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acemapleeh · 2 years

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Come Ashore for Rack and Ruin

Summary: In the midst of the Battle of the Somme, an ancient horror has decided to show its ugly face on the battlefield and Matthew is somewhere out in the fog. Alistair goes to find his nephew.

Characters: Scotland, Canada, France, England

Word Count: 5282

Warnings: Temporary Character Death, Graphic Description of Gore

Read on ao3

Late Summer of 1916, North-Central Somme, France

It felt like it didn’t even have to rain for the thick wool of Alistair’s kilt to be absolutely soaked and weigh an extra ton against his reddened, numbed thighs. The mud did a good enough job as well as the rain from days long gone still lingering deeply in the fibers.

It was a rare, silent evening and those were the ones that put Alistair on edge the most. Silent, apart from the moans of the plethora of wounded men, many of whom, Alistair would say have copped a blighty and should be on their way home. Gunfire had been shot earlier that day and the entirety of his Majesty’s empire of scattered corpses stretched across no man’s land and a thick fog was the only grave they were getting for the time being. He peered over the top of the trench, but it was as black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat. No one was certain what the Germans had in mind yet but men needed to be retrieved if any survivors had a chance at being saved.

Matthew was out there somewhere.

The lad was lucky that he hadn’t been found by Gilbert or his brat of a brother.

Alistair wasn’t entirely sure if that was the case though and his stomach lurched at the thought. Earlier in the evening, he had gotten into a shouting match with his youngest brother. ‘ Matthew’s a grown man and will make his way back if he knows what’s good for him and the Empire . I know him, he wouldn’t allow himself capture. ’ He knew he couldn’t rest until he was certain the boy was brought back to the safety of their hellhole of a home, whether that meant dragging his corpse back or knowing for sure he had to come up with a plan to rescue him from the enemy. The latter would mean having to get Arthur furtherly involved which he wanted to avoid at all costs.

He was going to scout it out alone.

Securing his helmet on his matted red curls and kit firmly to his side, he climbed out of the ditch, his belly and out of regulation beard down in the detritus and rubble.

Matthew was always hard to find in these situations.

Time and time again, Alistair had memorized how to find his kin. He knew the scent of death they all emitted, what their face-down forms looked like in the dark, and the sounds they made as life rushed suddenly back into their flesh and bone.

His brother’s children though?

Even though he’d spent the most time with the young Canadian, he had only witnessed his death perhaps once or twice before and he couldn’t recall any useful details of how to go about locating his corpse.

Arthur smelt of the sea and rain-soaked woodland.

Dylan, a hedgerow in spring and driftwood.

Morgan of seaside morning dew and buttery furze.

Himself, blooming heather and an ocean storm.

Matthew smelt like... he wanted to say evergreen pine. He wanted to say he smelt like winter. But he knew that couldn’t be right. There was a lack of smell in the cold, on those freezing, white mornings before he went hunting or hiking; his eyes felt keener, ears on edge for the slightest of sounds.

The air felt heavy as he shifted through the scattered remains, feeling uneasy with every step until he eventually had to stop to get back into sorts.

Something was amiss in the deepest parts of the fog.

He spotted a shape in the dark and his grip tightened on the butt of his rifle. He would say the thing was at least fifty meters away if he wagered a guess. Squinting, he vaguely made out something large, something that appeared to be scraping in the mud. Just staring at it made him feel uneasy, and made him want to vomit up his sorry excuse for tea.

He risked firing a flare into the sky, praying the rest of the world was asleep for just these few moments. He had to know what he was dealing with; what he had to fight if it meant bringing his nephew to safety.

A dim red light briefly lit up the night.

His breath stuck in his throat.

It took every muscle fiber to keep his arm raised, to not drop the flaregun and bolt the other direction.

The thirty seconds the light burned felt like time had stretched. In it, Alistair could make out every detail of the foul beasty. He hadn’t seen one of them come on land in centuries and the last encounter hadn’t been an entirely pleasant one.

It was suddenly the autumn of 1722.

He was burning seaweed to help make fertilizer to treat the soil and feed his people.

The following day, the horses were foaming at the mouth, collapsing dead only two days late. All over Stronsay, it seemed to spread.

Then it was the barley. The last few weeks had been dry with little fog and suddenly mildew was growing on the carefully nurtured crop.

It all became dust by nightfall.

A half a year’s work of harvest gone in just four days of plague. The small island was turning on each other, demanding any who burned seaweed to pay for their sins, to appease the beast that walked their beaches in the moonlight.

Alistair felt as though the thing was taunting him as he sat awake at night as he nursed the open welt on his back.

They wouldn’t survive the winter at this rate.

Alistair pleaded with the Good Folk for rain, to keep the monster at bay. He knelt at the water’s edge in prayer, bargaining as the stars continued to shine above his head. Never in his years would he think he would have to ask for a storm for the Orkney Islands. The rain came down in buckets here, winter storms were always powerful and fierce.

This oddity interested the Fae, especially that of the like of the Finfolk.

They were an odd lot of amphibious, morose beings that took pleasure in abducting unsuspecting islanders, bringing them to their underwater home to become their spouses. But their magic was powerful so Alistair put up with their moody dispositions each summer they came to shore. They were hard to read and harder to please; their true purpose was almost never known until the very last moment.

They could control the weather as needed, and bring in the winter rain that his people were desperate for.

A bag of silver was all that was requested. Lord did he despise making deals with any sort of Fae but he was left very little choice on the matter. If a bag of silver trinkets was all they wanted, Alistair would do just that, knowing more could have easily been asked for.

The following night he waited, watching the skies and moon. The villagers were becoming furious, throwing out curses and stones alike as Alistair made his way to the nearest hill to see the horizon properly.

The glowing of stars brought no comfort or ease.

He stood rigid, arms crossed over his chest. He had to trust the Finfolk would keep their word even as the sound of galloping hooves echoed in the night.

It was the same that night as it was at this moment.

“Nuckelavee.”

The word felt like ash on his tongue.

The damn creature was massive, standing at least thirty meters tall. The eerie sheen of its pulsating, skinless body almost seemed to shimmer in the red glow of Alistair’s flare.

Part horse, part man, entirely demon and unnatural.

The hooves of the horselike monstrosity waded through the sea of corpses and mud, its movements too silent for a creature of its size. The gangly arms of the man’s torso, which was fused to the horse’s back, scraped alongside in the mud, scavenging. The head that was ten times larger than any man was lulling from side to side, black holes acting as eyes never seeming to focus on one thing or another but Alistair knew to never catch its gaze. The horse’s one giant eye of burning coal stared unblinking forward as it languidly continued its hunt.

He quickly pocketed his flare gun and fished out the cross he kept in his breast pocket. He uttered prayers and dug the little wooden pendant deep into the palm of his hand until an impression was made, having said its name aloud made him feel that his very soul was tainted.

He watched stiff and frozen as those long claws found an unlucky survivor. He couldn’t tell from this distance what side the boy had been fighting on but even if he was the enemy, he didn’t deserve his life ending at the hands of something so foul.

The only thing he cared to take note of was the hair was dark.

Alistair quickly pocketed the cross and covered his face, the black reek emitting from the damned thing’s arms was too foul for words. It made his eyes water and the taste of vomit hung in the back of his throat.

Its very breath caused plague, famine, and death and Alistair was kicking himself for neglecting his gas mask. Hell, he had no idea if it would protect him at all. He could only stand stiffly, mouth a tight line as the man was fed into the creature’s gaping mouth.

There was hardly even a scream.

He was gone.

Dead.

A fraction of a meal that could satisfy the creature’s hunger.

The man was lucky to have had a death from this beast be so quick.

Alistair had to leave.

Whatever survivors could have been out there would be dead by morning; whatever bodies could be found would look as though they’d died of glanders with foaming mouths and blistered ulcers.

His focus had to be on getting Matthew and himself back to base alive.

One hand quickly went to his flask for his rationed courage before he took the first step back.

This whole war had been full of mud and rain but it had been unfortunately dry for weeks. There was no hope that the tears of the heavens could drive the creature back to the sea as it came to his aid two centuries ago. The screams of that day still echoed in his mind; the human cries of man and the bellowing of the horse as it all melted away like a bad dream.

As the monster clutched another half-dead man, Alistair took more steps back, acutely aware of every sound he was making. There was another path back to camp, be it, a longer one but it was the safest option. Jerries he could fire his pistol at, the best he could do at a nuckelavee was pray.

What could you do when faced with a monster that was not quite a fae, not entirely a God, but a Nightmare somewhere in between?

The night was overall silent, his boots squelching in the mud was only a faint sound in his ears. The air smelt of mass decay; he was still sick to his stomach but he swallowed down the bile as it rose in his throat. One foot behind the other no matter how slow the progress, keeping his eyes both on and off the demonic fae was a full task in itself let alone the constant scanning for his fallen nephew.

Steadily he went, brushing his feet behind him to search for bodies to not trip over or barbed wire to tangle himself up in.

There was a break from the smell of decay and gunpowder.

Matthew didn’t fall anywhere special, he didn’t stand out amongst any of the other dead Canadian soldiers that Alistair finally stumbled across. His body lay upright and Alistair risked a precious second to push the lad’s goggles to his forehead to reveal glossed-over, grey-blue eyes staring towards the heavens; maybe the lingering spirit of Matthew could see it a little clearer now. Like everyone, he was covered in gore and mud. Alistair didn’t think the lad could be any quieter than he already was. Silent as a church mouse now quiet as a Catholic grave.

Alistair knelt quietly to look him over. Dead was certain though it didn’t appear as though he went down easy. There was blood under his fingernails, his knuckles bruised and equally bloodied, and a knife nearly within his grasp caked in crimson. The poor bastard was still using his Ross Rifle which lay nearby. He and his father had gotten into a colorful argument not long ago about how they were being replaced with British Lee-Enfields. Good hunting guns, cursed military weapons the lot of them. Even Alistair thought the boy was being stubbornly prideful.

There was a slew of scratches and holes across his ashen complexion and tears in his uniform. A particularly nasty gash ran across his throat and though Alistair couldn’t say for sure, he didn’t think that was what killed him and what brought him down nor did he think it was the oddly angled knee on the body that was all odd angles and corners.

Ach, heavens no. Matthew was just as feral as his father.

It was the bullet that was lodged somewhere between his eyes that ended him.

All of this could be treated later. He didn’t feel lucky enough to perform proper medical care out here in desolation while under pursuit; he pushed it enough as it was just being out here.

Alistair gave the courtesy of putting Matthew’s knee back in place before hoisting him up on his back. Honestly, the longer the lad stayed dead, the better.

That thing was standing between death and safety but he had to move forward, it wouldn’t do either of them good sitting out here till daybreak.

Another brief scream of terror before deafening silence and Alistair took that moment to start moving.

Six more steps while it ate the poor sod.

He heard here the crunching this time, could feel somewhere deep within his being of what made him Scotland that it was one of his own. A name came to him, a face, a glimpse of the life lost and what would be left behind.

He let out of steady breath and tightened his grip on the gangly dead weight. The only reason he knew he was trembling was the slight clattering of Matthew’s tags that hung over his shoulder.

For once, he was glad Matthew was dead.

All at once, Alistair felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand, matted hair uncovered by his helmet shifted in a breeze. His body felt chilled as though he had been dunked in a bath of ice water and suddenly he was staring into the hollowed eyes of the monster.

It grinned.

Matthew screamed a bubbling, wet sort of noise and flayed off Alistair’s back.

He scrambled to get him back on his shoulders, there being no way in hell the young thing could walk let alone run .

Out of the darkness, the beast charged and Alistair bolted.

He remembered the first time he laid eyes on the thing himself and he had thought the final Day of Judgement had come. He understood Matthew’s fright but he ignored every single whimper and sound of distress the other let out. A part of Alistair didn’t even care if he simply bled out and became dead weight again. It would be easier that way, easier to put another bullet in his head and haul him to safety.

Maybe the lad’s father wouldn’t hesitate on doing just that.

No- he knew Arthur loved him despite almost every choice he’d made in this fucking war that only worsened the faith and trust they had in him. Even he would hesitate before having to make the choice of ending any of his children’s lives. Alistair was not about to make his nephew more miserable than he already was, though perhaps, death was the less miserable option.

Over and over in his mind, he thought of all the times he’d spent in this part of the country with Francis, of all the times they held hands and walked along coastlines or through woodland. He knew the Somme River was somewhere but the darkness made it hard to remember the landscape he couldn’t feel.

He ran as fast as his legs would carry him, boots slipping but Alistair managed to regain his balance each time and kept running. The blood from Matthew’s neck was running down his own, making him feel sticky and even more uncomfortable than he already was. The fog looked like it was getting thicker and thicker, that if Alistair reached out with his knife he could cut right through it. He kept charging forward, even when the sounds of the horseman quieted.

The Sea Mither was supposed to keep these monsters under the depths of the sea though all it took was one bad, summer storm for them to come crawling out. Alistair longed for her presence. She brought in the warm spirit of summer and life to his seas and, most importantly, protection from Devils.

Maybe it was the war that lured them out. The rivers and seas polluted with the dead and metal remains of artillery were irresistible spots of human suffering. But to come from the Orkney Islands all the way to Northern France?

Alistair felt a twinge of guilt in his chest.

There was a whoosh just inches from his ear and he nearly stumbled over once more. He dared to take a look back.

The behemoth had flayed a clawed hand towards them and was readying to reach out with its second.

He prayed as he ran further and further, not sure for how much longer he could hold out and keep a reasonable distance away. Would it be easier to be caught? To wake up somewhere in his glens a new man? To get away from this war for however long that would take? To rid himself of the reminders of what made him more human than creature?

Matthew wouldn’t have that choice if Alistair decided to throw himself down.

Finally, he saw it.

The near-silent babbling of the Somme and the faintest glow of the feu follet were the greatest things that could bless his senses.

He pushed himself further, calves screaming in pain and throat beyond parched, he had to keep going.

Alistair didn’t care what temperature the water was, he wouldn’t have cared if it was the dead of winter and he would have likely frozen himself to death- anything was better than being captured at the claws of a Nuckalavee . He stood upright, breathing hard with the water lapping at his chest and nearly to his shoulders. He hoisted Matthew just a little higher and dug his feet into the bottom of the river. He savored the way it clung to his clothes, the way it smelled. None of it felt good. His kilt was heavy and rubbed his skin raw and the smell was rotten but all were better than the thing that had skidded to a halt just shy of the water’s edge.

The river would flow to the Channel, to the sea- but this water was fresh and free of salt.

They were safe, they would live .

The horse gave a snort like thunder and the skinless man unleashed a scream so horrendous that Alistair knew he would hear in his nightmares for months to come.

He stood frozen until the beast was a sight no longer, to which, he let out a hard breath and nearly collapsed further into the water. He was shaking terribly and it took far too long for his body to register that he wanted to leave the river and see if Matthew was still alive.

He took slow steps back, staring into the darkness to make sure the thing was truly gone before he turned around. He was breathing hard when he reached the other shore. Matthew felt like the heaviest thing in the world as he slowly knelt into the collection of river rocks that dug into his throbbing knees.

“Damn... thing jammed...I’m sorry- I’m so sorry,” Matthew shouldn’t be speaking but here he was apologizing and explaining himself, blood gushing out with every syllable. Apologizing for something that happened hours, or even longer, ago.

“Just hush yourself. I don’t want one word from you till I can’t see your fucking windpipe. For Christ’s sake just... save your breath.” He helped the young man lay properly on the riverbank, watching the visible wounds carefully for signs of healing. Alistair knew they weren’t truly safe here but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to rush back to the trenches and put all this behind him. He managed to find a clean cloth buried in his pack so he soaked one tip in the steadily flowing water. “Let’s clean you up a wee bit.” Gently he tended to Matthew’s wounds, murmuring soft promises of warmth and comfort. Matthew never rested or healed well in the cold and though it was a summer’s night, the loss of blood was enough that surely the lad felt as though winter had come for him. “Soon we’ll socht our den and be as cosh as hoggies in their pen.”

It got a smile out of the lad.

The two sat in silence for some time, waiting for hearts to relax and blood to trickle to a stop. At one point, Matthew’s eyes had closed again. A quick check for signs of life and he was hoisted onto Alistair’s back once again.

There were shouts and Alistair’s hand reflexively went for the pistol at his hip, aiming for the two figures approaching him in the fog.

“Put that blasted thing down! It’s only us!”

“To be fair, if it were I seeing you approach me mon cher , I would have already shot you.”

“You would miss and find yourself dead.”

“Enough!” Alistair shouted as loud as he dared, holstering his weapon and regripping Matthew’s thigh. “What the hell are the two of you doing out here?”

Arthur’s eyes had narrowed. “I could ask the same of you. I’ve been looking for you almost all night only to have your men inform me you decided to make a trip out into no man’s land.”

Alistair was about ready to shove Matthew’s limp form into his father’s arms. He nearly guffawed in disbelief. “Numpty-headed, fucking hackit old bastard- your son was left out there to rot! Said to yourself, ‘och, dinghy that cunt, he’ll be just right.’ did you?”

“I already told you that he would make his way back. He’s alive isn’t he?”

“Not when I fucking found him! You take one look at him and tell me he would have made his way back in one fucking piece!”

His heart was pounding again to where his chest hurt and he moved to shove past the two other nations when a hand on his shoulder stopped him, thin fingers gripping him lightly.

“How bad is he mon amour ?” Francis’s voice was the softest thing he’d heard in days. Up close, Alistair saw the extent of his fatigue. He should have been sleeping, not following his idiotic brother out into the darkness.

He chewed the inside of his cheek before speaking. “He might bleed out again before we get back, I don’t know. He’s been worse in this war.” He shot a dirty look at his brother. “The sooner we get back the better.”

Francis lead the way like a grey lady ethereally floating about a foggy moorland, before they left, he whispered once more in Alistair’s ear, “Glorious God, I protest to you, for you take away those I love; the same way you shaped Adam, protect him from the evil ties of the fire of Hell: let it burn him not, for this world misleads us.” A pause . “I heard it sung on the wind, a very old lament of grief. I feared the worst for you both.”

No one spoke the rest of the way to the familiar trench that had been home all summer and it wouldn’t be until after Matthew was safely deposited on a cot in medbay and seen to properly, did Alistair speak up.

“Why didn’t you tell me he could see them?” He was seated on the bed adjacent to his nephew’s, Francis at his side, while Arthur sat in a poorly put-together chair a short distance away. “Never thought that would be important information?”

“I knew he could as a child, I thought as he got older he lost the ability. He didn’t exactly talk to me about it.”

Alistair snorted. “Oh well, ain’t that the biggest mystery. The sensitive, dear lad doesn’t want to openly speak with his father who’s as emotionally available as a tree stump. No- I take it back. The trees listen to him just fine. You’re less available than a worm.”

“I could do without the sarcasm, thank you.” Arthur crossed his arms and leaned back in the creaking chair. He rocked back and forth as he collected his thoughts, drumming fingers over his forearm- ever the restless man that he was. “I saw the thing in your flare and we can only hope that your men didn’t see it. What the hell were you thinking firing that thing off? What if the Germans decided to do something about it? What if it went after your army instead of you?”

“You would have done the same. You know that there have been nasty creatures lurking about; as if the war itself wasn’t enough- they’re beasts from hell running amok. Have you heard what’s been prowling on the Eastern front? We aren’t the only ones with this problem. All of this-” He made a grand gesture with his arms spread. “Has been pissing off these old creatures, or at least, feeding them more than they’ve had for years. What do you think would happen if it caught us? If I hadn’t gone out there, Matthew very well could have been a victim. Gone- eaten. Missing for who the hell knows how long and his body would appear somewhere back in Canada. The lad’s messed up enough, you want him to have to go through a full reset on top of this crap?”

Arthur was quiet, shoulders that always seemed to be raised tensely slouched a little, but only those who could notice with a trained eye would catch it. Unfortunately, that would apply to the two men conscious in the room with him. “Why do you think I went out there after the pair of you? As soon as I saw that thing, I grabbed Francis and left running to find you.” He closed his eyes and let out a long breath.

“The rain might finally come,” Francis added, his shoulder faintly brushing Alistair’s in the dimly lit space. “It’ll make those terrible monsters flee and maybe end this damn stalemate. We need to get out of here before the storms really turn this place into a river of mud.”

Alistair sighed, the exhaustion of the night was finally catching up to him. He stood and gestured an accusing hand at Arthur. “If I even hear the lad trying to apologize to you, I will personally throw you over my shoulder, find one of those damned things and feed you to it myself.”

Matthew was as pale as the bedsheets but looked better than when Alistair had found him; he was going to be out of commission for at least a few days regardless of how well he was healing. Maybe he could try to convince him the monster was all part of a bad delusion brought on by blood loss and infection. Alistair wasn’t sure how much he would recall when he woke but it was certainly one of the last things he needed to remember.

Francis rose shortly after, brushing wrinkles from his coat as though it was a finely pressed suit. “We should all retire for the night- of what’s left of it at least. The sun will be up in a short while.” He placed a hand on Alistair’s chest. “Matthieu will be fine. He’s in good hands and recovers quite quickly in the grand scheme of things. He is young and strong; I did not give him a blessing from Mars for no reason.”

“As if you knew when he was a crying swaddle of soft cheeks and baby curls,” Arthur scoffed, rising from his chair. “If it helps you sleep and get you off my back, I won’t let the boy apologize. Now, if you can kindly step out of the way so I can return to my cot.”

The three left the medical space in silence, the creaking of the duckboards was a loud and unpleasant noise. As Arthur bustled out good nights and hurried away, Alistair leaned against one of the trench walls and pulled out the final cigarette in the pack he’d been holding onto for months.

He hadn’t realized his hands were trembling and struggling with the match until Francis had wrapped his hand around his. Carefully, the flame was lit and brought to the tip of the fag. Francis’s hands were steady as Alistair puffed out of a few clouds of smoke and the two stood shoulder to shoulder in the dark.

“Are you alright?”

The question hadn’t even crossed his mind. Was he? He hadn’t been hurt, thank the Lord, but his stomach still churned and he didn’t quite feel his whole self. The sounds of the demon echoed in his ears and the closing of his eyes sent flashes of its wicked features to his mind. His hands were clammy with sweat no matter how many times he attempted to wipe them on his coat. “Don’t waste your fret over me, I’m pure dead brilliant. I’m not the one who died.”

“You worry too much about him.”

“It feels like no one in the damn world does. He’s not even mine but what can you do when he got stuck with the two worst fathers around?”

Francis let out a depressive little chuckle. “I haven’t been soft with him since he was ma petite souris. ” He took the cigarette from Alistair’s lips and let out a slow breath. The smoke smelt sweet for a brief moment. “I hadn’t even realized he was out there, I thought he was sulking about somewhere else.” He puffed out one more circle of smoke before passing it back to Alistair. “Thank you for retrieving him. Arthur was more worried than you think. You should have seen his face when he came to get me. I haven’t seen him like that since Ypres. Even still, I think these months of getting nowhere are driving him absolutely up the wall. He’s been pacing about like a man possessed and wearing the wood out. He could dig graves with all his back and forth.”

“It’ll be over soon. It has to be after all these deaths.”

There were men coughing a short distance away, a groan of agony a little way in the other direction.

“I don’t think you’re right Alistair, not in the slightest.” He sighed longingly and every bit of his age could be seen and felt even in the lack of light. “I can feel in my bones that we still have a very, very long way to go.”

#hws canada #hws scotland #hws france #hws england #hetalia #historical hetalia #ace writes #posting this fic a second time #also i edited the tumblr version on mobile so #sorry if it looks weird anywhere

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charmtion · 1 year

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today is a good day but like all good days there are bits of bad. a friend I have worked with for the last 8 years is leaving our little haven & when has that not been bittersweet? it’s the dichotomy of life, esp. living in a seasonal town—our lives are dictated by the ebb & flow of the sea just as much as they are by the tide of tourism; things are transitory, fleeting, yet somehow rooted deep; we are swept away come summer by a mass collating & endlessly heaving, amidst it we stand shoulder-to-shoulder & we serve (teas, coffees, cakes, buckets of scalding water to soothe a weeverfish sting) & we scratch a living to survive, & so it is that there’s a camaraderie unique to seafront towns, our little ballasts of home & locality that far outlive the onslaught of new blood come the turning of the whitsun. for the people that visit perhaps we are blots in a book, a few lines in a diary to be reminisced on years later—that place you holidayed in so long ago; the quaint little streets, the waterfront shops, the boats bobbing, & the seagull that threatened to swoop away half your supper from its salt-stained paper, this feeling of time frozen & forever relaying the same stagnant loop; the faces that peopled that place, well they’re nameless figures for the most part, aren’t they? they are the barmaid with a nose-ring who seemed thoroughly unhappy to be serving you, counting down the hours till she can melt into the sunset with her friends & forget her troubles for a little while; they’re the fishermen moving along the quay, knotting rope, hauling nets, neatly coiling everything away for the next time the vessel pushes out to open water, placed like sketched shadows in a picture-book with an inner life you could never guess at; they’re figures in the background of photographs, bearing food or filling cups, or piloting a boat around at your pleasure; they pocket your money (stow it away for the winter; for the firewood when the grey winds sweep in) & provide a service—sometimes with a smile, sometimes not. but first & foremost they are the place; woven into its bricks, its stones, stretches of sand, shade-dappled pockets of woodland that exist in the hills & high places away from the noise, & there’s this bond here, there’s this bond between place & people that I’ve never felt so deeply elsewhere. we’re tied to this place; this place is tied to us. the waves that wash it are moon-drunk, seasonal, but we’re the weathered bits of rock that watch it all with an indulgent smile; sun-baked we endure & in the snow we sow our strength for the next summer—so when one of us leaves, when one of us is carried off to tread water on a separate tide it bites a little deeply at the bones of you; it bites & it lingers there till the next wave washes through & in the buzzing sweep of another summer you’ll look for a familiar shadow & find it gone but know it’s somewhere still, part of the same mirror-like pool in which you yourself are moored: a piece of driftwood picked up & apart by the same current that stirs it.

#tbd

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little-biscuit2 · 2 years

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about me & dni

PINNED

• Big age is 30, little age is 4-8 I think? she/her.

• My identities: female disabled, possible ASD, part of the posic community. I'm age dysphoric & part of the forever a kid/never grew up community too.

I'm mostly mute, except with special people.

• A little about my past: I'm an orphan, I've dealt with CSA & PTSD, and i have chronic fatigue & ARFID.

• About my "lovies": I collect stuffies (but I call them lovies a lot now) and some other toys. favorite kinds are: build a bear, ty classic & beanie buddies, vermont teddy bear, weighted/warmable I really like chonky bears with big bellies & bums. I'm really picky tho.

* Special interests: Lovies/teddy bears, music, animals, sticker collecting • Current hyperfixations: asmr, making clothes for my soft friends, nemo's dreamscapes on youtube, video games & coloring books

Favorite…

• Things: stuffies (or "lovies" I call them.), music, my pets, milky tea, baked oatmeal, forts, games, trees & forests, animals, zoos, quiet, comfort characters

• Shows/Movies: Kipper The Dog, Bear in the Big Blue House, 64 Zoo Lane, Wallace & Gromit, early Disney movies, Old Bear Stories, Guess How Much I Love You, Lily's Driftwood Bay, Wonder Pets, Ebb & Flo, Sarah & Duck, Little Bear, Percy The Park Keeper, Spot The Dog

• Animals: BEARS, lions, woodland animals

• Nicknames you can call me: "H" or "B", or Biscuit. Little one is okay too, if we become friends. Please don't call me "good girl".

• DNI: NSFW, traumacore, anti-agere, anti-self diagnosis, people who don't believe age dysphoria is real.

• Dislikes: most superheroes, lazytown, lots of sensory stuff, furby oddbodies

• Severe phobias: bats, taxidermy, mannequins, most men

• I don't mind minors interacting but please do not DM me. Asks okay!

• This space is SFW & a comfort place for me. I do not consent to K!nk interaction or anything nsfw.

#agere #agere about me

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amentireankhet · 2 years

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The World of Earth Witches

A witch means a wise woman, a healer. In Dark Ages, the word was widely misused by the Church, to condemn freethinking men & women with supernatural powers who helped heal others.

Magic is always intention based & it’s this intent that determines if the magick is good or bad. Most witches identify as eclectic, which means that they practice at least a few different kinds of magic.

I am writing this post because the concept of witchcraft is hyped as negative. Majority witches are light workers & earth healers. I dedicate this thread to them. 🙏🏽

1) Green Witch - Green witches are also known as garden/forest witches. They are deeply connected to the earth & draw their magic from the natural world. They incorporate earthly elements like herbs, plants, into their practice & enjoy study them. They also work with the Fae (Fairy realm).

2) Hedge Witch - Hedge witches are known for “flying” into spiritual world when they practice magic. “Hedge” is the boundary between this world & spirit realm. They perform small, daily domestic actions that make life easier for both them & others. They often focus quite a bit on the hearth, home & tend to partner with animals.

3) Kitchen Witch - They mainly practice magic in the kitchen. They use herbs, cooking, potions, & other types of recipes to concoct spells. Their power stems from the actual process of cooking or baking & the emotions they put into it.

4) Faery/Fae Witch - They connect with faeries at the most basic level. Faery witches love nature spirits, woodland creatures, trees, & the Fae. They invite all of these elements into their practice.

5) Divination Witch - They focus, on divination practices like Tarot, astrology, scrying, pendulum, meditation, etc. Many divination witches are eclectic as well, they enjoy incorporating divination practices into the craft.

6) Fire Witch - Draw power from fire. They love the element, or may have more success with fire spells such as candle spells, potions over an open flame, etc. As a fire witch, they are hot & fiery in nature. They like quick results which is exactly what fire spells bring them.

7) Sun Witch - They derive power from the sun. Spells that deal with new beginnings will be better to cast at sunrise, while banishing spells will have more power during sunset.

8) Lunar Witch - The moon represents emotions, water, & the subconscious, as well as powerful, deep magic. A moon witch, is very in-tune with lunar cycles & draws power from the cycles of the moon.

9) Storm Witch - They draw energy from crazy weather. They might have a preference for a specific type of storm or enjoy chaotic weather energy in general, but they will definitely feel more powerful & excited when the weather is tumultuous.

10) Sea Witch - A sea witch has a strong connection to water and to the ocean. Sea witches connect with ocean spirits & have an almost psychic connection with the sea. They may use sand, shells, driftwood, or even sea water to perform magic.

11) Swamp Witch - The swamp witch uses the healing elements of nature around them (especially mud) & develops their own strong magic through the intense emotions they feel surrounding society and expectations.

12) Elemental Witch - The hallmark of an element witch is incorporating the 4 elements (earth, air, fire, & water) into their practice. Elemental witches use the elements when casting spells; they may only use 1 element at a time or all 4.

13) Crystal Witch - They are deeply connected to the vibration & energetic power of crystals, gems, & stones. They use crystal altars to draw in energy to manifest.

14) Ancestral Witch - To be a hereditary or ancestral witch, one needs to have ancestors who were witches. Hereditary witches harness power from the spirits of their ancestors to perform magic.

15) Cosmic Witch - A cosmic witch is all about the sky. They look to astrology, astronomy, & the stars & moon. They incorporate energy from the stars in their practice & may especially like to study past life astrology. Some cosmic witches are starseeds & integrate practices from their home planet into the craft. They might connect with deities associated with the stars or formulate spells based on planets, the alignment of the stars, etc.

16) Chaos Witch - They draw power from chaos. They perform emotional, tumultuous magic. Their spells are fueled by energy that clashes. Chaos witches often perform magic with intense music, during storms, or even when they’re feeling a bit drained emotionally.

17) Ceremonial Witch - These witches are focused on the ritual of the craft and draw power from performing a ceremony that is meaningful. A ceremonial witch is part of a coven & will treat their ceremonial magic more as a religion. When you practice ceremonial magic (also known as traditional wicca), there isn’t always a clear distinction between “good spells” & “black magic” so your morals & knowledge will depend on the types of traditional ceremonies you follow.

18) Dianic Witch - They focus on the feminine. They usually worship the Roman goddess Diana, but can sometimes focus on all goddesses as the divine feminine is the most important aspect of Dianic witchcraft. Dianic witches practice a lot of meditation & visualization in addition to their magic. The focus of the practice is to heal inner wounds that these witches have received from the patriarchy.

19) Traditional Witch - They base their practice in very old magic, often known as the “Old Religion”. These witches do a lot of research & take a historical approach to their magical practice.

Other types - Secular, Urban/City Witch, Natural, Cottage Witch.

#AnkhetAmenti #consciousness #ascension #witch aesthetic #healing #spirituality #tarot #astrology

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riftcallergames · 2 years

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Driftwood Hollow Vignette Script

Feeling confident of the flow in this, but might make adjustments here and there after discussing with Lena. This is for a vignette teaser trailer for the project, which will feature the art style for painted backgrounds and the general vibe of the art direction.

Video begins on a blackout panel? Only sounds: Autumn's keys, morning songbird calls from the nearby woodland, getting into the car, a pause and Autumn talking to herself "Breathe. You can do this", the truck sputter and starts, tires on gravel and the music comes to the fore.

Drive begins in drier mountainside of Eastern Oregon, where the O'Hayes farm is located, starts in the morning hours.

Logging truck passes in the opposing lane as the red truck rounds the curve.

Straight section transitioning to a higher altitude and into the forest, use a yellow warning sign "Riftcaller Games presents".

Curving forest section as the truck continues along, no longer morning and the mist is clearing up.

At some point as the truck passes by at an uneven speed (side angle parallax??), text appears as the truck clears the frame "authored by Karina Weber & Lena Sorgenfrei", the day is wearing on.

Switchback curves as the ravine opens up to the Hollow below and distant ocean on the horizon, title drops upper-mid-left "Driftwood Hollow" moving down as the fade completes and the truck completes the descent, afternoon.

Below title "Chapter 1" fades in.

Support us on Patreon, reveal website address, hang there until the music completes.

I'll be storyboarding this out and will share the thumbnails as well~

{ originally posted to Patreon : May 2, 2021 }

#teaser trailer #script #writing #gamedev #behind the scenes #driftwood hollow #riftcaller games

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twistedeuphoria · 23 days

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Take me as I am I'm tired of dancing around the point Sharp and it is jagged Like the shape of glass and it steals my voice

Hair: SONYA. Babi Hairstyle Clothing: Tres Blah - Pearl Cardigan Tres Blah - Sierra Skirt - Fatpack OSMIA - Angel.Tank Top Prop & pose: GOYO. Erin pose (with headphones) (New! @ Anthology)

Scene: [Merak] - Cherry Recliner Chair Adult (New! @ kustom9)

New! @ Anthology [Merak] - Nomad Nest Bed - Adult 8f8 - Eclectic Living - MONSTERa Plant 8f8 - Eclectic Living - Plant Stand Tall 8f8 - Eclectic Living - Spider Plant James&Dew Sylvan Shades [Woodland Lamp] - Red Wood driftwood. Pennyfields Partition D. -Dark Brown

#kumuckyhara #second life #anthology #kustom9 #sonya hair #tres blah #osmia #goyo #merak #8f8 #james&dew #driftwood

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azvolrien · 1 month

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Fire and Water

I've wanted to go into a bit more detail about the mysterious Sea People for a little while now, and since I've established in supplementary materials that Roan's mother was one of them, that gave me a convenient jumping-off point for some conversation. Nothing graphic, but a few Implications about what life out in their islands is like.

~~~

It was a quiet night. The air was still, with only a light breeze stirring the sea; the water lapped gently at the sand, washing in and out without ever breaking into a proper wave. A far cry from a few nights before, when the sea had suddenly risen in a tide higher and faster than anyone could remember, engulfing small fishing villages all along the coast. There had been a prosperous harbour just a couple of miles to the south, but it was deserted now, houses inundated and boats crushed against the docks by the force of the water. Some of the people had survived, scrambling to higher ground and the roofs of those buildings sturdy enough to withstand the flood, but others would never be seen again. Already people were calling it the Great Wave.

Lorna sighed and added another twisted branch to the driftwood beacon before she sat back against the remnants of a swept-away dune and gazed up at the sky. There were no clouds that she could see, but the stars had a veiled, wavering look to them that night, in keeping with the dim, reddish tint that the sun had taken on all day. An owl flew soundlessly overhead, a pale shape in the gloom heading for the trees behind the dunes. Those had survived, at least; the dunes had taken the worst of the wave, sparing the woodland most of its fury.

Another while went by in silence before, at last, she heard the sounds she had been waiting for. The splash of oars, then the crunch of sand as the hull of a ship ran up on the beach. With a low groan of effort, leaning heavily on the staff Bruide had carved for her, Lorna got to her feet and squinted into the dark beyond the fire. If the wrong crew had spotted her beacon… But no, she was in luck. The long, sleek raiding ship drawn up on the sand looked much like any other from the Fire Islands, but its mast carried the black-and-white pennant of the Orca Clan. Even better, the prow was carved with stylised designs of the same animal, mixed in with rolling waves and running wolves. A second ship floated a little further from the beach, too far into the dark to make out many details but definitely bearing another Orca pennant.

One tall, powerfully-built woman vaulted over the ship’s rail and waded through the shallows to the beach. She carried no weapons except a short hatchet slung through her belt, but her pale face was marked with flowing tattoos in deep green ink, some fresh enough that the skin around them was still pink and raised, and a short mantle of thick, yellowing white fur was tied around her shoulders. Both marked her out as a raider captain, and the old bloodstains on the fur said that she was the latest in a long line of them. She drew closer to the fire, one suspicious hand on the axe at her hip, until finally she saw Lorna’s face.

“It is you!” she said, her grim look disappearing. “I didn’t think any of our crews had been stranded in these parts. How long has it been, little sister? Seven years? Almost eight? By the Deep, we’d given you up – thought for sure that the land-walkers would’ve got rid of you.” She stepped forwards, resting her hands on Lorna’s shoulders. “I don’t know what trouble you thought you were in back then, but that doesn’t matter any more – you’ve come to your senses now. You can come home and take your rightful place.” She paused. “Well, there’s no free benches on Sea Wolf,” she admitted, “but Whale Sister out there has a gap in her company that you’d be welcome to fill.” She sighed and ruffled Lorna’s hair. “It’s good to see you again, Sela.”

Lorna took a step back. “I don’t use that name any more, Vala. I’m not sailing away, not with you or with Whale Sister. I’m never, ever going back to the Fire Islands.”

“But- you lit a beacon?”

“I wanted to talk to you. That’s all. Just talk. I…” Lorna broke off. “With the wave earlier, and this haze in the sky… Something’s happened out in the Islands, hasn’t it? I suppose that… Well, you’re still my sister, whatever else happens. I wanted to know you were all right.”

Vala was silent for a few seconds, then took a deep breath. “So what name do you go by among the land-walkers?”

“‘Lorna’. My name is Lorna now.”

“‘Lorna’…” said Vala slowly, frowning. “Where did you get that from?”

“Never mind that.”

“Hm.” Vala squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “Grandfather is dead,” she said, opening them again. “Mother leads the clan now, sits in the keep in Hestvik. She passed Sea Wolf’s company on to me.” She waved behind herself, where a few other warriors from the ship had disembarked and were gathered on the sand.

“Grandfather is- how? Was he ill?”

Vala shook her head. “Grandfather, King Einarr, and most of the old clan-heads in the Islands with them. Se- Lorna. The King’s Island… It’s gone.”

“Gone?” echoed Lorna.

“The seer-priests knew something was going to happen,” said Vala. “The ground had been shaking, the mountain smoking. The King summoned the clan-heads for an assembly to prepare for an ashfall. You know the sort of thing – planning out a few mainland raids, hashing out some land- and thrall-rights on the other islands to help tide the clans over until the sky clears again.” She paused again and took another deep breath. “And while they were in the meeting-hall… We’d expected an ashfall, maybe some fire-flows. Instead, the whole mountain exploded.” Lorna swallowed and said nothing. Vala nodded. “The loudest roar I’ve ever heard. Maybe you even heard it from the mainland, it was that loud. An ash cloud like… Like nothing I’ve ever seen before, like it turned day to night. More rock than I’d ever imagined, blasted into the sky – the whole island just… What was that fancy word that skald-thrall used? You’ll remember. During that festival, years ago.”

“‘Obliterated’,” said Lorna quietly.

“That’s the one. All the way down to the water and beyond, just left a sort of ring of rock spikes sticking above the water. Sent that wave you saw, rushing out in all directions, before the sea came in to fill the space and started to boil, sending steam up to join the ash. If the rest of us hadn’t set up camp over on the next island… We were lucky to escape the wave as it was!” She closed her eyes again to compose herself. “So. Yeah. You wanted to know about the wave, and the sky? That’s what happened.”

“I… Gods, Vala. I know they’re the Fire Islands, but I never thought…”

“No, nobody did,” said Vala. She folded her arms. “So. You’re sure that’s a no on sailing with us?”

“It’s a no,” said Lorna firmly. She unbuttoned her heavy oilskin coat and pushed it back, resting one hand on her hip. “I’m blood-bound to the land now.”

Vala looked down at her belly, curving outwards beneath her knitted jumper. “…Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Who…?”

“My husband. His name is Euan. The baby’s due in another two months, give or take the odd week.”

“Euan. Not a name from the clans. A land-walker, then.”

“Of course.”

“Oh, Selaaa…” Vala raised one hand to her brow and dug her fingers into her hair. “A warrior, at least? So far as they have warriors on the mainland…”

“A shepherd,” said Lorna flatly.

Vala’s lip curled in distaste. “A thrall.”

“This isn’t the Islands,” said Lorna. “The people here aren’t split into warriors and thralls. Free people herd livestock and grow crops too.” She straightened her back, gripping the staff more tightly. “And if he were a thrall, so what? It wasn’t one of the warriors who saw how miserable I was in Hestvik and helped me to get out. It was a thrall from the fishing docks. Nobody in the Orca Clan would help – all they thought was that I was nervous about sailing on my first raid.”

“Mother had set aside a bench on Sea Wolf for you,” said Vala, smiling fondly despite herself.

“So all I got from the clan was ‘Oh, spend some more time in the training hall, you’ll feel more prepared after a few rounds with the weaponmasters’. Nobody listened when I tried to tell them that I didn’t want to be a raider, that I didn’t want to hurt people, to steal from them, to enslave them. Nobody but her. Somehow word had got down to the harbour that I wanted to leave – I don’t know how, maybe a servant heard me and passed it on. She helped me to take a boat, a small one, and sail away for good. Her name was Lorna. The gods know there was nothing else I could do to repay her.”

Vala glanced uncomfortably to one side.

“What?”

“Uh… Yes, Mother found out about her.”

“So she’s…”

“Very dead,” one of the other raiders cheerfully confirmed. “Slipway tithe for Whale Sister’s launch.”

“Shut up, Bjarni,” said Vala wearily.

“And I don’t suppose you spoke against it,” said Lorna after a brief, shocked silence.

Vala shrugged, folding her arms. “Oh, I’ve always thought it’s a waste of a working body, but you know how the priests get about the slipway tithe and paying the Deep’s dues. And… well, she was only a thrall, Sela.”

“My. Name. Is. Lorna.”

Vala stepped back at the look on her face. “…Lorna. All right.”

Lorna let out a snort like a bull about to charge and allowed her shoulders to relax slightly, but her scowl remained.

Vala went on, clearly having realised her misstep, if not completely understanding why it was one. “Where are you staying these days? Not here, I can tell – there’s not much grazing, if you’re herding sheep.”

“Euan’s family have a farm some way inland. A little fortified steading, up in one of the glens that lead north off the nearest sea loch.” She waved an arm in the right general direction. “The grazing’s decent there. His father usually gets a good price when it’s time to take the sheep down to the market.”

“Another shepherd.”

“He is now,” said Lorna. “But he was a bit of a warrior in his younger days. He said they used to call him Bruide the Brute, back when he was running with a sellsword band.”

Somebody gasped back among the raiders on the beach, but Vala just nodded. “That’s something, at least. And… You’re happy among the land-walkers? Up the valley with your shepherd?”

“Happier than I ever was in Hestvik.”

Vala shook her head, smiling ruefully. “I don’t pretend I’ve ever understood you,” she said. “But… I am glad you’re doing well. Look, I’ll keep Sea Wolf out of your loch on our raids, how’s that?”

“I suppose that’s as much as I can hope for,” muttered Lorna.

Vala reached forwards again, paused for the briefest instant, and patted her shoulder. “Maybe it’s for the best,” she said. “You never did do very well in the training hall, eh? Go back to your farm, little sister. Herd your sheep. Birth safely, and wait out the winter. If you need me – well, you remember how to make a beacon.”

Lorna nodded. “Goodbye, Vala.”

Vala nodded back and turned away, shouting for the ship to head back to sea. One of the raiders – not Bjarni – paused, giving Lorna a strange look, before one of his fellows grasped his arm and they all gathered to shove Sea Wolf back off the sand into deeper water, scrambling back aboard once the ship was floating again. Vala took her place at the tiller, raising a hand in a final farewell as the others ran out the oars. Before long, both Sea Wolf and Whale Sister had disappeared into the dark.

Lorna sighed, kicked sand over the last embers of the beacon, and trudged away from the sea to her tent behind the dunes.

When dawn came, she packed up the tent and began the walk home to the steading. It was a long one – she would have to camp for another night before she got there – but not particularly strenuous. The track of packed earth and scattered gravel was mostly on the flat, following the bank of Loch Dubh inland until, just after the small lochside town of Inverbeg, a side-road turned inland and sloped gently upwards into the glen. Although it was still cold, barely a month after Midwinter, only a few patches of snow lingered in sheltered spots and the road was clear. Lorna paused to catch her breath on an arched stone bridge over the river, gazing up the glen towards a thin plume of smoke in the distance. She smiled and kept walking until, near sunset on the second day since leaving the beach, the steading came into view, perched atop a small rise above the river. A sturdy stone wall about eight feet tall protected the main house at the highest point, while a bank of earth and a wooden palisade encircled the farmyard with its byre, storage sheds and other outbuildings. The gates were still open as she approached; Bruide was outside, leading a small, shaggy pony carrying panniers filled with blocks of freshly-cut peat towards one of the sheds.

“That’s you back from your stroll, then,” he said when he noticed her. He pulled back the bar securing the shed door and began to carry the peat inside. “Find what you were looking for?”

“More or less,” said Lorna. “The staff was useful, thank you.” She cast an eye around the farmyard. “How are we doing for winter feed?”

“Well enough for this time of year. Why?”

“I think… Winter will be a bit longer than usual. You’ve noticed about the sky, and heard about the Great Wave.”

“Aye, I have.” Bruide glanced upwards. The sunset was an unusually vibrant shade of red. “Hm. Might have to sell off a few o the flock to buy fodder for the rest, but we’ll survive. Wouldnae be the first long winter I’ve seen. Now, I willnae tell you to help in your condition, but if you could lend a hand wi a few o the wee blocks…”

Lorna chuckled. “Don’t worry, old man, I’ll help you out.”

“Cheeky besom,” said Bruide with a smile, the old blue tattoos on his face crinkling with his laugh lines. “Here’s a wee one for you.”

“Where’s Euan?” asked Lorna once they had finished stacking the peat and seen to the pony.

“Och, he’s away up in the top pasture. One o the yowes has a bad foot – he wanted to see if that salve you picked up does it any good. Should be back down in time for tea – couple o the bairns from the next croft are lending him a hand taking the sheep in for the night. Morag’s got a stew going.”

Lorna smiled again. Bruide’s wife was an excellent cook. “I’m sure the smell will lure him in if he’s lost track of time.”

“Aye, that’s the plan. Anyway, away in out o the cold. We can crack on wi some o the mending while tea’s on the go.” Bruide locked the storage shed behind them and walked up to the house, pausing to kick the worst of the mud from his boots on the metal scraper by the door before he hung his long woollen cloak with its wolfskin mantle up in the porch. Lorna hung her coat on the hook beside it and followed him in to the main room, where a pile of torn clothes and old sheets awaited their attention. Morag, busy in the kitchen, peered through the door and jabbed her wooden spoon pointedly towards the sewing basket before she returned her attention to the stew-pot.

Bruide stirred the fire with an iron poker, settled in his armchair by the hearth, and selected a worn sock from the top of the pile and a needle and spool of thread from the basket. “C’mon, then, lass,” he said with a grin. “I’ll race you.”

Lorna sat down in the next chair and picked up a tunic with a tear under one arm. “It’s only fair if we measure it by number of stitches,” she said. “If we go by things mended, you always win by grabbing all the little ones first!”

Bruide stuck his tongue out. “You’re just jealous I’m faster at sewing.”

“Just fix them!” shouted Morag from the kitchen.

Bruide and Lorna shared a glance, gave a snort of laughter in perfect unison, and began their mending. A while later, when the sun had disappeared behind the hills but the sky had not yet lost all its light, Euan finally got back from the pasture and Morag called everyone through to the dining table once the gates were locked for the night.

Outside, a gentle snow began to fall.

~~~

Yeah, that guy who looked back? He's important.

The Sea People - who don't, I think, even have a collective name for themselves; they're just 'the clans' as far as they're concerned - are pretty used to volcanoes. As the name implies, they get quite a few eruptions out in the Fire Islands. Unfortunately, they'd gathered to prepare for an Eyjafjallajökull, and got a Krakatoa instead.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

#az writes stories

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mandyjane-lifedesign · 5 months

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CHRISTMAS GIFT IDEAS: Give your loved one fine art for Christmas – that’s fun, useable and sensibly-priced

Wondering what to get that special someone for Christmas? Want to get them something different, aesthetically pleasing but still affordable? Driftwood Designs has the gift you’re looking for. Driftwood Designs beautifully incorporates the work of Welsh artist and illustrator Lizzie Spikes. Her passion is creating colourful illustrations that can be translated to homewares, cards, prints and so much more. This means her art can be incorporated into people’s everyday lives in the form of practical objects such as oven gloves, lamp shades, coasters, aprons and even clocks. Lizzie and her business partner Becky Barratt are both native to Wales and their love of home and the Welsh coastline and countryside is evident in many of the designs. Driftwood Designs has grown from a home-based business to three shops across Wales, that are as popular with locals as they are with tourists. Driftwood Designs also has an online shop, which is packed to the rafters with gift ideas. In case you are wondering where to begin, we’ve pulled out a few stars of the show to get you started: MUSHROOMS TIN SIGN You can purchase Lizzie’s art on various materials from posters to framed prints, canvas to – this little gem - the tin sign. Reminiscent of days long gone, tin signs are trending again and every home should have one. The mushrooms tin sign from Driftwood Designs has illustrations of 27 different types of mushroom, toadstool and fungi with an identification list at the bottom. Perfect for your loved one’s kitchen wall if they like to cook, or even forage for, mushrooms. And if fauna is more their bag than flora, the sheep tin sign is another similarly fun design. Measures 203 x 151mm RRP: £10.00 Website: https://driftwooddesigns.co.uk/shop/products/mushrooms-small-tin-sign/ WOODLAND OVEN GLOVES The Driftwood range of oven gloves features some quirky designs, including illustrations of well-known Welsh seaside towns and beautiful countryside designs. For something really special and unique, the Woodland Oven Gloves are a great gift for your favourite cook. The vibrant colours and gorgeous design are bound to be a conversation starter for any nature lover. RRP: £25.00 Website: https://driftwooddesigns.co.uk/shop/products/woodland-oven-gloves/ DAFFODIL BAG Think Wales, think daffodils and this beautiful design will appeal to lovers of that beautiful country and those who are still to visit. With the vibrant flowers catching the eye in the foreground and the rolling hills in the background, this idyllic rural scene will look great over the shoulder of your friend or relative as they go about their day-to-day lives. These are part of a matching range, including tea-towels, mugs, aprons and even a lampshade, meaning you can help them build their collection at each special occasion. RRP: £15.00 Website: https://driftwooddesigns.co.uk/product-category/all-homewares/bags-all-homewares/ SUNSET AND STARLINGS LAMPSHADE For a more extravagant gift, the Driftwoods Design lightshades offer another unique treat that would look fabulous in any room and definitely stand out from the crowd. In particular, Lizzie’s lovely Sunset and Starlings design has been printed onto fabric, so the lampshade can be hand-finished to order in the Driftwood Designs workshop. The vibrant autumnal colours are eye catching and soothing and your favourite home-body will love it! RRP: £62.00 Website: https://driftwooddesigns.co.uk/shop/products/sunset-and-starlings-lampshade/ CARDS AND STOCKING FILLERS With such fabulous designs at accessible prices, you may want to stock up on the some of the gorgeous Christmas cards available too. With illustrations ranging from traditional Welsh, idyllic snowscapes, cutesy villages, seasonal seafronts and good old fashioned traditional Christmas scenes, your recipient will put your card in pride of place, knowing it’s a cut above the rest. And with Driftwood Designs being so sensibly priced means you can stock up on some fabulous stocking fillers or even your secret Santa surprise. For under £5 you can get magnets, badges, notebooks, coasters, car stickers, badges and keyrings. And while they are low on price they are high on style, showcasing Lizzie’s signature panache. Image: Calon Coasters.png Photo by freestocks on Unsplash featured image. Read the full article

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acemapleeh · 1 year

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I posted 2,196 times in 2022

That's 2,001 more posts than 2021!

274 posts created (12%)

1,922 posts reblogged (88%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@kitaychan

@hetaari

@hetagrammy

I tagged 1,909 of my posts in 2022

Only 13% of my posts had no tags

#art - 774 posts

#hws england - 390 posts

#hws america - 346 posts

#hws canada - 325 posts

#hws france - 211 posts

#ace twaddles - 121 posts

#writing - 80 posts

#hws scotland - 75 posts

#hws netherlands - 57 posts

#hws russia - 55 posts

Longest Tag: 136 characters

#changing his knitting from alfred's sweater to matt but i bet even after everything matt will be able to tell it was not meant to be his

My Top Posts in 2022:

Come Ashore for Rack and Ruin

Summary: In the midst of the Battle of the Somme, an ancient horror has decided to show its ugly face on the battlefield and Matthew is somewhere out in the fog. Alistair goes to find his nephew.

Characters: Scotland, Canada, France, England

Word Count: 5282

Warnings: Temporary Character Death, Graphic Description of Gore

Read on ao3

Late Summer of 1916, North-Central Somme, France

Matthew was out there somewhere.

The lad was lucky that he hadn’t been found by Gilbert or his brat of a brother.

He was going to scout it out alone.

Securing his helmet on his matted red curls and kit firmly to his side, he climbed out of the ditch, his belly and out of regulation beard down in the detritus and rubble.

Matthew was always hard to find in these situations.

His brother’s children though?

Arthur smelt of the sea and rain-soaked woodland.

Dylan, a hedgerow in spring and driftwood.

Morgan of seaside morning dew and buttery furze.

Himself, blooming heather and an ocean storm.

The air felt heavy as he shifted through the scattered remains, feeling uneasy with every step until he eventually had to stop to get back into sorts.

Something was amiss in the deepest parts of the fog.

A dim red light briefly lit up the night.

His breath stuck in his throat.

It took every muscle fiber to keep his arm raised, to not drop the flaregun and bolt the other direction.

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100 notes - Posted July 21, 2022

Arthur Home Headcanons

Minimalism? What’s that? This man has stuff everywhere in his home. Cluttercore

He is entirely guilty of reusing containers that don’t match what’s inside. Have you see English tea tins? He has a cabinet dedicated to them but it’s anyone’s guess as to what’s actually inside. He has a separate cabinet that has actual tea and the works. This tin was the limited edition Christmas English breakfast from 1962, of course I can’t get rid of it. That was a gift from Matthew in 2003, he’d be devastated if I tossed it in the bin. He may not even remember the reason for one but thinks if he holds onto it, it’ll eventually come to him.

I’m not even touching his collection of teacups and mugs.

His house is in good, clean condition. I want to make that clear. He just has trouble when it comes to change. If something breaks, it may stay that way for a while because the manufacturer who made it isn’t around anymore. Arthur will attempt to fix it himself but he’s no expert. He’s ruined things in his attempts so he’ll leave them to gather dust. He’s had a bread cutter from before World War II that’s rusted and the cutting board desperately needs a cleaning but he hasn’t gotten around to it.

If he absolutely must swallow his pride, he’ll ask Alistair to fix something he’s particularly found of.

His home in London isn’t his original one from a few hundred years back. The townhouse that was a relic of the Victorian/ Georgian era was all blown the rubble in the Blitz. He’s moved to East London to try to stay a little in the time capsule that’s formed there.

Really losing his home in the war was something that took years to get past but really, he hasn’t. He had saved what he could but the armchair from 1754 that he’d replaced the cushions of numerous times, the entirety of the library, and things one man alone just couldn’t pull from the flames were all silently mourned for.

The newer residence is honestly far less of a death trap and perhaps losing the old one was a blessing in disguise.

Still very much has the “nice” living room for guests and more formal affairs and the much more lived in one where the clutter really has gotten out of hand. Aside from his study that is.

His main residence is that townhome in Spitalfields.

He hates purging. He’ll constantly say he’s in the process of it whenever company is over to excuse any clutter or mess. Sorting through books, seeing if any the shops or museum will take. Going through clothes again that fill the closet even though he rotates the same handful of things.

Has the same spoon he’s been stirring his tea with for over seventy years. The bottom is completely flat. He’s been gifted a new one but he hasn’t taken it out of the drawer quite yet.

Similarly, he was gifted an electric kettle one year but in a drunken state on pure muscle memory, he put it on the stovetop. He’s been gifted a new one and is much more mindful on where he keeps it.

Please stop giving this man new things for his kitchen.

You want to talk museum, you go to his centuries old countryside manor. The land was gifted to him in the 14th century during the Hundred Years War in Suffolk. Perfectly isolated. He’s owned homes and land before, mind you, but this was his first private manor that he’s built upon and had full control over.

The clutter did get out of control during his early archaeology days and he’s been very carefully going through things so they go to the proper place. He has returned things and is trying to make amends.

Some rooms, not all, have those ugly, Victorian wallpaper ceilings.

It’s a hodgepodge of just, so many different eras.

You never know what you’re going to find when you open just about anything. Books? He uses just about whatever was near him at the time as a bookmark. Drawer? Funeral lockets from his children and lovers. Some things haven’t been touched in ages and look like they’ll fall apart if you do so much as breath on them.

There are a lot of rooms here and each one of them of themed to his design. The rooms his children lived in still very much reflect that they were once a part of his home.

Used to throw very elaborate parties here as well as a funeral or five.

Please be careful because this house is not child friendly. All of his weapons and armor are proudly on display in the halls.

There’s little projects scattered around the house that you’ll find pieces of.

This is the house that has the majority of his more precious items. Between the first Great Fire of London and the Blitz, he moved whatever he could fit in that home.

His third home I’ll mention is a smaller cottage in the North Midlands. It’s simple, really meant for one or two people at the most. This is his get away from it all.

Stunning garden and his absolute pride and joy. The fae watch over this one since he’s unable to tend to it most of the year. They get to reside in the home and take care of it even when he’s present.

Least modernized than a majority of his homes. Still has electricity and running water but no television for example.

The Victorian era really defined what his home would be like going forward. Of course, things were deadly so in his newer versions of the home, the authentic arsenic soaked wallpaper has been replaced with replicas.

121 notes - Posted January 8, 2022

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please enjoy this stupid compilation of instagram memes about our favorite dysfunctional anglo family

148 notes - Posted April 14, 2022

Throughout Victorian England, mourning jewelry was used as a tribute or memento to remind the wearer about their love for the person they had lost. Hair was very commonly used in these pieces as it did not decay and represented a love everlasting.

Though Arthur knew his sons would return from death, there was still deep grief and sadness in times they were lost.

Featured here are two funeral lockets in his possession.

Select here for Charlie’s and Jack’s

The first is inscribed, ‘My dear son’s spirit hath fled the 17th of September 1862. Alfred Fortenay Jones.’

The lock of hair was acquired shortly after the Battle of Antietam in the American Civil War. Though the pair was not on speaking terms at this time, Arthur would still quietly mourn times he knew his eldest son had met with Death. He asked his second son, Matthew, that upon checking his brother, should he have perished in battle, to please bring home a lock of hair with him. Arthur wished for a keepsake of his son, to hold onto a hope he wouldn’t speak aloud for his son to live. But in case the war were to end in disaster, he would have something of Alfred’s he could hold onto if he were to return to the Earth.

The second reads, ‘My dear son fell asleep the 27th of April 1842. Matthew Marc Jean-Luc Williams.’

Disease is never an easy way to die. Arthur held Matthew’s hand as he succumbed to consumption, the first time the young man had a disease take him. Arthur would swear that his son never quite looked the same after this took place. His eyes always tired and sunken, skin pale, and just a little too thin. Perhaps he always looked this way and it wasn’t until after this wasting disease did he notice. He had almost lost his son a handful of times in the past to other illnesses but each time he would recover. Not even Arthur himself could escape this dreadfully romantic plague. How quiet Matthew was when he died, quieter still upon awakening. Arthur knew he would return, despite all the turmoil in Quebec some years ago- he had to believe his son would live to see another day.

171 notes - Posted March 15, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Pls tell me more about your universe where nations are public and are public meanaces to society. I think it would be super funny,

I haven't really incorporated the idea in any fics or anything, but realistically speaking, nations have got to be known in the public eye. I know when I first started writing for the fandom, I read one fic where nations were considered top secret so I sort of followed in suit for the longest time. Now, the idea of them being very well known and figure heads is hilarious. It also makes more sense canon wise (but like who cares about following canon).

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549 notes - Posted November 6, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #there's something about the stupid memes being my best post that like #doesn't surprise me #doesn't feel super good but also like #getting that many notes on a hetalia post feels pretty okay #idk my third is fucking instagram video meme so like #who am i to really say

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gokitetour · 5 months

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12 Beautiful Places to Visit in Georgia

Georgia is a treasure trove of varied landscapes, rich history, and Southern charm, nestled in the heart of the American South. Every tourist may find a diverse range of experiences in the state, from the bustling metropolitan bustle of Atlanta to the cobblestone lanes of old Savannah. Beyond Georgia's busy cities is the tranquil embrace of the Blue Ridge Mountains, where the state's natural splendour is seen year-round.

Visitors may experience the charm of the Alps in Helen, a fanciful Bavarian hamlet nestled into the mountains, and discover unspoiled seaside paradises at Cumberland Island and Jekyll Island. Atlanta, the state's capital, invites exploration of its cultural icons and gastronomic delights by skilfully fusing modernism with a genuine Southern welcome. Georgia promises to take you on a trip through time and nature, whether your preference is for the historic charm of Dahlonega's gold rush past or the peace of Callaway Gardens.

Every region of Georgia has its own tale to tell, from the untamed grandeur of Providence Canyon to the creative vibrancy of Athens to the blossoming cherry trees of Macon. Get ready to experience the enchantment that makes Georgia a dream destination for all travelers as you set off on a tour across these 12 breathtaking locations.

Here are some beautiful places to visit in Georgia.

1. Savannah: A Historic Gem: This quaint city with antebellum architecture, historic squares, and cobblestone streets is tucked away along Georgia's coast. Experience the rich history and southern friendliness of the city by strolling down River Street, visiting the Mercer-Williams House, or exploring Forsyth Park.

2. Atlanta: Dynamic Urban Hub: Atlanta, the state's vivacious capital, is a humming city that successfully combines modernism with Southern charm. Visit the Martin Luther King Jr. National Historic Site, take a tour of the Georgia Aquarium, or attend a game at the storied Mercedes-Benz Stadium. The city has a wide range of retail opportunities, gastronomic delights, and cultural encounters.

3. The Blue Ridge Mountains: A Masterpiece of Nature: Go away and enjoy the peace of North Georgia's Blue Ridge Mountains. Explore the breathtaking scenery of Amicalola Falls State Park, trek the Appalachian Trail, or just take in the breathtaking scenery. Fall is the ideal time of year for nature enthusiasts to visit since the leaves turn into an amazing painting of hues, including red, orange, and yellow.

4. Helen: A Bavarian Escape: In the charming village of Helen, you may go to the Alps without ever leaving Georgia. This little community, tucked up in the mountains, evokes the essence of a Bavarian alpine landscape. In this quirky and colourful town, take pleasure in the charming stores, go tubing down the Chattahoochee River, and enjoy German food.

5. Jekyll Island: Coastal Tranquillity: Visit Jekyll Island for a tranquil seaside getaway. This barrier island is home to the famous Jekyll Island Club Resort, immaculate beaches, and maritime woodlands. Discover Driftwood Beach, pay a visit to the Georgia Sea Turtle Center, and take in this pristine coastal gem's natural splendour.

6. Cumberland Island: Wild Beauty: Visit Georgia's biggest barrier island, Cumberland Island, for a real getaway. This National Seashore, which is only reachable by ferry, has undeveloped beaches and is a sanctuary for animals. Take in the peace and quiet of this pristine sanctuary, explore the remains of Dungeness, or go birding.

7. Macon: The Cherry Blossom Capital: Known as the Cherry Blossom Capital of the World, Macon is a charming city with springtime cherry tree blossoms. For a dose of seasonal beauty, take a stroll around the historic area, visit the Ocmulgee National Monument, and don't miss the annual Cherry Blossom Festival.

8. Callaway Gardens—Botanical Bliss: Tucked away among Pine Mountain's undulating slopes, Callaway Gardens is a haven for nature lovers. Take a leisurely stroll around the gorgeous gardens, experience an exciting treetop adventure at the TreeTop Adventure Course, or unwind by the lake. This is a sanctuary for plant enthusiasts with its beautiful scenery and varied vegetation.

9. Athens—College Town Charm: Athens, the home of the University of Georgia, is a vibrant college town with a thriving arts and culture community. Explore the energetic downtown area, pay a visit to the Georgia Museum of Art, and take in a live show at the storied Georgia Theatre. Athens is a must-visit location because of its vibrant artistic scene and unique culture.

10. Dahlonega: Gold Rush Heritage: Travel back in time to Dahlonega, the site of the 1828 gold rush, which was the first significant event in American history. Take a tour of an underground gold mine, see the Dahlonega Gold Museum, and stroll around the quaint town canter with its array of shops and stores. Dahlonega is a special place to visit because of its history and small-town charm.

11. The Little Grand Canyon, or Providence Canyon: Providence Canyon State Park, sometimes called Georgia's "Little Grand Canyon," is an incredible natural treasure. Colourful canyons have been carved out by erosion, offering hikers and nature lovers a distinctive terrain. For a unique experience, make your way down into the canyon or explore the rim paths.

12. Tybee Island: A Coastal Paradise: Tybee Island, which lies near Savannah, is a tranquil coastal paradise with immaculate beaches and a laid-back vibe. Take in water sports, relax by the sea, or scale the historic Tybee Island Light Station. The charm and scenic splendor of the island make it the ideal conclusion to your journey in Georgia.

Your trip across Georgia's 12 stunning locations comes to an end as the sun sets, leaving a tapestry of heart-wrenching memories in its wake. Georgia provides a wide range of experiences, from the historic elegance of Savannah to the mountain embrace of the Blue Ridge. Every place you visit, whether you've strolled around Helen's cobblestone alleys or found peace on Tybee Island's serene beaches, adds a unique chapter to your travel narrative.

Those who have been dreaming about the beauty of Georgia from a distance may find that booking Georgia holiday packages from Delhi is the best way to discover this southern treasure. This state is alluring not just because of its gorgeous scenery but also because it offers a glimpse into the essence of Southern hospitality and cultural diversity. Georgia's character is permanently etched on your trip map, whether you are thinking back on your experiences in the bustling streets of Atlanta or the peaceful surroundings of Cumberland Island.

Ultimately, Georgia appeals not only as a location on a map but also as an accumulation of fleeting moments, an experience-laden symphony awaiting replay. When planning your next vacation, think about Georgia holiday packages. Let the hospitality of the South and the breathtaking scenery inspire a feeling that will last long after your trip is over.

#Georgia Holiday packages from Delhi #Georgia Holiday packages from Mumbai

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