallway. Incoherent mumbling follows. Thoughts race through my head; do I run? Is it worth it?

No, stay. What's the point?

It’s not her fault. It's okay, I'm alright, I feel fine.

Stay.

A beast lunges towards me, her claws pinning my neck to the door, denting it once again and imprinting it with more memories, only a shell of her former self.

‘Hello darling, how was school?’ her nails digging further into my skin. My breath hitches. It hurts.

‘Answer me.’

Pausing my already laboured breathing, I let out a whimpered reply. Her grip releases and I topple over in a desperate attempt to stay conscious. She delivers a blow straight to my stomach slamming me against the door. It hurts. I pull myself up. I close my eyes accepting what is soon to follow.

Battered with bruises, I inspect the bloody scene. Lingering sensations capture my soul pricking it with fire only found in hell. Mother sits crying. Mother…? Don’t cry. I let off a whimpered groan hoping to gather her attention.

‘I’m sorry, sorry,’ staggering towards me arms open, hands dyed in blood. My blood. Red. Oh, that devilish colour. The metallic tang eats at my nose and I hug my broken form closer. She picks up my fear and staggers away, mumbling apologies followed by possessive rants to herself, fighting for control of her sanity.

My thoughts drift endlessly through a labyrinth of memories, plucking them like a harvest picking the ripest fruit. Lucy, was it? She has this sweetness to her. A drink of sunshine. Luscious chocolate hair, springing with each step. Rattling off anything she could possibly think of, passionate with every word. She lives for herself. My tortured breath hitched in my throat. There was something she told me once. A while back.

Live for yourself.

You're fine. No, I'm not.

It's okay. No! This isn't right.

I'm alright...

‘No more,’ I say, my heart racing, ‘I can’t watch you do this to yourself, to me. Please.’ She stops her muttering and engulfed by the beast she was before, lunges at me. She cards her fingers through my hair with the softness and affection a mother would show to her child.

I wince in pain as she grips my hair, dragging me to my knees. I catch a glint in the dark and all when still. Cold metal skims across my flesh. Red leaks from my body, I release a shrill shriek, panting. The silence is mauled by my screams. She can’t do this to me anymore, it isn’t right.

Ding dong.

She stops and throws my head back. I groan on impact, looking up at her, still wielding the blade. She marches towards the ringing door pulling it open with no second thought to the scene behind her. I squint at the blinding light adjusting my eyes to recognise the guest. A naïve smile with chocolate cascading hair. Colour drains from her face. No no! Why her, why today?! She stumbles back, her eyes fixed on my broken frame, traumatised by my gaping wounds.

‘Run, get away, run! Lucy, please, go!’ My lips parting.

‘Mother don’t do it.’

All I could do was watch. Fixed and frozen where I lay. Cold tears pricking at warm open cuts.

‘Mother…please, don’t.’

I watch as she readies to strike. Her arm pulled back, ready to swing in a deadly arch. I launch myself forwards gripping at her clothes, anything to deter her murderous path.

‘This isn’t you.’

She halts her advance; her stoic face drops and turns to me. I stare into the eyes of my mother. Her deep blue eyes drowning me. The same deep blue I saw against the sky as I looked up at her as a child. A small smile used to grace her lips.

Her face rips into a sickening grin. My vision blurs, sheltered by running tears, I hear a scream. Something wet, damp. Splat. Metallic.

Red.

‘Mother…. what have you done?’

My sweet sunshine swallowed by the bitter night.

#original story #ami v writes #writing #not a happy ending #trigger warning #tw suicide #tw violence #tw domestic violence #tw abuse #tw murder #tw death

[u4bik]

Deeper

Hair half-braided and damp, skin wet, wounds stitched and poultices applied, Arsa’olakai makes his swift way back to General Athem’s quarters. People know him well enough to move aside, the unfortunates that don’t see him are plowed through. Arsa only pushes or shoves for effect or impulsive amusement and he’s interested in neither today. He simply collides and moves through to appease a lingering notion of what is polite.

The collisions jar his wounds and threaten his fresh stitches, but each burst of pain is a welcome blast of lightning to soothe the ache he’s unused to. It’s easier to take that pain than the headaches. It’s not the stabbing headaches, those he can appreciate. No, this is the dull kind that make him nauseous.

There’s no resistance beyond raised eyebrows when Arsa encounters and blows past the general’s guards. He’s expected.

General Athem had sent Arsa away to clean up after a lengthy group debrief. Arsa hates group debriefs. This one was so torturously long and boring that Arsa chewed off a scab on a half-healed wound and started it bleeding again. He’d said he’d return after the meeting broke up, but his stated intentions are often subject to Athem’s will, not Arsa’s.

The dim lighting within the space envelops Arsa as he steps in. It soothes some of the ache, but he sees General Athem is not alone. He pauses briefly to assess.

Secretive, aloof Vice-Commander Vendalot and his Commander are present. Neither of them have given Arsa any true trouble, Vendalot’s casual distaste is more of a perk than a detriment when it arises. The conversation between the three is serious, but by the tone it’s tapered off into the latter stages.

Drinks are on the table; the ornate bottle and sleek metal cups are from the general’s stock. As always. There is no cup or seat set out for Arsa. Arsa knows where both items are and he could easily fetch either. He doesn’t. He craves Ilchathmyr home habits and something to ease the blunt pain dimming the edges of his vision.

Assessment complete, Arsa moves to take what he wants. His long strides deliver him quickly to General Athem’s side of the table where he drops down heavily onto the ground beside Athem’s chair in a cross-legged position.

He leans against the wooden structure as if it isn’t inhabited by a male that strikes fear into the hearts of a vast population. Something is surely being forced here, a boundary brutalized, but Arsa is unafraid of this act’s consequences. He closes his eyes and takes the sort of deep, steadying breath that helps him calm down for sleep. Though it sounds like General Athem doesn’t miss a beat in the conversation, there is a stretch of quiet after he utters his last word.

Arsa releases his first deep breath and takes another deeper one. He sifts through the scents this time. He smells the medicinal poultices beneath his bandages. He smells liquor, smoky-sweet, with a low alcohol content. He smells the brazier’s smoke, it’s the slow-burning charcoal that Athem prefers. (Arsa prefers it, too.) He smells the faint fragrance of soap or aftershave from the Commander. Vendalot smells of it, too. And Arsa smells the strangely faint scent of General Athem. He doesn’t know enough about the surface to define the smell, but it reminds Arsa of the subterranean sea that once fed water into Ilchathm.

“I asked a question.” It’s the general and he’s using the deceptively indulgent voice that often precedes harsh penalties. “Shall I repeat it?”

The Commander is quick to reply. Anyone would. Arsa’s nostril twitches and upper lip lifts slightly. He wants to sink his teeth into the meat of the Commander’s face.

Deep breathing helps to calm, but the dull ache is monotonous and disruptive. Arsa forces a hard exhale through his nose in frustration and tips his head to the side. The side of his jaw bumps against Athem’s thigh. Instinct follows. Arsa’s lean deepens until he’s unequivocally resting the side of his face against General Athem’s thigh. He relaxes further.

A moment later, cool steel rests against Arsa’s cheek. At first he thinks it’s a knife, but the smell of liquor and the curve of the surface means it’s Athem’s cup. Arsa reaches for it, presses the cool metal against one closed eye. The welcome spread of chill is a balm better even than blood or violence. It’s such a relief that he doesn’t think anything of the new pressure, the weight of a palm coming to rest on his head.

Banishing as much thought as he can from his mind, Arsa gives himself over to sensation. The hand on his scalp feels like a weighted blanket. The cold against his temple numbs the headache. He’s somewhere dark and it smells good. A deep, contented sigh of relief heaves from Arsa’s lungs. It doesn’t matter how long it lasts, he’ll live in the moment.

The moment stretches so gradually that Arsa doesn’t notice the cup lose the battle to his body heat. He only notices after when the pleasant weight on his head lifts and the cup is plucked away. Arsa lifts his lip and huffs out annoyance.

But soon pressure returns in a precise stroke across Arsa’s head. “Are you unwell, Arsa’olakai?”

“Allergies,” Arsa mumbles, but he has no idea, really. Who cares? The headache has faded to the periphery of his senses.

“Allergies,” Athem says back.

It’s not a question but even if it was, Arsa wouldn’t reply. The headaches started around the time he came to the surface and all he has to compare is a single visit to the Jaisou greenhouses that coincided with itchy eyes and a similar headache.

With the same pressure as before, the general passes his hand over Arsa’s head. It feels good but not good enough to lift his head from the general’s thigh to chase it. The feeling is reminiscent of something. Like having his hair brushed but without the sense of intimacy.

Arsa takes a long drag through his nose to fill his lungs and re-establish the room’s scent. The faint soap smell of the Commander and Vice-Commander is gone. “Is it late?”

“It is.”

He should be thankful for the calm and quiet so rarely attained, but Arsa deflates when it appears to be over. He lifts his head, opens his eyes, and pulls away from Athem and his chair. “I’ll go warm your bed.”

“Will you?” Athem watches with his usual cool expression, but his body language is more relaxed than normal. His posture is stalagmite-perfect as ever, of course.

Surprised, Arsa pulls himself up with a laugh. “Yeah, unless you want me to warm your lap instead.”

The innuendo is habitual and after getting so close and familiar with the General, Arsa wants it to establish some sort of normalcy. Bring Athem back into his usual stiff control. But Athem raises his right hand, ungloved at that, and beckons Arsa back down.

For a moment Arsa is still, his smile forgotten on his face. His gaze flicks to the table: both gloves are set neatly on the wooden surface. The fancy bottle is stoppered and the three cups are nested within each other. General Athem hasn’t left his chair since Arsa dozed off and that was at least an hour ago. Why?

Headache mostly gone, Arsa drops to his knees before Athem. He lays his hands on the male’s thighs, gnaws his lower lip, and says, “You can be rough, but I drool a lot. It’d be better if you have a towel.”

The general breathes a brief snort and turns his beckoning hand to drop it once more onto Arsa’s head. He watches Arsa’s face as he slides his hand over Arsa’s head, down the back of his neck, and then grips the base of Arsa’s braid.

The desire to be disciplined and roughly used oscillates toward defiance until Athem speaks. “Is that what you want?”

Why is he asking? The question is upsetting. It’s reminiscent of Galokir. “Yeah. Hard and fast. Finish down my throat or all over my face, whatever works for you.”

The grip on Arsa’s hair pulls tight. Arsa closes his eyes. This is more like it.

“Not tonight,” Athem says and releases his grip. “Rebraid your hair, make sure you and your wounds are clean, and then you will warm my bed.”

Arsa sinks back onto his heels, nose wrinkled and lip lifted. Disappointment and defiance. “Sure, your generalship.”

Athem observes Arsa surge to his feet, but doesn’t react. In this Athem stands apart from everyone Arsa has ever belonged to. He hates it. Hates the general, the surface, Galokir, everything since the simple days of the fighting pits.

Arsa throws aside the partitions that separate the general’s sleeping arrangements from his meeting area. The low light of a stationary glow light illuminates the area and throws amber over Arsa as he strips his clothes off. He slings the garments to the floor in a haphazard heap.

In the warm glow, Arsa checks his bandages and the poultice over the wound he chewed. It started life weeks ago when a mace had narrowly missed impact with his right hand, but the spikes ripped through his gloves and flesh. There’s nothing weeping from the wound this time and the cuts to his forearm, thigh, and shoulder haven’t bled through.

He hasn’t had an opportunity to get dirty but the shoulder wound and its stitches are in terrible shape from the collisions on his way there. Arsa won’t mind if it soaks past the poultice and onto the bandage. Serve Athem right if it does.

His shoulder hurts pleasantly during the unbraiding and rebraiding process, but doesn’t bleed through. Shame, it was a complex braid, too.

Once his braid is tied, Arsa slips into General Athem’s bed. It’s a strange duty, warming a bed for someone, but he’s been doing it now for weeks. If he didn’t always end up falling asleep he’d hate doing it... It’s no fun being awake and alone anywhere, let alone a bed.

But sleep doesn’t come. Sleep doesn’t come so the thoughts do. Galokir, Kamiti, Alanam, other names and faces that go further back. Arsa lifts his head and bounces it back off the pallet. The headache would be better than this.

He doesn’t notice the taste of the poultice or feel much of anything when he chews through. Nor does he notice when he finally falls asleep, his goal realized in the mess of poultice, bloody bandages, and blood dirtying General Athem’s sheets.

Without another presence to distract him, Arsa’s dreams are turbulent and dark. He experiences sensation, scents, and movement but he never remembers what he sees, if he sees at all. Then he’s dreaming something that isn’t so bad, even if he still sees nothing.

Cold breeze from the underground sea? Touching. One hand? No, two. It’s already the best dream he’s had in months. He has no idea what’s happening but Arsa doesn’t care, either. His dream fades to black and nothingness.

It takes Arsa time to surface from sleep. Memory is a fraught thing, so he’s accustomed to waking up in unfamiliar settings. But this one isn’t unfamiliar: he smells the general, so strong in his nose that he can taste Athem’s iron presence on his tongue.

Arsa opens his eyes to the general’s living quarters as seen from the foot of the general’s bed. There’s no telling how long he’s been here, Arsa’s sense of time has always been rubbish but since leaving Ilchathm he has no understanding at all.

Has Athem come to bed and then left? That seems so utterly out of character that Arsa immediately discards the notion. More likely that he hasn’t been there at all. But then, how to explain finding himself on top of the bed clothes, at the foot of the bed, under a fur cover? How to explain the refreshed scent of General Athem on the comforter?

Arsa slips out from under the fur and off the bed. His clothes aren’t scattered in the haphazard piles of before. They’re folded. Actually folded and set on one of the room’s chests. Unlike every high-positioned clan leader Arsa has ever known, Athem does his own upkeep.

Arsa hits the cold ground, hands first, tucks into a roll and comes up standing by the trunk. He takes his shirt from the top of the stack. The folds drop from the fabric. He smells Athem.

#arsa'olakai #general athem

[decaymagic]

THE DAUGHTER OF THE SEA.

NAME. cordelia vega. TITLES / OTHER. captain death. captain c/sea. that cruel bitch. death’s knife. the ocean’s wrath.

DATE OF BIRTH. unknown. she’s practically a myth at this point. PLACE OF BIRTH. the ocean.

SPECIES.  half human, half qunari, however no one knows that besides her. she claims human, and looks human. however, her qunari blood does make her a more powerful mage than most humans. GENDER. gender neutral (she/they), they exclusively when referring to vengeance. SEXUALITY. aroflux bisexual.

LANGUAGE(S). common. antivian. rivaini. orlesian. very few words in qunlat, tevene and evlen.

HEIGHT. 6'1". HAIR. black, silky, EYES. golden yellow. if vengeance is in control, glowing white.

NOTABLE MARK(S). when sailing, she has a skull painted over her face. TATTOO(S). enchanted compass tattoo on the back of her left hand that helps her always know which direction is north, and where her ship is. an octopus on her chest. twin sea serpents climbing up her biceps. a line of ships, all different, with thirteen in total, circling around her thigh. some look like warships, trade ships, pirate ships, even a row boat.

CURRENT RESIDENCE. the open sea. LIVING CONDITIONS. her ship, the sea’s wrath. OCCUPATION. pirate.

OTHER. walks like a queen and with the grace of a snake.

FAMILY. captain marcus garcez, father, deceased. marianna garcez, mother, deceased. luke garcez, brother, deceased. sickra garcez, sister, deceased. jesus vega, husband, deceased.

THE STORYTELLER.

NAME. dee dee song. TITLES/OTHER. storyteller. bright eyes. dee.

LANGUAGE(S). common. antivian. riviani. orlesian. random words in other languages. jokingly boasts that she knows “water” in elven.

CIRCUMSTANCES OF JOINING THE INQUISITION. as inquisitor: she goes into the conclave posing as a prisoner of a band of mercenaries, complete with a cloak that covers most of her body, bloody, bound wrists and bruises from a beating she had her crew give her to make it convincing. she’s a good liar, and everyone believes her, especially after seeing her swollen, scabbed lip and black eye. as companion: meeting the inquisitor in the storm coast in the space between bull’s meeting and the blades of hessarian, hiding in one of the destroyed huts, shivering, cold and frightened. as before, she looks like she’s been a prisoner, and has taken a beating and is extremely cold when found. she joins as a storyteller rogue.

VENGEANCE.

NAME. vengeance.   TITLES/OTHER. none.

LANGUAGES: common, antivian, riviani, orlesian, elven, tevene, qunlat, ancient languages that no one speaks anymore.

CIRCUMSTANCES OF JOINING WITH CORDELIA: after she is left chained to a rock to drown as high tide comes in, vengeance comes to her out of the depths of the fade to offer her salvation and revenge, as well as justice. joining together, they share control over her body, but cordelia has more power over vengeance than most possessed beings do. whenever vengeance assumes some power, it’s an even split down her body, vengeance’s power making half her body light up in runes and makes her eye glow with bright white light. vengeance amplifies her power over water, making it possible for her to summon large waves, control storms and cast much stronger spells in general, but especially lightning spells.

BACKSTORY.

born into one of the more vicious families of pirates on the sea, cordelia was practically sentenced to death from the day she was born. the product of an affair that her father suspected and her mother despised, since the man was a tal-vasoth qunari that she slept with when extremely intoxicated, nothing was easy from her first breath.

perhaps luckily, she never cried. from infancy into her days of learning to walk on a ship, a single tear was never shed. it was likely the only thing that kept either of her parents from bashing in her head.

she was an excellent student, learned faster than her two siblings, and with her worth established, her parents decided to keep her alive and use her. when she learned to speak effectively, her parents discovered she always knew which way they were going. always remembered which way they’d just come from, and where they had to go. she had magic, and they knew it. and she instantly became their best tool. briefly, they treated her better. fed her more. hit her less. hated her less. but of course, people take what they have for advantage. by the time she was eighteen, she was treated the worst of her siblings, but the most was expected of her. the crew was often sympathetic, as she was immensely charming and beautiful, despite her poor diet. she treated them well, when her parents and siblings were cruel. she made them laugh at meals when they weren’t looking, offered them quiet support when things were hard, and most of the crew loved her, but their pity and sympathy only went so far, as they never dared to act out. knowing her family, she didn’t expect them to. she only wanted their support.

she was nineteen when they were attacked by an enemy formidable enough to take them down. instead of sinking their ship, the captain and crew boarded, tied them all up and informed them they would be sold as slaves and their supplies were to be seized. her cordelia’s father, captain marcus, immediately began bargaining for their lives. nothing interested him, until cordelia was brought up, fighting, and her father’s eyes lit up. ’ her! ’ he shouted, indicating her with his head as much as he could with his eyes and ankles bound.

grinning wickedly, jesus looks suddenly interested. ’ i like her hair, ’ he declares, picking up a few silky locks between his fingers, letting is slide through when she fights against him and the two men trying to contain her.

’ she can nagivate! anywhere! and she has magic! lightning! storms! ‘

raising an eyebrow, his interest increases, leaning forward to try and look at her eyes. ’ is that so? ‘

both crews gasp when she rears back and slams her forehead into his face, his tooth cutting her forehead and knocking out one of his bottom teeth. jesus laughs, spitting his bloody tooth into his palm and pocketing it, as if planning to save it (he does). ’ feisty! and strong. magic, you said? prove it. ‘

’ girl, which way is north? ’ her father shouts.

immediately, answering without thinking out of nineteen years of habit, she looks north, eyes intently fixed on the horizon. ’ that way. ‘

’ ha! ’ jesus laughed, grabbing her face in his hands to try and keep her still. blowing air through her nose like a stubborn stallion trying to be tamed, he grins, spinning back to her father. ’ deal! ’

her mother nearly cries out in relief, and cordelia’s shoulders drop, breathing hard. ’ no. ’

her father’s eyes narrow, hissing. ’ yes. you’re just a fucking compass. we’ll be happy without you. ’

the crew looks torn, their loyalties suddenly pushed. a few, mostly younger members of the crew say they’ll join cordelia. her father practically screeches in outrage, but the four volunteers are immediately picked up and carried to jesus’ ship. intrigued further, jesus waves his men off to take them onto his ship. yelling and fighting like a mountain lion, it takes three more men to fully contain and carry her off. he watches her with an air of absolute curiosity and delight.

turning back to her father, jesus practically skips forward before kicking him in the face, stealing every jewel on him and stomping on his groin just for fun. his crew returns to his ship, leaving all of them tied up and shoots several holes into the hull.

brought to his ship, jesus has them set sail before he does anything else. pulling a knife, cordelia has to be held by multiple people as he tries to reassure her he’s not going to stab her, and gets her still long enough to cut her ropes. everyone immediately backs away as quickly as they can, and it’s only the sight of her crew mates being freed that makes her stop.

’ i’d love to make you all part of my crew, ’ jesus says, taking a seat on a barrel. and he does. brutal, unforgiving, and with enough charm to rival cordelia’s, he puts her into an odd space, using her as his navigator with full trust, and flirting continuously. he’s by no means good to her, or her crew mates, but better than her family was.

four months later, jesus “proposes” to cordelia. there’s no rejecting his proposal without getting thrown overboard or beaten, and she knows that if she doesn’t make her way higher into the ranks somehow, she’ll never have any power of her own. she agrees. the wedding is nothing special, done on the ship, and the paperwork that ties their livelihoods together is done the next time they dock. the paperwork is done to effectively bind cordelia to him forever. however, married to him, she instantly becomes second in command, their only reliable navigator, and mage. she helps keep storms less damaging than they would without her, and the crew and jesus begin to trust her with their lives.

he doesn’t anticipate that she’ll use their wedding binds to claim all of his property upon his death. the plan gains momentum over the next few months at sea with the crew, as her four allies get closer to her and she’s able to get to know and get several more crew members more on her side than jesus’.

backstory to be continued.

INTRODUCTORY.

GIVEN NAME. veronica sawyer.

TITLES / NICKNAMES / OTHER. ronnie.

AGE. 18 at times of musical events.

PLACE OF BIRTH. sherwood, ohio.

SPECIES. human.

GENDER. cis female ( she/her ).

SEXUALITY.

LANGUAGES. english. some where necromancy shit that she doesn’t know how she learned.

OCCUPATION. college student.

CURRENT RESIDENCE. traveling/college that fits the thread’s location.

LIVING CONDITIONS. suv that she lives within/dorm room.

FAMILY: living mother and father.

* OUTWARD.

HEIGHT. 5'1"

BODY TYPE. pair shaped. thick thighs and wide hips.

HAIR. wavy brown.

EYES. brown.

NOTABLE MARKS. faint burn scars on her legs and arms from where she shielded her face when the bomb went off.

OTHER.

* INWARD.

MENTAL HEALTH: severe ptsd. maybe something else, since she sees her dead best friend and the two guys she accidentally killed with her boyfriend.

* INTRODUCTORY.

GIVEN NAME. vanya hargreeves.

TITLES / OTHER. number seven. the white violin.

AGE. twenty - eight

PLACE OF BIRTH. october 1st, 1989.

SPECIES. human.

GENDER. cis female ( she/her ).

SEXUALITY. lesbian.

LANGUAGES. english. french. music.

OCCUPATION. violin tutor.

LIVING CONDITIONS. decent apartment.

FAMILY: sir reginald hargreeves, adoptive father, deceased. luther hargreeves, adoptive brother, alive. diego hargreeves, adoptive brother, alive. allison hargreeves, adoptive sister, alive. klaus hargreeves, adoptive brother, alive. number five, adoptive brother, alive. ben hargreeves, adoptive brother, deceased. claire, adoptive niece, alive.

* OUTWARD.

HEIGHT. 5'2".

HAIR. chest length, brown, wavy.

EYES. brown. white.

OTHER. occasionally taps fingers along to whatever song is stuck in her head. leg bounces when nervous or restless.

* INWARD.

MENTAL HEALTH: damaged. undiagnosed depression. medicated to keep her powers hidden.

CO

GIVEN NAME. dominic lleene.

NICKNAMES. dom, nick, nicky, mini (only by john, usually), bear cub (nickname from his mother).

AGE. 40.

PLACE OF BIRTH. denver, colorado.

SPECIES. human.

GENDER. demiboy (he/them).

SEXUALITY. pansexual/romantic.

LANGUAGES. english. american sign language.

OCCUPATION. volunteers at a relatively nearby animal shelter until movement from hope county is cut off. sometimes plays gigs for fun more than money.

CURRENT RESIDENCE. hope county, montana.

LIVING CONDITIONS. three-room house on the edge of hope county.

FAMILY: deceased parents, no siblings.

* OUTWARD.

HEIGHT. 6'5.

BODY TYPE. mostly muscle, healthy and very in shape.

HAIR. dark brown into a lighter blonde shade. an inch or two past his shoulders.

EYES. blue.

NOTABLE MARKS. covered in tattoos. small, fading scars scattered on his face from the bomb that damaged his eyes.

OTHER. fully blind. scarred, callused hands. pierced ears. always with at least one of his four dogs. plays piano and sings.

* ANIMALS.

DOGS:

note: all of his dogs are trained to stay with him. they only run off or around when given permission, and run back to him directly upon seeing another person.

mabel/miss mabel, (7 years old, black lab, she/her) his seeing eye dog. definite alpha of the pack. leads erin to wherever dominic tells her to take them. the other dogs look to her for instruction and how to behave. calmest, and in charge of keeping the dogs in line.

jack, (5 years old, doberman shepard mix, he/him) a trained therapy dog for his ptsd and stress, as well as a help for those he knows. also very calm, but can the younger two can occasionally get him to play with them. the definite protector of the pack and dominic.

freya, (2 years old, welsh corgi, she/her) a stray dog that was abandoned when her owner moved out of the city. is shockingly fast for her size. hates being picked up by anyone that isn’t dominic. sometimes rides in a little pouch when they all go for a horse ride.

lady, (2 years old, baseji greyhound mix, she/her) got her when a neighbor’s dog had puppies and couldn’t take care of them all. raised her practically from birth with mabel’s help, who adopted her when dominic brought her home. still acts like a puppy. very excitable and very protective of dominic.

coco, (8 months old, german shepard mix, she/her) ran from her abusive home and ate the food on dominic’s porch until she became comfortable with him and stayed to live with him. extremely playful with the other dogs, like a puppy is, but very, very timid around strangers. mostly hides between/behind dom’s legs until she warms up to the person and feels comfortable.

CAT:

blessing, (10 years, black, she/her) has had her the longest or any of his animals. shortly after his first seeing eye dog died, she showed up at his house, asleep on top of the dog food bin. dom adopted her the third time she came around and meowed outside his window until he let her in. she loves being near him, and almost always is, either in his sweatshirt pocket, on his shoulder, around his neck, in a bag he carries specifically for her, or otherwise glued to him. doesn’t care much for other people, but loves kids and elderly.

HORSE:

erin (5 years old, dappled grey, he/him) since he can’t drive and there’s mostly dirt roads in hope county, dominic uses him primarily for when he has to go anywhere. he’s lead, always, by mabel, who knows where dominic wants to go based on which location he tells her.

* INWARD.

MENTAL HEALTH: ptsd, but fairly sound of mind.

* BACKSTORY

from a young age, dominic showed massive potential. from a young age, his parents surrounded him with music. his mother was a famous pianist, and his father had played guitar in a semi-famous band. both quit touring when dominic went into kindergarten, and only performed if he could come with them. he took to piano like a dog to a bone, having fallen in love with the instrument before he could talk. guitar was like a second language, learning it at the same time as english.

as he got older, dominic became more interested in sports. he played football from a young age, and by high school, he was already a star player. he had excellent grades. he was smart as hell. his college career was set up.

but when dominic was seventeen, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time when a car bomb was set off in the middle of a street, debris blinding him. forced to drop out of high school to recover and relearn how to navigate the world. from a rich family, he was able to get excellent blind therapy, cane and seeing eye dog.

determined, dominic took several years to relearn the world and braille. at twenty three and still learning braille, he got his high school degree with the help of his past teachers. a year of hard work later, he applied and got accepted into college, where he became roommates with john seed. not into his vices, dominic did enjoy his company greatly, and was often seen walking john back to their dorm, or carrying him over his shoulder if passed out.

college was enjoyable. he took several classes he didn’t need simply because his family could afford them and wanted him to study what he wanted. about two years into college and finished with the basic core classes, he found music again. he’d thought he’d have to give up music the same way he had to give up sports, but muscle memory, feeling and his hearing surprised him. he began taking more classes on music instead of sensible subjects, and his parents were not only supportive, but delighted. joy came back into dominic’s life in a big way, and he found he didn’t have to relearn guitar and piano the way he had to learn english. he began to learn how to read music through braille, and his good memory truly came in handy when he started having to remember pieces if he wanted to play them without having to stop and read them each time. dominic devoted all of his attention to one song until he could play it backwards and forwards from memory alone. then he’d move on to another song. on piano, he usually tried to learn songs that were more difficult, but guitar was a comfort, something that he could sing with and feel a little calmer and happier with. less pressure. he performed at parties at college, sometimes getting bigger gigs through his parents or from being spotted on his own. he didn’t need the money, but he loved performing, and the money he got helped him not rely on his parents, as well. there weren’t many people interested in hiring a blind giant of a man with a music degree in progress.

finishing college was a relief and a grief. he moved back home briefly until his first seeing eye dog, gold, died. everything he owned and house smelled like gold, and couldn’t stand having lost his best friend. months into the planning of moving to montana, blessing found him, and he found a comfort that wasn’t music once again.

his mother died a few weeks before he turned twenty eight, and his father a few days later. dominic believes that without his mother, his father died of a broken heart. inheriting all of their estate and money, dominic sold their home in colorado and finally fled to hope county.

he arrived two years before eden’s gate.

* INFO.

dominic’s house is an agreed untouchable zone for violence. both sides respect his space about half a mile away from the edge of john’s territory and a few miles from the beginning of faith’s territory.

lone before the collapse finally begins, it’s agreed that he’s to be left alone. the switzerland of hope county. neither the cult or the resistance tries to claim him, and both sides still come to his home to visit without harming each other if they come across each other on his property. no one really knows when this agreement came to be, but no one dares break it.

when things started to turn for the worst, people began to seek him out for protection. people harmed by the cult or the resistance with nowhere to turn, they would turn up on his doorstep, oftentimes injured and homeless. over time, he learned as much first aid as a blind man can provide and harbors people until they continue to flee from hope county. often, people take the air horn he kept to scare off various animals and uses it to alert him that someone’s being dropped at the edge of his property.

for the most part, dominic’s content to be the randomly met by lost souls and live off what he has left until the end.

* INTRODUCTORY.

GIVEN NAME. ( REDACTED ) “q” whitmore.

TITLES / OTHER. q, snake, demon of hope county.

AGE. 34.

PLACE OF BIRTH. bozeman, montana.

SPECIES. human.

GENDER. nonbinary.  ( she/they. )

SEXUALITY. bisexual / aromantic.

LANGUAGES. english. american sign language.

OCCUPATION. junior deputy for the hope county sheriff’s department.

CURRENT RESIDENCE. hope county, montana.

LIVING CONDITIONS. shitty apartment somewhere in montana, or equally shitty hotel rooms.

FAMILY: deceased father, unknown living conditions of mother, twin sister joanna whitmore, living. ( inaday )

* OUTWARD.

HEIGHT. 5'9".

BODY TYPE. mostly muscle, but underweight from poor diet/not enough food.

HAIR. black. mid-back.

EYES. dark, dark brown. the longer she takes bliss, the more her eyes cloud and start to turn bliss green.

NOTABLE MARKS. “DO NOT RESUSCITATE” over her heart “WRATH” on the opposite side of her chest. a large splotch of skin discoloration on her torso and left hip.

OTHER. partially deaf. has a fake gold tooth. sharpened canines to frighten cult members. long fingers, short nails. borderline alcoholic.

* INWARD.

MENTAL HEALTH: extremely unsteady. severe anger issues that aren’t being healthily dealt with.

good luck learning anything that’s not alarming.

BACKSTORY in process of being written.

basic info.

rachel didn’t trust the father blindly.

yes, she had faith in him. yes, she believed him when he said he would transform her. yes, she trusted in god, and him, by extension.  

but she didn’t trust him to keep her around.

when rachel disappeared, assumed taken or killed, she shocked everyone upon her emergence as faith. clothed in white, hair freshly cut and decorated with flowers, barefoot and — most importantly — clean, with no trace of drugs in her system, she was almost unrecognizable. and for the first time in years, she looked happy. she knew neither of her new brothers trusted her or shared any love for her, she knew intimately of the faiths that failed, and she knew that she was going to lose every trace of her former life. but she had exactly what she wanted: a new start. the chance to become someone that had control, who wouldn’t be hurt and put down as easily as rachel had, someone strong.

and thus faith seed was born. and she was determined to be the last faith. she knew that if her usefulness, or her popularity, or whatever it was that made the father raise his hand to the others, ran out, she would be tossed into the abyss with them. so she began.

what no one suspected is that she’d actually become death.

rachel wasn’t afraid of becoming the next faith. rather, the dead girls that can before her inspired her. shortly after being reborn, faith stood at the edge of what would become the angel’s grave, bare feet stinging from the climb and looking down. it smelled horrible, but she’d begun to already get used to the smell of dead bodies with how many she encountered. how, not too long ago, she might have become one of the bodies in the pit from taking too much of whatever she put in her body that day.

while she couldn’t pinpoint which body was the former faith, she felt determined as she breathed death. she had finally found the desire to live after so many years of misery, and she wasn’t going to become another nameless body in a pit. she wouldn’t be a failure. she watched the latest dead citizens or family members be thrown into the pit, and she stepped away with a smile.

she was going to make herself irreplaceable.

should she have gone to college, faith likely would have made a phenomenal chemist. even with self - medicating as she was, faith wasn’t able to numb herself enough to keep her mind from needing to do something. now, faith claims it was god pushing her towards what she needed to learn to develop the bliss. the truth may have been that she began attempting to make the drugs she had begun to depend upon so she would have a steady supply, if her parents ever did intervene or her supplier ever tried to cut her off. with desperation, interest and people who would tell her anything if she gave them enough money, rachel began to learn what would eventually lead to the bliss.

with the resources of eden’s gate, she was able to hire people that would help her develop it and perfect it. the bliss we all know and love took three years of complete devotion.

when it was completed, faith had the man be made into the first angels. now the only person who knew and could communicate the formula of the bliss, rachel had sealed her role as the longest - lasting and eternal faith. while she did explain everything to joseph, he didn’t have the eye for the drug that faith did, and left her to be in charge of it, and let her make as many angels as she needed. she’d gained his trust by that point, and knew that she was absolutely devoted to the project.

rumors began that perhaps faith had died long ago, and the woman people saw upon entering the bliss was simply just another part of the hallucination, or that she was catatonic somewhere, locked up with her angels and just as lost in the bliss as they are.

she shocked many upon being present for the breaking of the first seal. working behind the scenes for the seven years, very few have actually seen faith outside of the bliss. she’d been working with her brothers and the father, but hadn’t felt the need to be seen, rather enjoying becoming a mystery and myth. having become death itself, however, gave her several advantages.

upon the chaos of the seals being broken, faith took the time to root out the sin she found unacceptable. donning black, faith took a motorcycle as her steed, and began her ride as death over the county, cleansing the land in her free time. she never claims any of her kills, and is never seen as the rider. she is faith seed, she is pure and she is chosen.

* INTRODUCTORY.

GIVEN NAME. rachel jessop.

TITLES / OTHER. faith seed, the siren, death.

AGE. 24 as of far cry 5.

PLACE OF BIRTH. hope county, montana.

SPECIES. death, posing as a human.

GENDER. cis female.

SEXUALITY. lesbian.

LANGUAGES. english. latin. math.

OCCUPATION. head of bliss production.

CURRENT RESIDENCE. hope county, montana.

LIVING CONDITIONS. henbane river, montana.

FAMILY: deceased parents, joseph seed, john seed, jacob seed: brothers.

* OUTWARD.

HEIGHT. 5'1".

HAIR. chest length light brown hair.

EYES. blue green.

NOTABLE MARKS. none. she is one of the few in hope county who are unmarked and pure.

OTHER.

* THE RIDER.

NAME: ??????

TITLES/OTHER: the rider.

GENDER: ??????

SPECIES: assumed human.

APPEARANCE: head to toe black motorcycle riding leathers. completely black motorcycle helmet. black steel-toed boots intended to last and protect.

all in hope county assume, wrongly, that the rider is the deputy. none know that faith seed herself is under that dark helmet.

[greenstarmotivation]

“Glitter & Dirt” by Tammy Black  ©2018 All Rights Reserved.

silhouettes of a childhood

drift into the sunset

a little girl sits by the riverside

harsh tears stream down her pale skin

dear sweet one, please stop your tears,

for when you weep, your nightmares grow

your deepest fears thrive on your sorrow

yet the world is filled with enchantment

once the monsters have gone away

“Glitter & Dirt” by Tammy Black  ©2018 All Rights Reserved. 

I’ve longed for people to be truthful. I hated the lies when I was growing up. Eventually, I would learn to be just as manipulative as the rest of my family. It’s a frightening thought; a group of fifty to sixty people all lying to themselves and each other. I often wonder if they, too, feel like it was all a dream, or rather a nightmare.

My father’s family consisted of twelve brothers and sisters, including him; their spouses and children, great aunts and uncles; second cousins; and then there was grandma and grandpa.

I loved going to their house no matter where that was. The only house I remember especially one is the one with the white picket fence. There were large patches of grass in the front yard, along with smaller patches of dirt holes that had been dug up by dogs or grandchildren. It doesn’t matter which, both were treated the same.

It’s strange, considering the horrifying events that occurred there, I really enjoyed going to see my grandparents. Grandma was an extremely large woman for her height. She was about 5’4” and weighed (I think) well over 300 lbs. In her younger years, she had dark-dirty blonde hair with streaks of grey. She often wore her hair short with a perm; a very tight perm. Tucked up in the back of her hair were several large bobby pins. Although they weren’t necessary, she often used them to clean earwax from her, or anyone else’s ears. Grandma would just whip one out, clean out her ear, wipe it off on her dress, and place it back in her hair. Because grandma was so large, she opted to wear dresses all the time. Nothing fancy. No, grandma wore simple homemade dresses. The print was typically flowery; small flowers, dark color, nothing too loud. The material was anything she could recycle from other clothes or get at the salvation army.

Grandpa was the exact opposite. He was almost a foot taller than she was, and he was skinny as a post. I’m not sure he weighed much more than 135 lbs. He looked like a holocaust survivor. His face was hollow, his eyes were sunken in, and he always had stubble on his face. He wore loose baggy slacks and light-weight, cotton plaid shirts. Not many of us younger kids remember grandpa. He died when I was very young. I remember him. Grandpa made me laugh.

At one point in my childhood, my mother pulled me aside from the other kids and asked me if grandpa had ever touched me in a bad way or made me feel uncomfortable. I said no, and she never asked me again. As I said before, grandpa putting his hands down my pants was just what grandpa did. I didn’t know it was supposed to be bad or make me feel uncomfortable. When grandpa touched me, well it was simply grandpa’s touch.

I mostly remember grandpa with they lived in the house with the white picket fence. We went over to see them most weekends, I think. Grandpa was sickly, and often stayed in his own room except to use the bathroom. Other than family reunions, I rarely remember grandpa coming out of his room.

I loved my grandma. I wanted her all the time. If I got hurt, I wanted grandma. If someone yelled at me, I wanted grandma. If I was too tired to fall asleep on my own, I wanted grandma to rock and sing me to sleep. Only grandma knew the words to MY song, “Tammy, Tammy, Tammy’s in love.” I missed her so much when I wasn’t near her. She was my friend, teacher, and favorite person.

No one ever understood the security I felt around her. Why would anyone feel such closeness and desire to be around such a disgusting woman?

Grandma was a repulsive woman.

She rarely bathed, and for as large as she was, her odor was less than unpleasant. She was most always picking at something; scratching scabs off her skin, blowing her nose on a cloth hankie, or scratching her head. One time while in the process of pealing potatoes, I watcher her stop, clean her nails with the knife, wipe the knife off under her armpit, and continue to peal the potatoes we ate for dinner that night. When she’d find a cockroach in a coffee cup, she’d just dump it out and proceed to pour the coffee into the cup without rinsing it out first. I can’t remember how many weevils I’ve eaten in my youth. Grandma said it was extra protein in our macaroni and cheese. But for all the unsanitary habits she had, nothing ever compared to her tying children to trees to keep them from running into the road.

Grandma could be fun. She loved to sew and, despite my father’s objections, taught me to do so when I was just 8 yrs old. She made most of my clothes through middle school until I was in the ninth grade. She taught me how to make my own patterns. Soon, I’d be given scraps of material and fashioned all the clothes for everyone else’s baby dolls. Grandma also let us play dress up in the garage. Most of my aunts had been in ballet or dance at one time, so the garage was filled with all their old costumes my grandma had made. She loved music and cooking, and most of all she loved her family.

I loved her deeply. I hated myself for many years for loving my family, but I couldn’t seem to break the bond. That desire to have a connection with where I came from and who I was; it was enough to keep me within harms way. When I was 22 years old, my family started to have reunions again after many years of not. Many of us were now married with children of our own by this time. I was there with my own family; husband and two young children at the time. We were sitting around singing, laughing, pretending we were all healthy and normal, when my grandma blurted out a sentence I wish I’d never heard;

“Tammy, I remember when I used to breastfed you.”

It echoes in my mind over and over again; six million times I’ve relived this moment. My whole childhood began swirling into focus. I now know why I longed for her to hold me, rock me, sing to me, and love me; why I ached for her. I felt sick. I could no longer stop the memories from flooding my mind.

She stole away my mother’s bond.

#glitter&dirt greenstarmotivation shineon letgoletgod chasingyes tammymblack dontjudgeme