#Black-eared Sparrow-Lark

[alonglistofbirds]

[1112/10977] Black-eared Sparrow-Lark - Eremopterix australis

Order: Passeriformes Suborder: Passeri Superfamily: Sylvioidea Family: Alaudidae (larks) Genus: Eremopterix (sparrow-larks)

Photo credit: Bruce Ward-Smith via Macaulay Library

#birds #Black-eared Sparrow-Lark #Passeriformes #Passeri #Sylvioidea #Alaudidae #Eremopterix #birds a to z #undescribed

[llumimoon]

Introducing a very important side character and the big bad villain in the EAH au!!!!

Nicky being a bunny rabbit is ABSOLUTELY a running gag in the story btw Lark is fucking fuming and beefing with what appears to be just a normal ass bnuuy and its so funny. its SO funny.

Willy does play the role of the previous Evil Queen before Scary so here he is imprisoned his Magic (Doodler) Mirror that he will totaaaallly stay trapped in. mhm. definitely will not trick someone into breaking him out. (I am lying he definitely gets out)

A small section of the Nicky Bunny Rabbit Saga btw:

Also new Wonderlandian development lead to this

(AU by @rindomness, @kaseyskat, & I!)

Image description under the cut !!

[ID: Image 1: Ever After High AU Nicky Close posed with one hand up holding a pocket watch and the other hand hesitantly raised by his waist. He is labeled with the text ‘The White Rabbit’ and there is a word bubble that says ‘can transform into a bunny!’ And an arrow pointing to a white bunny in the bottom left of the image. The bunny has a pink bow and two piercing on an ear that match the piercings on Nicky’s bunny ears on his humanoid form. His humanoid form is wearing a light blue striped tailcoat with a white shirt underneath with the sleeves rolled up and a pink bow. He has large white gloves with pink toe beans on them and dirty white pants with various white belts and buckles and pink and blue knee patches and a pink sash belt with a bow on the left side. The pants are tucked into blue and pink buckled boots with white rabbit feet sticking out at the ends. He has three extra pocket watches on a belt loop and the pocket watch in his hand is open to show the time and a locket picture on the other side of Sparrow Oak dressed as Snow White.

Image 2: An ornate mirror is in the center of the image. The frame of the mirror is made up of intricate black swirls reflecting purple, blue, and red light from around it. The mirror has four eye shaped gems, the biggest one being a red eye at the top and the other gems being smaller and about the same size on the left, right, and bottom of the mirror. The gems are emitting a glow corresponding to their color. The glass of the mirror is shattered and is giving off a purple glow. Willy Stampler dressed as the Evil Queen is smirking and is trapped inside the mirror with his eyes glowing purple. The mirror is surrounded by purple particles and sparkles.

Image 3: A discord screenshot of messages in a server between ‘rin (doodler gender)’, ‘hero enthusiast (cal)’, ‘sparrow enjoyer’, and ‘hermie apologist (silver)’. Rin says ‘POTENTIALLY WEEKS!’ And ‘lark at some point going is this actually nicky. Is this actually nicky or am I legitimately just beefing with a real rabbit this wonderland kid picked up. did i fool myself’ then Cal and Nyx (who is ‘sparrow enjoyer’) both send keysmashes and Cal says ‘is this nicky or is this some random bunny who hates me specifically’ then Rin sends 'EXACTLY' and Silver sends ‘LMAO’ and Rin sends ‘did i piss off some other bunny-related person. what is this. what is happening. The exact opposite of nicky forgetting he could go rabbit mode when he first started keeping an eye on the kids for sparrow is him staying bunny mode MUCH MUCH MUCH MUCH LONGER THAN IS NECESSARY OR REALLY USEFUL’

Image 4: A doodle of EAH AU Taylor ‘s head with bunny ears and an excited smile in red next to EAH AU Hermie’s head with a mischievous sharp teeth grin and cat ears in pink. The top of the image says ‘Update:’ while under the sketches Taylor is labeled ‘half white rabbit’ and Hermie is labeled ‘half cheshire cat’. /end ID]

#dndads #dndads s2 #dungeons and daddies #dungeons and daddies season 2 #eah dndads au #cal draws #nick close #nicholas foster #nicky freeman #willy stampler #hermie unworthy #taylor swift dndads #btw im gonna do a post w/ all the kiddad designs at some point #i feel like 80% of this AU is us bullying the fuck out of Lark. its hilarious to me #yeah this au is lovesong too which means Nicky and Sparrow are a thing. which makes the Lark and Nicky beef SO MUCH FUNNIER IMO #also btw Hermie immediately clocks that the rabbit is Nicky but plays along with it for the bit #Scary is the only one who doesn't know who he is shes more preoccupied with other thinfs #(at this point in time Normal is missing and they're trying to deal with Willy. its a lot) #and YEAHHHH the doodler does play a part in this au #idk what you expected from me the doodler guy and rin also the doodler guy #doodles is some Entity that was used to trap Willy in the mirror it is what makes the mirror magical #so when the mirror breaks . in a way doodles is also freed. but not completely #we WERE also gonna release it until we realized how op having the doodler would be so we were like okay nvm u need to do some other shit #to fully release it #when working on nicky i was using my usual nicky colors aka blue and red #and then i realized hes the WHITE rabbit #so i lightned everything up to be pastel and BOOM now hes trans colored. hes the trans bnuuy #hes kinda sillayyyy #hermie and nicky r truly the ones making this shit a comedy. otherwise it would probably be a horror #also scam is the cheshire cat. we realized kitty and her mom's dynamic fit hermie and scam VERY well and ran with it

[abeinginsand]

One Last Chance (small Ep 47 inspired comic) Text: Sometimes you hug people, not because you expect them to hug you back. But, because, it might be...your last chance. [Summarized description in ALT, more detailed below]

[ID: A five panel comic showing scenes from episode forty seven of dungeons and daddies podcast season two. It is on a tan background and has black panel borders plus mostly black text. The text has a soft white behind it so it stands out against the background. The phrase of Sometimes you hug people is written at the top of the canvas. The first panel is below it and shows Lark off to the left side with a hand reaching out slightly to his twin and father. Sparrow is hugging a surprised and tense Henry while closing his eyes. The trio is near a set of four identical trees and the background is a green to black gradient. The next two small panels placed side by side show a close up of the hug with Henry hesitating to hug Sparrow back. The background is dark gray around them. The other panel shows a crying Normal hugging tightly to Hermie who lays still half laying in the teen's lap. There are scars on the half of Normal's body and Hermie has a bullet wound with red covering the spot of their sweater vest over their heart. Their hair is lose and the white ribbon they usually wear is now in one of Normal's hands. The background is red around them. The words above these panels say "not because you expect them to hug you back" as a continuation of the other words. Under the panels the sentence continues with a "but because it might be your last chance". The final two panels placed above the last chance shows Mercedes ashes in a blue vase that looks vaguely earth colored with white flowers and vines. Her photo is nearby and the vase has the same necklace she has in her photo. The panels are split by a diagonal cut with the next panel showing the sun rising and the flower covered fresh grave for Hermie at the lightning struck tree. End ID.] Other Note: +Decided to color this a bit differently for fun. Also, +May be hard to see but Henry is wearing Mercedes' earrings. +My Hermie usually wears a white ribbon in their hair, and I will most likely draw Normal wearing it in the future.

#dndads #dndads fanart #dndads s2 spoilers #dndads spoilers #lark oak garcia #lark oak #sparrow oak garcia #sparrow oak #henry oak #henry oak garcia #mercedes oak garcia #normal oak swallows garcia #normal oak #hermie unworthy #hermie the unworthy #abeinginsand art tag #art #blood cw #cw blood #tw blood #blood tw #blood

[serikyl]

#dndads #dungeons and daddies #lark oak #lark oak garcia #sparrow oak garcia #sparrow oak #mercedes oak garcia #henry oak garcia

[ithinkdogshouldvote2]

Dndads Headcanons, season 2 kiddads and teens (appearance based)

the order of the kiddads from tallest to shortest is: terry jr, sparrow (by like half an inch), lark, grant, nick (but none of them are really all that short)

Lark, sparrow, and nick all have their ears pierced but sparrows holes closed up and he didn't wanna relive the traumatic experience of re-piercing them, while larks have gotten infected so many times he just stopped trying.

Terry dresses like a substitute teacher literally every day of this fucking life.

Sparrow is almost always wearing a bathrobe or a comfy cardigan. He dresses like a mixture of a female therapist and a deranged housewife.

Lark dresses like he's in the walking dead

Nick has a frankly absurd amount of Christmas sweaters and it's VERY obvious which ones are from Glenn.

Grant has curly hair.

both lark and sparrow need glasses. sparrow wears his when he needs them, but Lark never wears them because they make him look like henry.

terry jr also wears glasses and started wearing rons after he died.

scary was born with blonde hair, but it's gotten darker as she got older. right now, it's a light brown/sandy blonde. when her mom and terry Jr. got engaged, he tried to bond with scary by pointing out that their hair was almost the same color. she dyed it black the next day.

on the topic of hair dye, taylor tried to dye his hair electric blue when he was in middle school and had to buzz it all off cause he destroyed it with bleach. he cried for 2 weeks.

both scary and taylor regularly paint their nails. normal TRIES to paint his nails but then gets annoyed that now they taste gross and ends up picking off all the nail polish before its even finished drying

btw normals nails are so fucked up. just absolutely destroyed. theyre so bad. he has never cut them hes only ever bitten them off.

on the other hand Lincolns nails are really well kept. he pushes back his cuticles and everything.

the only non-sportswear type clothing that lincoln owns are garfield t-shirts. he has alot of them

Scary is taller than Taylor, but only when she's wearing her combat boots, which add like 2 inches to her height.

Lincoln is only taller than Terry jr by an inch (and 6 feet lmaooo)

Everyone's taller than normal.

Lark and sparrow both have a dimple on one of their cheeks but it's the opposite side of the others.

Normal has dimples on both cheeks!

Taylor only has horns when he's using magic or really angry and they're very small. When he saw them for the first time he got pissed cause they're nothing like his trollsonas.

Taylor totally has an ahegao hoodie.

Taylor has a t-shirt that's just a written apology to women for his ahegao hoodie

Normal has a lot of nasa hoodies that he keeps stealing from hero to piss her off

Scary stole one of Terry jr cardigans, dyed it back, and ripped it up to make it goth cause she THOUGHT it would piss him off. But it backfired, and terry started wearing it around the house to be supportive.

Scary also secretly stole one of Terry Jr's old band t-shirts for herself cause she thought it was cool. Terry knows she has it but will not say a goddamn word cause he thinks it's so sweet.

Grant has a picture of baby Lincolns face on a t-shirt next to the titanic that says "I survived the titanic and all I got was this stupid baby" given to him by nick that he has never worn because it's mean but it's collecting dust in a closet somewhere in the house. Lincoln found it once but didn't understand it cause he never saw the titanic, so he just didn't say anything.

#these are really fun i might have to make more #dndads #dungeons and daddies #lark oak #sparrow oak #kiddads #grant wilson #nick close #terry jr stampler #scary marlowe #normal oak #taylor swift #lincon li wilson #shitpost #headcanons #hc #dndads s2

[bugwantsahug]

Normscary and hcs please:)

I hope you have a great day/night!!!

You too!!

- Normal needs physical touch when he’s having anxiety, and if he tells her this, Scary drops the “tough girl” act in a heartbeat to hug him or hold his hand.

- Within the cannon they switch shoes once, but I believe they switch shoes and clothes all the time. (Little does normal know, scary uses this as an excuse to properly wash his)

- scary bites his arms and shoulders when she’s bored

- she also regularly dyes his hair blue, as well as paints his nails sometimes (with hermies help) and does his makeup!!

- she pierced his ears in the bathroom during a sleepover while the others were knocked out in Norm’s room. It was a terrifying experience for both of them.

- Black smudges regularly show up on Normal’s forehead. Sparrow assumes he fell and got dirt on himself (and it’s not an unfounded assumption). In reality Scary kissed him on the forehead and didn’t tell him it left a mark, she found it funny. Lark teases him about it.

- After some development in character, Scary finally drops the act enough to hold his hand. In the privacy of their home. She will not do it anywhere else. (For now…)

- she also put makeup on tiny teeny the puppet. Normal has still not been able to wash it off.

I’m a big fan of the “blank has two hands” trope if you can’t tell.

#dndads #dungeons and daddies #dndaddies #dndads s2 #normal oak #scary marlowe #normscary #not a ship I normally ship #heh #normal #like #normally oak swallows garcia #but anyway #I do see the appeal! #ship #headcannons

[alix-is-o-a-k]

alix!! fluff fics are always a nice start, and I’ve had painting my room on my mind. you could get the nark boys painting nick’s earth-apartment? lark started painting when mercedes got him into art therapy (henry suggested it to merc, but yk how lark is) and does little flowers on the baseboards, maybe?

anywho, best of luck with posting fics!! I’ll be sure to hype you up :)

ASBSINSOA THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! This was soooo fun to write! (Went a little longer than I meant it to lol)

“Lark? What’re you doing here?”

Nick’s standing in the open doorway of his new apartment. He’s wearing black shorts and a loose grey tank, both splattered with dark red paint that could be mistaken for blood from some distance.

“Uh.. sparrow told me you were painting your apartment and I figured- do you want some help?”

“Yes.”

Nick opens the door wider and steps back to let Lark in. Splattered on the walls in uneven brush strokes are streaks of the same red paint on his clothing. The color’s dripping from the walls onto the floor.

“Nicky, what the hell is this?”

Nick’s face goes red and he scratches at the back of his head. “I… can’t paint. You know that.”

“Nick, this is an absolute disaster- were you seriously not planning to get anyone to help you?” Lark looks at him incredulously.

“I thought I could do it! And you’re here anyway!”

“Luckily for you,” Lark grumbles, picking up one of the abandoned paint brushes on the floor “let’s get started.”

Nick picks up the second brush and follows Lark’s lead, bringing the brush down in even strokes along the walls. They’re finished with the first in half the time it would have taken Nick, and Lark puts his brush down with a sigh, running a paint-covered hand through his hair and smearing the color into the brown strands. Nick laughs and Lark looks at him questioningly.

“What?”

“Nothing- just, your hair.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

“You’ve got paint in it, see?” The demon brushes his hand through Lark’s hair and purposefully smudges the paint even more. Lark lets out an outraged noise and picks up his brush, flinging the droplets of paint at Nick, who raises his arms in front of his face to protect himself.

“Oh you are so on.”

The two begin to wrestle, the paint staining their skin and clothes until, panting, Lark collapses on the floor. Nick pins him down with one hand, sitting on his legs to keep him from moving.

“So you admit I win?”

“Fine, you little shit,” Lark pushes Nick’s hand off of his chest and leans up to kiss him. Nick happily melts into the kiss and lowers the two of them down until they’re parallel with the floor, Nick’s  arm wrapped around Lark’s waist.

“Got you,” Lark whispers into Nick’s ear and his pulls his hand from the demon’s face. Nick touches his cheek and grins when his hand comes away red.

“How dare you,” he says playfully, and stands up. Lark makes a noise of protest, but Nick just sticks his tongue out and heads towards the bathroom to wash the paint off. When he gets back, Lark’s doodling something in pink on the base of the wall, and Nick crouches next to him to watch. The moment Lark sees him he turns bright red and smudges the paint.

“No I wanna see! What were you drawing?”

“Nothing!” Lark says hurriedly. Nick narrows his eyes but changes the topic.

“Where’d you learn to paint anyway?” Nick asks, sitting against the wall to look at Lark.

“Art therapy. Mercedes signed me up for it a few years ago.”

Nick lets out a noise of contentment and the two sit in silence for a little longer until Lark leans over and presses his lips to Nick’s again, and then Nick’s up against the wall as the paint from Lark’s hand bleeds into his shirt.

Below them, just barely visible is a couple of doodled flowers, with N+L written in pink.

—————————

hope you enjoyed it! I haven’t written in a while, sorry if it’s bad lol

#Alixwrites #dndads #dndads season 2 #dungeons and daddies #dndads s2 #Writing ask #fanafiction #Nark #nark nation

[strelles-universe]

Clan Names - Seed Birds

Bird: Used by all clans equally. A small or bouncy cat, whimsical and flighty.

Blackbird: A ShadowClan or a ThunderClan name. An all black cat, somewhat rare because of length.

Bunting: Used by all clans equally. A vibrant or elaborately colored cat.

Cardinal: Primarily a ThunderClan or a ShadowClan name. A mostly or completely red cat, a cat with a black mask over their eyes, noticeable or obnoxious.

Chaffinch: Used by all clans. An odd colored kit, a kit who is blue and ginger.

Chickadee, Tit: Used by all clans equally. A distinctively marked kit, someone with round or soft features, gentle.

Crow: Primarily a WindClan or ShadowClan name. A mostly or completely black cat, one who is agitating, good at finding clues.

Cuckoo: Used by all clans equally. A gray furred cat with white flecks, a cat with very long legs; aggressive and bold.

Dove: Primarily a ThunderClan name. A round and soft featured cat, one who is elegant and social; beautiful.

Finch: Used by all clans but ShadowClan. A brightly colored cat, someone who is yellow or red; distinctive and bold.

Grouse: Primarily a WindClan or a ThunderClan name. A black and brown cat, someone who is speckled with brown.

Hen: Primarily a WindClan or ThunderClan name. A dapple furred cat, a tortoiseshell; motherly or provider.

Hummingbird: Used by all clans but ShadowClan. A small or runty cat, someone with boundless energy or vigor, a vibrantly colored cat.

Jackdaw: Used by all clans equally. A dark gray or dark blue cat, someone who is intelligent or clever.

Jay: Primarily a ThunderClan name. A blue or brown kit, someone who is striking; headstrong and aggressive, stubborn.

Lark: Primarily a WindClan or ThunderClan name. A brown and white cat, someone who is graceful or skillful.

Magpie: Used by all clans equally. A black and white cat, someone who is craft and aggressive, fearsome.

Nightingale: Primarily a ThunderClan name. A sandy or reddish brown cat, someone who is private or secretive.

Nightjar: Primarily a ShadowClan name. A mottled or brindle coated cat, one who is brown; still and stern, a common title for border guards.

Oriole: Primarily a ThunderClan and RiverClan name. A vibrant and dark-highlighted cat, particularly of a ginger and black coloring; striking or noticeable.

Partridge: Primarily a WindClan name. A pale gray or brown striped cat, someone with soft fur.

Pheasant: Used by all clans equally. A brown or red furred cat with a shiny coat, bold or show-boating.

Pigeon: Used by all clans equally. A gray and blue furred cat, someone who is adaptable.

Ptarmigan: A rare name. A cat who is small and round, soft furred or gentle.

Quail: Primarily a ThunderClan or a WindClan name. A brown and white cat, a spotted pelt cat, someone with distinctive ear tufts.

Raven: Used by all clans. A mostly or fully black cat, a cat who is intelligent and mysterious, a messenger of Moonsoul.

Robin: Primarily a ThunderClan name. A brown or tan furred cat, someone who is simultaneous average and common.

Rook: Primarily a WindClan or a ShadowClan name. A mostly or completely black furred cat, someone missing patches of fur, a clever cat.

Sparrow: Used by all clans equally. A brown and tan cat, small but determined; one who is loud or awakens early

Shrike: Used by all clans equally. A cat who is small and lanky, dangerous in battle.

Starling: Primarily a ThunderClan or New SkyClan name. A dark furred cat with a light speckled body, someone who talks or sings a lot, a gossiper.

Swallow: Primarily a RiverClan, ThunderClan or New SkyClan name. A vibrant or distinctively colored kit, someone sure-footed and skillful.

Thrush: Primarily a ThunderClan name. A brown and white cat, someone who is speckled in some way, loyal and devoted.

Warbler: Used by all clans equally. A vibrant yellow or golden furred kit, someone talkative and good singer.

Wagtail: Primarily a WindClan name. A black and white or a gray and white kit, someone who is talkative or smart.

Wren: Primarily a WindClan and ThunderClan name. A mostly or completely brown cat, someone who speaks and moves quickly.

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

[dansnaturepictures]

My Great British Wild Year: Part 1 of 5-Birds and mammals

With the much-anticipated Scotland trip for my Mum’s 60th birthday and an Anglesey holiday in June it was fantastic to watch wildlife in England, Scotland and Wales this year, the first time being in all three in a year for me which excited me immensely. And what an extraordinary, packed and sensational year of wildlife watching it has been. We were mesmerised by watching giant White-tailed Eagles prominently glide through the air on magical Mull and the Scottish mainland at Loch Eil as well as in Poole Harbour, it was an epic year of Hen Harriers as I saw male and ringtail in all three countries; late winter birding bliss as we saw majestic overwintering birds in all their glory in Hampshire. The sharp call of Chough and the breathtaking sight as these ebullient crows dashed through the sea air and picked at grass brought us much joy in North Wales. I was elated to watch and photograph iconic and prepossessing Red Squirrels in England, Scotland and Wales, a key piece of my year. Sabine’s Gull and Shore lark two of my Hampshire greats of my birding year, the latter enjoyed in Norfolk too where my first ever Long-eared Owl and Twite and later in the year the Bee-eaters were key birds of my 2023. A precious sight of a fine New Forest Spotted Flycatcher at Pig Bush nudged my bird year list, finishing in the 200s for the second consecutive year, ahead of last year to confirm it as my highest ever in June. Our mammalian dreams were realized north of the border when finally seeing Otters in the wild on Mull in April, we were euphoric to witness these smooth, shiny and wholesome animals and seeing Bottlenose Dolphins on the Moray Coast was amazing too. In these five posts I will briefly explore some of the highlights with butterflies and moths, dragon and damselflies and other wildlife, flowers and fungi and taking in landscapes the other themes.  

Red Squirrel on Brownsea Island, Dorset in September

It was a rapturous year of bird of prey watching for me, with majestic Golden Eagles seen in Scotland too and I was fortunate to get many phenomenal views of Ospreys a bird I adore including mating and fishing in Scotland, at Rutland Water and a few times in Hampshire and Dorset in late summer/autumn. A falcon trio of pleasurable Peregrine especially the Winchester Cathedral family, magical Merlin and handsome Hobby dashing through the air; Little, Barn and Short-eared Owl enjoyed a lot, many Marsh Harrier, Goshawk and many a Sparrowhawk including at home were some of many highlights. I had a Corn Bunting sensation seeing them extremely well in Scotland and at Martin Down in 2023, with my first ever Cirl Bunting at Portland. I had an extremely strong Cuckoo spring across Hampshire, with Hawfinch and Lesser Spotted Woodpecker colossal winter experiences. Garden Warbler, precious Tree Sparrow and Tree Pipit, Water Pipit, Dipper, Yellow Wagtail, Lesser Redpoll, Pied Flycatcher, Black Redstart, brilliant views of radiant Bearded Tits and wondrous Wheatears were other highlights. I could not forget Redstart and Yellowhammer; Crossbill, my first Firecrest for years and Woodlark vintage birds especially in the New Forest, as well as Redwing, Mistle Thrush, charming Hooded Crow, Red and Black Grouse including lecking in Scotland and glorious Grey Partridges and Red-legged in Norfolk and Hampshire.

Another Peregrine I enjoyed seeing this year at Durlston in June

Marsh Harrier at RSPB Strumpshaw Fen in Norfolk in July

Buzzard at Lakeside Country Park, a beautiful sight as ever

A Corn Bunting at Banff in Aberdeenshire in April

Heartfelt views of Kittiwakes right from the start of the year across the UK were crucial to my year, with Anglesey’s angelic Arctic Terns and many Sandwich Terns in all three countries other standouts it was a privilege to see tern colonies at Brownsea Island and Cemlyn. Garganey, Goosander, Gannet, courting and nesting Great Crested Grebes; summer plumaged Slavonian Grebes for my first time in Scotland another key species of my year first seen in it on January 1st, wonderful Whimbrel, pristine Purple, Green, Common and Curlew Sandpipers and Pink-footed Geese. Puffin, Black and Common Guillemot, Razorbill, Fulmar, Manx Shearwater, four divers: White-billed, Great Northern, Red-throated and Black-throated and another newbie for me Black-crowned Night Heron. Common Crane, White Stork, Glossy Ibis, Cattle Egret, Long-billed Dowitchers, Ruffs, Little Stints, Long-tailed Duck, Whooper Swan and Surf and Common Scoter were other top birds of my year. Also of note were Ring-necked Duck, Scaup, Bean Geese, Water Rail and Common Gull. Our September week off where we got brilliant Bittern views at Minsmere was flanked by a Hampshire phalarope sighting on each Saturday, Red-necked and Grey.

An Arctic Tern at Cemlyn, Anglesey

The courtship routine of Great Crested Grebes at Lakeside in February

Reds, Sikas, Fallows, Roes and many Muntjac seen made it a dreamy deer year and I got exquisite and exciting views of every species. Home Hedgehog, Harbour Porpoise, Common and Grey Seal, my first ever Stoat at Stockbridge Down, an eerie winter daytime bat sighting, Fox and loveable Brown and Mountain Hare were other mammal highlights. Pigs seen multiple times out for pannage in the New Forest a quintessential autumnal sight. Other breathtaking moments were watching Water Voles swim across a channel in the reeds at Rutland Water and in a pool at RSPB Minsmere.

The Minsmere Water Vole

I mentioned other of my standout birds of the year in this post in November: https://dansnaturepictures.tumblr.com/post/734418555548925952/some-key-birds-of-my-2023

#water vole #spotted flycatcher #arctic tern #garden warbler #long-billed dowitcher #puffin #white-tailed eagle #hen harrier #otter #golden eagle #osprey #peregrine falcon #hobby #mountain hare #muntjac deer #fox #pied flycatcher #yellow wagtail #ruff #little stint #2023 #highlights #birding #birdwatching #photography #mammals #outdoors #outside #europe #uk

[mattersandmaterials]

Of a Garden

A garden is some Paradise do call; The place is always th’equinoctial. Echoes there are most artificial made, And cooling grottoes, from the heat to shade. The azure sky is always bright, and clear; No gross thick vapors in the clouds appear. There many stars do comfort the sad Night; The fixed with twinkling with the rest give light. No noise is heard, but what the ear delights; No fruits are there, but what the taste invites. Up through the nose bruised flowers fume the brain, As honeydew in balmy showers rain. Various colors, by Nature intermixed, Direct the eyes, as no one thing can fix. Here atoms small on sunbeams dance all day, While Zephyrus sweet doth on the air play, Which music from Apollo bears the praise, And Orpheus at the sound his harp down lays. Apollo yields, and not contends with spite, Presenting Zephyrus with twelve hours of light; And Night, though sad, in quiet pleasure takes, With silence listens when he music makes. And when Day comes, with grief descends down low, That she no longer must hear Zephyrus blow, And with her mantle black herself enshrouds, Which is embroidered all of stars in clouds. Here are intermixing walks of pleasure, Grass, sand, short, broad, and all sorts of measure. Some shaded, fit for lovers’ musing thought Of Love’s idea, when the mind’s full fraught. The walks are firm, and hard as marble are, Yet soft as down, by grass that groweth there, Where daisies grow as mushrooms, in a night, Mixed white, and yellow, green, to please the sight. At dawning Day the dew all overspreads, In little drops upon those daisies’ heads: As thick as stars are set in heaven high, So daisies on the earth as close do lie. Here emerald banks, from whence fine flowers spring, Whose scents and colors various pleasure bring. Primroses, cowslips, violets, daffodils, Roses, honeysuckles, and white lilies, Wallflowers, pinks, and marigolds besides, Sit on the bank, enriched with Nature’s pride. On other banks grow simples, which are good For medicines, well applied and understood. There trees do grow, that proper are, and tall, Their bark is smooth, and bodies sound withal; Whose spreading tops are full and evergreen As Nazarite’s heads where razor hath not been: And curled leaves, which bowing branches bear, By warmth are fed; for winter ne’er comes there. There fruits delicious to the taste do grow, Where with delight the sense doth overflow; And arched arbors, where sweet birds do sing, Whose hollow rooves do make each echo ring. Prospects, which trees and clouds by mixing shows, Joined by the eye, one perfect piece it grows. Here fountains are, where trilling drops down run, Which sparks do twinkle like fixed stars or sun; And through each several spout such noise it makes, As bird in spring, when he his pleasure takes. Some chirping sparrow, and the singing lark, Or quavering nightingale in evening dark; And whistling blackbird, with the pleasant thrush, Linnet, Bulfinch, which sing in every bush. No weeds are here, nor withered leaves and dry, But evergreen, and pleasant to the eye. No frost to nip the tender buds in birth, Nor winter snow to fall on this sweet earth. For here the Spring is always in her prime, Because this place is underneath the line: The Day and Night, equal, by turns keep watch, That thievish time should nothing from them catch. And every Muse a several walk enjoys, The sad in shades, the light with sports employs. Censuring satyrs: they in corners lurk; Yet, as their gard’ners, they with art do work, To cut and prune, to sow, engraft, and set, Gather fruits, flowers, what each Muse thinks fit: And nymphs, as handmaids, their attendance give, Which, for reward, their fames by Muses live.

Margaret Cavendish in Poems and Fancies (1653)

[asteriskemily]

I finally drew the Sons!

[ID] a group of drawings of the sons from dungeons and daddies from the shoulders up. Nick Close has messy black hair, a cool smile, and slightly bloodshot eyes hidden behind a pair of circular, red sunglasses. He is wearing a black jacket over a red shirt. The jacket is decorated with several patches and pins that say things like “Snitches get Stitches,” “Eat Shit and Die!!” and “Glenn Close Trio.” He is also wearing several gold earrings. Terry Junior’s curly black hair is pulled back in a bun with a red hair band. He’s looking off to the side, staring into the distance. He is wearing a green jacket over a cream colored hoodie. He has a silver stud in his ear. Grant Wilson has orange hair in the grown-out version of a dorky, catholic boy haircut that falls slightly in his face. He has a neutral expression and his lidded green eyes are staring down at the ground. He’s wearing a black shirt under a red, yellow, and black flannel. Lark and Sparrow Oak-Garcia have matching heads of bleach blonde hair and are grinning at each other mischievously. Lark is wearing a red and white Doodlers t-shirt, showing a many eyed, many mouthed, and many tentacled creature, presumably the Doodler. Sparrow is wearing a dark blue t-shirt with three wolves howling up at the moon. Paeden has curly, messy brown hair and a determined smile on his face, as well as bandages on his cheek and nose. He has the eyes of the tiger (they’re brownish-green). He is wearing a gray shirt with the UFC logo on it that is too big on him. Shoved in the corner is a small sketch of Narcolas Foster. He has neat black hair, big round glasses, and a red polo shirt. [End ID]

#art #dungeons and daddies #dndads #nick close #terry junior #terry jr #grant wilson #lark oak #sparrow oak #paeden #paeden dndads #paeden Bennetts #narcolas

[gay-spaceman]

anyways, i don’t really post my dungeons and daddies art here (or any art really anymore), but i had a lot of fun making these family trees for the dads, so i thought yall might enjoy, it also includes all my designs so fun!

long id under read more cus theres a lot to cover:

[id: four digital pieces of family trees of the four main dads from dungeons and daddies. There is a legend on each tree that shows the color coding as follows: blue means siblings, green means child, pink means married, purple means was married, gold means alive, red means deceased.

Stampler family tree: the stampler family tree starts with two brothers, Carl Stampler and Stewart “stud” Stampler, Willy Stampler is the son of Carl Stampler. Ron Stampler is the son of Willy Stampler. Ron is married to Samantha who was previously married to Terry Sr., they had a child, Terry Jr. Now for the descriptions. Carl Stampler is a white man with auburn hair with grey streaks and brown eyes. He has a stern face with strong cheekbones. and a beauty mark below his lip. Stewart looks a bit younger than Carl with dark brown hair, two beauty marks, and a rounder face. He has blue eyes. Willy is depicted older with full grey hair and a long looking face with brown eyes. He is very similar looking to Carl. Ron has a much rounder face and paler skin than his dad and wider blue eyes. He has dark brown hair with streaks of grey and a mustache. Samantha is a white women with a blonde bob. She is smiling and has an angular face with blue eyes. Terry Sr. is also white and blonde with a chiselled jaw with a chin dimple, glasses and green eyes. Lastly, Terry Jr. looks to be much younger version of Terry Sr, about 13, with sandy blonde hair, green eyes, and a chin dimple. His eyes are sunken.

Wilson family tree: the wilson family tree starts with Robert Wilson. Then Frank WIlson, son of Robert. Frank has two kids, Darryl Wilson and Casey wilson. Darryl Wilson is married to Carol Wilson and they have a child, Grant Wilson. Carol also has a sister named Stacy. Now for description. Robert is a round light skin man with light brown hair and glasses. He has hazel eyes and a moustache. Frank is similar looking, but a little fatter with brown eyes and ash blonde hair including grey streaks. He is smiling and has a scruffy beard. Darryl Wilson is pale with dark brown hair with grey streaks. He has a full bushy beard and brown eyes. He is wearing a blue baseballcap. Casey Wilson is a fat women with light skin and dark brown hair, braided back. She has wide brown eyes and is smiling. Carol Wilson is a thinner woman with a gaunt face and a short ash blonde bob that cups her face. She has blue eyes. Her sister, Stacy, is similar with face shape and eyes, though her eyes are brown. She has short brown hair and dangly light blue earings. Grant Wilson is a light skin boy looking to be around 12-13 with shaggy medium brown hair and freckles. He has his father’s sunken eyes and is wearing a jean jacket.

Oak family tree: the oak family tree starts with Hildy Russet. Barry Oak is her son and has one son himself, Henry Oak. Henry Oak is married to Mercedes Garcia-Oak and have two twin boys, Lark and Sparrow Oak. Now for descriptions. Hildy Russet is a dark skinned woman with dark brown hair curled in a 1940s hair doo. She is wearing a red brown hair and a light brown trench coat and red earring. Barry Oak is a dark skinned man with dark brown hair with grey streaks pulled into a ponytail. He has dark eyes and a well kept beard. Henry Oak has light brown skin with a grey streaked dark brown hair pulled into a man bun, with loose pieces in front. He is wearing glasses and has a scruffy beard. Mercedes is light brown skinned women with long wavy brown hair. She has dimples and a round face and brown eyes. She also has fuller lips and is wearing a blue shirt. Lark and Sparrow are almost identical with the same light brown skin, brown curly hair and angular face. Lark’s hair is parted to the side and has freckles on the bridge of his nose, while Sparrow’s hair is messier and hangs in his face and he has freckles on his cheeks. They’re about 12.

Close family tree: the close family tree starts with Meryl streep. Meryl’s daughter, currently unknown name, is married to Bill Close. They have a son, Glenn Close. Glenn Close is married to Morgan Freeman and they have one son, Nicholas Close, now for descriptions. Meryl Streep is an asian man with pale skin and black hair and a small moustache. He has dark eyes and is wearing a green suit. He also has high cheekbones. Bill Close is an asian man with tan skin and long black hair, tucked behind his ears, He has a scruffy beard and dark eyes. Glenn Close is an asian man with light tan skin, he has shaggy black hair that hangs over his forehead with a spotty scruffy beard. He is wearing small black sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. Morgan Freeman is a round black woman with black curly hair that goes to her chin, it includes a single red streak. She has wide, light brown eyes and pierced ears. she is wearing a gold necklace and tank top. Nicholas Close is a young, light brown skinned, boy about 12-13. He has a shaved side of his head and curly black hair that fades into red ontop. He has freckles on his cheek and a piercing in his nose and two in his ears. He is wearing a red hoodie and smiling.

end id]

#that is a very long id btw i wanted to put as much detail as i could #anyway time for the tags #dungeons and daddies #dnddads #dndads #dnd podcast #anyway i love them #ron stampler #carl stampler #stewart stampler #willy stampler #samantha #terry sr #terry jr #darryl wilson #robert wilson #frank wilson #casey wilson #carol wilson #stacy #grant wilson #UGH I HATE GLENNS TAGS #glenn close #meryl streep #bill close #morgan freeman #nicholas close #henry oak #hildy russet #barry oak

[pajamamadonna]

Blue For the Breeze

CHAPTER I (Winifred)

She had tagged along as little sisters do–sang her song and tossed her shoes, the creases in their leather pink like the rings of lark legs. Sixteen years ago now. But this is threaded then–nestled in the lush green glenn; curved along the white Witham. 

The river.

Unswallowing Ophelia; spitting her ears back into the black beat of peat. 

Where its waters babble in idyllic branches two hundred paces south of the estate–Guston House, the collar-button of Bluebrook’s snug town. Lincolnshire’s Light, the locals call it–its stones standing squarely between Westborough and Hougham. 

Names narrowed mostly for their sound–steaming for the teaming stream. While I sew my milk teeth to each other, lest they write their own wallowed wiggles.

The Day family calls this land home. Led by Laurence Day, the Count of Cloud–rough in voice and soft in spirit. The man is warm and whiskered–quick to laugh; his smile like candlelight. And his wife, Beatrice–a romantic formed by beeswax carved in the shape of two open palms. She is soothing and strong (like she knew all along). Fruited by their two children, gentle Jane and charming Arthur.

Darling Arthur.

Four years her senior at sweet eighteen–his body is lean; his features sharp and delicate. Framed by a sweep of brindle-brown hair, which waves like roiling ribbons–curled at the cut of his clap-clean jaw. Humble like a Hellenistic hunk–Arthur moves with an air of mist-minded mystery; as though he is always searching for strands of ocean within the bladder of a bog. Wherein, he is either somber (too moved by the mouth of all things) or scathing (a wit he wields tenderly–never at her expense), with little in between. 

Drinking similar duality herself. 

And as it happens, ample-appled Arthur is her brother Richard’s best bosom mate–the boys always stepping one blue ladder just beyond her teenage reach. Still, it does not shy her from printing in their wake–hoping all the while for a wink or a whisper from Arthur’s grey grin.

So here she walks, through the bosk, which traces the wooded water–having joined her brother (after much convincing) for the summer months at Guston House. Though as it is, she has lost track of the boys–who blustered the brace of her company an hour or so before, disappearing into the emerald grass at the treeline.

She does not mind so much. While above her, the birds are whistling and tittering and twittering busily from branch to branch–each lime leaf turning loosely from the wind, which waves the heat from sticking on her skin. And the soil is soft between her ten toes–rich and purple; home to glassy glossy beetles.

She has rarely felt so content–like the air in her lungs might forever fill them. Surprised by their persistent deflating–calmed by the rhythmic carry of their swelling. And at freshly fourteen years of age–gingerly tipped on this third day of June–she feels ripe enough to share the red, which lives within her.

So humming from her chest, she muses on the morning–on the timeliness of coarseness and the wet web of welcoming womanhood. And in this, she hopes Arthur will soon see her in such fashion–hopes the bearing of her swan-long neck (bowed like the smoothest cedar bow) might direct his attention. Or rather, shift his focus from fraternal to romantic–to the strawberry seed smell, in which she has always understood him.

Longed to woo him.

A sudden shout and its following hoot–sounds which yarn her direction from the path, through the trees, and towards the water. Where she begins to weave through the woods–coiling in curiosity; chasing the sparrow-songs of splashing.

And though she does not mean for secrecy, she finds herself hushing her heels nonetheless–stepping lightly towards the sky blue strips of treelessness, which peek beyond the cluster of the fertile forest.

Wherein she recognizes the velvet of Arthur’s voice–the inkiness of her brother Richard’s as well. And suddenly, she gets the sense that this moment is not for her–like the horizon has clouded chin-high with the color coral. 

So she dips beneath its line and darts, ironed by interest, towards the shrug of the shore. Where she crouches behind the brittle-peel bark of a thick thicket birch–the last of its line–and looks towards the river, her brown hair aquiver (a wave).

The curve of the cluster claims a small clearing–framed by trees and lapped by the ripples of water, which crinkle and crash into milk-mudded grass.

While leaning left of the triple trunks, she sees Richard first–watching as he floats in the quiet water pocket; fronding his arms in wide strokes from his chest. His head angled on a lazy laugh, he shouts to his right with ribbing-ripped cheer. “Hail, King Arthur,” he lathers–his sandy hair brushing by his brow (curled like creamy Cupid’s). “Who seems to have misplaced his pants,” he snorts.

So she tucks her head around the tree, where she stifles a gasp as she catches an eyeful of bare arse–pert and white; the crown of two masculine thighs. And there Arthur stands–his back to her; naked atop the large rock, which crawls halfway into the river.

Mouthwatering contrapposto.

Kiss me now; just like so.

“He rules the land with his noble sword,” Arthur quips in response, bunching his biceps boyishly.

Excalibur's exhibition.

Turn around, she wills for that which she half knows she wants.

When amber with abruptness, Richard’s voice scrapes with concern. “Arthur, your Grandmother!” He calls–pointing towards the backdrop woods.

To which, Arthur whirls in surprise, a hurried hand bunched on his delicates.

Oh!

As river rhyming Richard begins to bray.

And Arthur realizes the jest–relaxing just so; exposing the pale pull of his prick–nestled in a thatch of dawny dark hair.

She stares.

Aha!

And then, cock bouncing as he shifts his stance in slackening, Arthur begins to laugh. “You arse,” he beams before bending–reaching for a flat stone and whisking it to skip in Richard’s direction.

Where it skates on the surface. 

One, two, three.

Look for me.

It sinks.

And suddenly, a snap! The crack of a twig beneath her heel. So two heads lash–two stares of steel.

While the puddle in her stomach plummets–sloshing nectar to her knees; she ices. And tries to squeeze away the discovery–shutting her eyes.

As Richard calls. “Winnie, is that you?” He asks. Where she can hear the drooling carafe of his laughter. “Win, I see your hair,” he says.

Winnie cracks her light blue lids–unsticking between the birch trunks to reveal Arthur on his rock; his wrists lazing by his sides. Flute flicking. Here his sneer is searching–so seemingly sticky; convinced that Richard is rouging another jostled joke.

Pink poke.

His prick stokes the syrup of her salvation. And Winifred finds herself unable to quell its sapping–stare stuck.

Pud plucked.

She knows so little of the tenderness of tools–of how Adam’s lost rib dangles right beneath his nose. Swinging between his legs. Shrouded and sheltered by her station–her mother’s scarce dictation.

But here she learns of logs–of riddles and rods.

“Arthur,” Richard drawls–warning like a lazy ermine. “She’s come to ogle you.”

No!

And in doing so, Winifred watches as Arthur blushes (pink in the pulse of his cheekbones); realizing her presence and palming his privates. While she traces the gulp of his stricken swallowing–breaking her daze and then cracking towards Richard.

“I–” she begins, stepping from the paper-white bark. “I heard voices and–.”

Richard cuts her carry. “And what?” He laughs, with no stake in this teasing. “Thought you’d take your glimpses?”

“No–” she cannot find the proper words; fiving her fingers in banks of slippery sand. “I–.” She stumbles with a sweep of shame.

But Richard does not permit her trailing–filling the hum with the horror of his humor. “How does he measure up to your imagination?” He asks her, tossing towards Arthur, who stands in limp mortification. As Richard continues. “She pines after you, you know.” He returns his wagging to Winifred. “Does the sight of Arthur’s sword have you drooling like a chit?”

The air in the wood turns to whistle-hissing steam. “No,” she insists–scrambling and incensed; shaking her head with a rush. “There’s not much to see anyway,” she reasons in redirecting–a bruiseless barb she sometimes hears men mail to each other; so she thinks. 

But Arthur shrinks–his shoulders sagging; his countenance clouding. “As if you’d know,” he spits–leered with a look she cannot quite decipher. How he braces with indignance–with a brooded antagonism she has not seen in him before. Where she would sew twenty tails on twenty kites if it would only take the look from his face. But she does not. And so Arthur continues–varnishing violently. “You’re just a little girl,” he laps–before stretching his arms and jumping, heels-first, into the river.

A little girl.

Here, her heart breaks–blended by his disregard. While she shapes as he surfaces–eyes slitting. “I’m fourteen,” she tugs, her throat tight.

To which, Arthur laughs–shaving with scorn as he slicks the hair from his forehead. “Like I said–a girl.” He shrugs performatively–defensively. “Besides, I’ve had no complaints from women.”

Where Winifred can feel the tears tagging at her canthi–bubbling with hurt furnished fury. “Women?” She challenges–elbowing towards a teenage-tempest. “Do you mean the serving girls you chase after?” She asks. As though she hadn’t noticed. “The girls your father pays to empty your chamber pots?”

Hope rots.

And Richard laughs–splashing a merry wall of water in Arthur’s direction.

Who lifts an arm in blanche-brow blocking–his attention held angrily on Winifred. “Don’t be crass,” he cuts. And all the kindness he has ever shown her–all the times he’s encouraged her brother to allow her pestering presence–is snuffed by the sternness of his stare. “It’s unbecoming,” he paves.

Where Winifred begins to cry; the amber of her ardor revealed and rejected–hot tears spilling from the labels of her lashes. So she blinks them away–wiping furiously as Richard slips to soothing.

“Win, why don’t you come in with us?” He offers–an olive branch; its leaves plucked bare before she can reach for its reign. As Richard pebbles from atonement turned rudeness–slipping to stoking and provoking; snickering like a boy. “It’s sure to be bigger up close!”

He earns himself a splash for that. Ample from Arthur as the stones of Winifred’s woe settle–smooth and stacked.

Please come back!

So she turns in a slide of mounted mortification–catching a sob from the lob of her throat and fleeing from the riverbank; trembling in her temples.

She does not tremble now–sixteen years later; the moon in her mirror. While Winifred dips two touching fingertips–scooped in a disc of pearly pomatum; she tends the loose tendrils, which try at her temples. Efforting the unruly–the fine flair of friz, which never seems to cease.

She sighs then–catching the crystal of her earrings in a glass; turning for the way they sway (how they lilt, tilt and twinkle). And in this moment, Winifred is reminded–she has always liked the elegance of her neck. But crooning for this column is of little use now–particularly where tonight’s company is concerned.

And then, as if on cue, she hears the grease wheel waggle of a carriage from the front–the trot of horse hooves clopping on the cobble. 

So she walks to the window, her gown whispering on the wood. Where she peeks through the silver drapes–overlooking the garden of Finch Manor; to the landscaping she has so labored over. While from here, she can see only two of the eastern statues–the dancer and the fallen angel; his wings furled like fig fronds. And surrounding their bases, rows of cosmos, dahlias, and delphiniums–late lupines which crowd the west corner; the topiaried juniper that tenders in the center.

The talk of Upper Brook Street–the Duke of Bornberry’s grand garden; designed and tended by his dear spinster daughter.

The man who makes bellies is known as a spotter.

Winifred shakes her head, scowling as she watches two men emerge from the hull of the hackney. One of them, Richard–his honey hair white in the moonligh as he steps from the carriage and through the ivy arched gate with a bellow-grinned guffaw.

And Arthur tumbles next–stained on a stumble; half-drunk, no doubt. 

Fraternal friendship fortified; the boys have turned to men–colting in their thirties.

Arthur’s hair is shorter now–cropped an inch from his scalp; hemmed in the bending beginnings of hazel curls. Where below, his beard has scratched and patched–his mustache significantly thicker. Woven like wicker.

He remains startlingly handsome. Though Winifred’s warmth towards Arthur has all but extinguished–snuffed since that day by the shore. Where all was revealed by a wrenched opened drawer–the situation shifting. Drifting. When Winifred’s pride had been punctuated–the fragile blue eggs of her admiration and desire cracked into oozing yellow yolks for all to see. Drained to dismay as Arthur whisked, watered, and dumped their golden circles into the riddling roll of the river.

He had laughed and called her crass.

She will show him crass with brass.

Such that, as the years unfolded, embarrassment had turned coolness pulled active antagonism–a relationship redirected to bronze-based bickering. Cumbersome contention. Informed, she is sure, by the Day family tragedy–where Arthur had soured like a plum plucked too soon.

Numbed before noon.

Winifred feels for him in this–though his acerbic attitude has coiled her compassion to coldness; welded by the way London has embraced his artistry.

The Vulnerable Versifier, the city has dubbed him–a poet with a penchant for romance; a man who has buried his pain in words and in women.

Where, to her shame, Winifred had studied his first few publications–hoping for some apology (or more deeply, for an acknowledgement of some secret love for her; chattered from the chalice of childhood). 

But instead she had found the contrary–every wet description of women firmly her opposite. Skin unvarnished by freckles–but rather smooth like cups of cream. Hair satin straight or ruled by ringlets–never wavy like her own; red, black, blonde (nary a couplet for crown-capped brunettes).

A constant diss of dismissal.

So, a clever woman adorned with a clear confidence of self (solidified in spirit), Winifred has extinguished all leary lingering of her girlhood crush–bundled instead by a buttery brashness (a harp-hilted humor) she embodies so easily. Witty and quick, her words whack to stick–curating the crassness, which Arthur had once ridiculed (needling just shy of spite).

She turns from the window then, tracing the pleats of her skirts with her palms–muffining the mutton sleeves shaped like silken swollen epaulets.

Break a sweat by beauty’s threat.

For the boy with the aubergine ears.

So it appears (milk in the mirror), Winifred is ready for dinner.

CHAPTER II (Arthur)

The brandy is red in the glass–Arthur’s head humming from the numbing of its nectar. Where he holds the bowl of the cup (a cradle of knuckles shaping translucence) and swirls idly. Such that the periwinkle paneling of the dining room hearth–the emerald of the carpet and its matching curtains–dance in the reflection; fracturing like fronds of fumbling flowers.

To which, Arthur unfocuses, allowing the light to linger–a steady sorrow singing in his collarbones; one he has become accustomed to. Though the drink dulls its deluge. But in this moment, Arthur finds himself unable to muster the energy to sip its soothing. 

So he simply stares–skin chapped from September’s air. He fingers his hair–a tic he has adopted with the lateness of its length; lopped for his last night in London. Where he is staying with the Bornberrys before his departure–Benjamin and Pearl like two adoptive parents; filling the fissure that tragedy took. So they welcomed him for one final evening of company–set, as he is, to leave for Lincolnshire in the early hours of the morning.

He thinks to thank them then–his throat tightening from his ivory chair. But Winifred’s clipping interrupts his kindness.

“Your mustache looks good,” she says, practically spitting the performance–the compliment crowned by satchels of sarcasm.

To which, Arthur tucks a light laugh–lifting his glass. “So does yours,” he drawls in return–lazy, as though he is bored by the carry of their quarreling. He sips.

As Winifred dips–stalling her cutlery; hands like a Claddagh. Where, gallant in a gown of royal brushed blue, she slits her stare in a skin-stripping glare.

And in this, Arthur thinks (not for the first time) that the alabaster span of her neck is beautiful–her green eyes arresting; flamed by flecks of gold. But he stifles this stasis–stoked, as always, by the beat of their bickering; resigned that their loathing is mutual.

Pearl interrupts then–signing towards face-saving. “Arthur, how is your sister?” She asks, her dark hair piled like a pinecone on her head–her lower lip pursed with an effort of sympathy.

So Arthur buys a breath. “She’s coping,” he answers–tended by a tired smile; waning for Jane (recently windowed a widow). Where, three months from this fresh-flamed loss, Arthur will know more of his sister’s mind in a matter of days–his return to Bluebrook based in his reluctant responsibility; to scoop the estate in rebound to its boots (and accompany his sister in the meantime).

“And her daughter?” Pearl pushes; framed by the fireplace.

“Ruth is well,” Arthur replies, lacing a loose grin at the image of his bouncing niece. “Four year olds are resilient,” he crinkles from his corners.

While dukal (and also mustached), Benjamin bells from his cork of the table–his jacket crisp at the shoulders; his eyes shining warmly. “It is good of you to return home,” he says, nipping the noon of paternal pride.

As Richard reaches to pat Arthur on the back–thumping the bunch between his blade bones; a kindness shown.

Blue in bone.

Arthur nods in thanks; choked in the yoke of his throat. Where, to avoid the elling of emotion, he forks a blanche-flake bite of crimp cod.

“To lose a father so young,” Pearl carries–caught in her own agitation. “And for Jane–to have lost a husband.” She shakes her head with terse dismay. “I cannot imagine.” 

She is trying, Arthur knows–to give that, which she is capable. But she has never been as forward-thinking as the mother he lost–nowhere near as philosophically or tenderly inclined. And not for the first time, Arthur’s stomach clenches–moved by a mill wheel of grief–as he wants for the embrace of his own mother, who in her way, would have better understood the dazed-duckling agony of death’s footprint.

Where Richard sucks a similar sense. “Mother,” he warns quietly.

But Arthur finds the words for the occasion. “Well,” he begins. “Life is known for its anguish, isn’t it?” He waves a musing hand–five pale fingers riddling a breeze. “For the aching of its essence,” he clarifies.

Which, seems to do the tulip trick–Pearl clucking with a fussied flirt in the wake of his glum observation. “You always have had a way with words, Arthur,” she says–missing the poke of the point.

Such that Arthur would grin–hemmed by humility–if he hadn’t caught the sulking roll of Winifred’s eyes; ever resentful of his craft. And so he hesitates–mouth half-agape, somewhere between stale humor and amused bemusement.

“Are you writing anything now?” Benjamin bards.

To which, Arthur sighs. “No,” he replies–swinging a sad smile. “Though I hope the country air will change that.”

“Indeed,” Benjamin agrees, his voice like carts of coal.

A sire for a foal.

Forks and knives scrape for some seconds then–sharp pewter points on white china plates. 

Before Richard nudges with a ridge from the right. “Arthur, have you managed to track down your solicitor?” He asks between cotton-ball bites.

As Arthur shakes his head. “No,” he says, chewing another flick of fish. “He seems to have disappeared from the eyes of the earth,” he strikes a scoff (lined for his loss). “Took the money and ran,” he mopes a moat. “But I suppose I’ll manage his workload in the meantime–talk to the tenants; help with repairs.” He grins with guilt, Counthood heavy in his hips–thus far all but ignored for the honor of its burden. “The estate has suffered in my parents’ absence,” he admits–carting for murky clarity.

In my own.

There is work to be done.

For which he receives some platitudes–some soothing nods. Before the conversation drifts, from the entree to the course of dessert–ramekins of lemon soufflé sponging like small towers beneath five cheerful chins.

Arthur breaks his with a spoon, watching the steam swirl like spools of smoky string. Songbirds sing. He takes a bite and basks in it–thanking for the simultaneous filling of his third glass of brandy; his skull blissfully soggy.

“Have you any romantic interests, Arthur?” Pearl puddles, her fowl feathers fluffing.

So Arthur smiles. “It’s only poetry for me,” he apologizes.

To which, Winifred mouths of mocking–scraping a sound of utter disdain; derision plain.

And Arthur blinks, turning towards her; cocking his jaw–bitter for banter. “And you, Winnie?” He snips.

“My name is Winifred,” she slits.

As Richard chimes in choosing, his face as clean as his cufflinks. “Mother is insistent that Win pursue the attentions of Lord Nash.”

“Homunculus Harvey?” Arthur apples–struck by a sink in his stomach at the thought. “You’re joking.” He snaps towards Lady Bornberry. “Pearl, he is odious–and twice her age.”

Where Pearl preens her petals in defense. “He’s a finer match than she’s met thus far,” she whittles a whine.

“Thank you, mother,” Winifred bites. “But I think I’ll choose a suitor for myself,” she says–brows ribboned as she spirals the lethargic destruction of her soufflé. “One far less decrepit,” she spins.

And Arthur pictures it–her barefoot bathing with a sideburned sap. The thought alone makes his toes tap. “A suitor,” he scoffs with dismissal, leaning back in his chair–fretting his fork in a toss to the table. “If you ask me, marriage seems a folly,” he huffs. “Bound only for suffering,” he stars his hands–hoisting in resignation; half-held like Goya’s man of May. “One of the pair is bound to pass first,” he grouses. “The other left to wallow.”

So Winifred squints. “Your optimism is uplifting,” she stings.

He shrugs, stretching for a sip of brandy. Where he stills at the rim, his lips cold. “You want to be married?” He asks–carving marble for a challenge. Unsure, even, of his own orange opinion.

“I do,” she admits, her voice sharp.

Where, easy pickled pickings, he darts like a red-faced vulture. “But you haven’t quite managed a match?”

To which, Winifred bristles–swaying in banal booting. “As it stands,” she says. “I am far more keen on my own pursuits.”

Blow the brute.

As Arthur bribes brandy from his glass and echoes an ahh. “Playing in the garden?” He quips–perhaps too cruel; always spinning like a fair-haired fox, its tail tucked protectively.

While Winifred stills–apparently indifferent to his efforts. “It is preferable to pumping actresses full of bastards,” she says–her tone tight and cool.

“Winifred,” Pearl warbles.

But Arthur simply laughs. “There are no bastards,” he promises. Flush with french letters. “I’m very cautious.”

Where he is caught off guard as Winifred knits her neat brow–sewn as if she is unsure; its ripening rare. She plays a game beyond her care.

Though Benjamin barns his lordly gavel in decree. “This is hardly dinner-table conversation,” he says.

“My apologies,” Arthur offers, before turning to Winifred–his glare glazed unkindly; syruped sardonic. “Winnie, do give my best to Harvey,” he beats blindly. “And perhaps some smelling salts as well–he has a tendency to nod off during Parliamentary sessions.”

To which, he earns a simpered scathing smile–stuck like Winifred winds him as a worm.

But Pearl punctuates the pass. “Winifred, Lord Nash will join us for tea tomorrow. I expect you to be on your best behavior.” She warbles from her waddle, ignoring her daughter’s sneer. “And Richard, what about you?” She brushes diligently–ever irked by the curl of carried conflict; her mouth cleared of soufflé cream. “Has any particular woman striked your recent fancy?”

Where Richard rhymes. “You know I enjoy the life of a rake,” he excuses, jaspering his jacket. 

And in this, Arthur’s heart goes out to his friend–understanding the unspoken agreement that Richard’s proclivities lean left of elsewhere; upset by the way that society spins sanctions. While want for support, Arthur redirects–easing for teasing; tiding towards Winifred.

“Winnie, you are a vision in blue,” he bells. “Lord Nash is sure to be stunned stupid.” He minds, meaning it–though knowing well that Winifred will pull this punch poorly.

Where, predictably, she cleans curtly. “And you are a nuisance in navy.”

To which, Arthur laughs, eyeing his waistcoat with a sour pout–excited nonetheless by the clap of Winifred’s quickness. So he shrugs and drains his brandy–nestling in needling. He turns to Richard then. “Do you remember that time we were rolling down the hill at Guston House?” Savoring sixteen–when the world was gentler. “And Winnie swept straight into a wasp nest?” Arthur antes towards Winifred, holding the hum of her glare. “Richard and I had to shake bees from your skirts–blue, if I remember.” So how he shovels, addressing the wider web of the table. “She was covered in stings afterwards–like all her freckles had swollen, angry and red.”

Where, Winifred could swallow his spine with her stare. She places her spoon to the side and croons with condemnation. “And do you remember the time that a goat kicked you rather rudely in the pasture?” She smiles. “There were tears in your eyes then–blue, if I recall.”

“Yes,” Arthur answers, shifting his hips in memorized discomfort. “Unfortunately, that is quite a formative memory.”

So Winifred grins–its grasp clear and cruel. “I liked that goat.”

To which, Arthur snorts–amused despite himself.

As Richard intervenes. “Arthur, shall we retire to the study?” He requests. “I fancy a smoke.”

A cigar between blokes.

And appetite soaked, Arthur acquiesces–rising from the table with a wink for Winifred.

#historical romance #regency romance #romance #romance writer #romance writing #romance books #historical fiction #women writers #female writers #creative writing #novel writing #original writing #writeblr #tumblr writers #wip #work in progress #my wriring #enemies to lovers #writeblr community #writing community #literature #literary romance

[emo-warriorcats]

warrior cats name dictionary!

here’s my warrior cat name dictionary! i’ll post it on deviantart too, @/ppplume

Prefixes

Albatross // gray with or without white

Alder // light gray/silver or cream

Anemone // white

Ant // brown or black

Apricot // ginger/light ginger

Ash // gray

Aspen // cream or silver tabby

Asphodel // white

Aster // blue-gray or lilac

Avocet // brown and white

Badger // black and white

Bat // brown or black

Bear // brown or black

Beaver // brown

Bee // cream tabby or tortoiseshell/calico

Beech // light gray or red

Beetle // brown or black

Birch // silver tabby or cream

Bison // brown or black

Black // black

Blizzard // white or light gray

Blue // blue-gray

Bright // any bright color

Brown // brown

Buzzard // brown and white

Cardinal // red or ginger

Carp // silver tabby

Cedar // brown

Chestnut // cream or light brown

Chickadee // gray and white or silver tabby

Cloud // white or silver/gray

Clover // white

Coot // black with small amount of white

Cougar // fawn or cinnamon

Coyote // silver, gray or fawn

Crab // brown, lilac or fawn

Cranberry // red or ginger

Crane // light gray

Cricket // black or cream/fawn

Crow // black

Cuckoo // brown and white

Cypress // pale brown, tabby or not

Dandelion // cream

Dapple // spotted

Dark // any dark color

Dawn // cream, white or dilute calico

Deer // light brown

Dove // lilac/fawn, light gray, cream or white

Duck // gray/brown tabby

Dusk // tortoiseshell or dark ginger tabby

Eagle // black and white or brown and white

Eel // brown or black

Egret // white

Elk // brown

Elm // gray tabby

Ember // ginger

Evening // tortoiseshell or dark ginger tabby

Fire // ginger

Firefly // cream or white

Fog // gray or blue-gray/lilac

Fox // ginger and white

Frog // brown tabby

Gannet // white

Ginger // ginger

Goose // black and white

Grape // ginger or black

Gray // gray

Gull // gray and white

Hail // white or pale gray

Hare // light brown

Harrier // brown tabby

Hawk // brown tabby, with or without white

Hazel // brown

Heather // lilac

Heron // gray or brown

Holly // ginger or black

Hornet // cream tabby or tortoiseshell/calico

Ice // white

Jackdaw // black

Jaguar // fawn spotted tabby

Jay // blue-gray or gray (with or without tabby/white)

Juniper // blue-gray or black

Kestrel // dilute calico

Kite // gray

Ladybug // tortoiseshell or calico, full-color

Lark // brown tabby and white

Lavender // lilac

Lemon // cream

Leopard // fawn spotted tabby

Light // any bright color

Lightning // cream or white

Lilac // lilac

Lily // white

Lion // cream

Lotus // white

Magpie // black and white

Mantis // gray and white

Maple // ginger

Marigold // ginger

Mink // dark brown

Mist // blue-gray, lilac or dark gray

Moon // light gray, silver

Moose // brown

Morning // cream

Mud // brown

Mushroom // light brown

Night // black

Nightingale // light brown

Oak // brown

Opossum // silver or gray

Orange // ginger

Osprey // black and white or silver tabby

Otter // dark brown, with or without white

Owl // gray or brown tabby

Pale // cream, light gray or white

Palm // brown tabby

Patch // spotted with white

Peach // light ginger

Pebble // any shade of gray

Pelican // black and white or gray and white

Pigeon // any shade of gray

Plum // ginger

Poppy // ginger

Rabbit // light brown

Raccoon // gray and white

Rain // blue gray

Raspberry // ginger

Rattle // brown, gray or silver tabby

Raven // black

Red // red

Roach // brown or black

Robin // brown

Rock // any shade of gray

Rook // black, with or without white

Root // brown

Rose // ginger

Russet // ginger

Sand // cream

Seal // gray

Shade // black

Shadow // black

Shark // gray

Sheep // white, long furred

Silver // silver

Skunk // black and white

Sky // white or light gray/blue-gray

Slug // brown or grey tabby

Snail // brown tabby

Snow // white

Sole // brown

Spark // cream, white or ginger

Sparrow // brown tabby

Spider // brown or black

Spotted // spotted, any color

Spruce // dark brown

Squirrel // ginger or gray

Stag // light brown

Starling // black

Stone // any shade of gray

Storm // dark gray

Sun // cream

Swallow // brown and white

Swan // white

Swift // black and white

Tawny // fawn or lilac

Thunder // cream or white

Tiger // ginger tabby

Tortoise // gray or brown tabby

Trout // silver tabby

Tulip // white or cream

Turkey // brown tabby

Turtle // brown, gray or silver tabby

Violet // lilac

Vole // ginger or brown

Vulture // black

Walnut // brown

Wasp // cream tabby or tortoiseshell/calico

Weasel // brown and white or black and white

White // white

Willow // gray tabby

Wolf // gray

Wren // brown of any shade, with or without white

Suffixes

blaze // see “fire”

claw // good fighter

cloud // calm, rational

dapple // dappled pelt

dawn // caring, gentle

dusk // quiet, gentle

ear // good tracker and hunter

eye // good tracker

face // beautiful cat

fang // good hunter and fighter

feather // gentle, soft

fire // passionate, energetic

flame // see “fire”

flight // see “wing”

flower // gentle, likes kits

foot // good speed/endurance

frost // serious, intelligent

fur // no particular outsanding skill

heart // kind-hearted, loyal

hop // agile, swift

jump // see “hop”

leaf // only for medicine cats, skilled with working with herbs

leap // see “hop”

leg // see “foot”

light // cheerful, intelligent

nose // skilled at tracking

pelt // see “fur”

pond // calm, quiet

pool // see “pond”

pounce // see “hop”

shade // serious, intelligent

shine // see “light”

spark // cheerful, energetic

spirit // calm, intelligent

spring // see “hop”

stone // intelligent, quiet

storm // energetic, loyal

streak // good speed

stream // gentle, empathetic

strike // fast, good fighter

stripe // no particular oustanding skills, a tabby

tail // agile, good at climbing

tuft // see “fur”

watcher // calm, observant

whisker // good hunter

wing // soft, agile ------ UPDATES  ------ 09/10/19: added prefixes

#warrior cats #warriors #wc #names #name #dictionary

[mystxmomo]

Fic Title: it’s hard being a kid and growing up it’s hard and nobody understands

Summary: 

There’s blood on the grass, on his clothes, against his teeth.

Grant Wilson has just killed someone.

AO3 Tags: Roleswap Au, editor what editor, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Behavior, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, Underage Drug Use, In which five teenage boys, are forced to mature through shared trauma, and maybe learn to talk about feelings and stuff, Coming to terms with Parental Imperfections,  in the worst possible way

Chapter: 1/?

Ao3 link 

Or read on tumblr under the read more : > 

Lark Oak - Level One  Cleric 

Sparrow Oak - Level One Warlock 

Nicolas Close - Level One Rogue 

Terry Junior - Level One Wizard 

Grant Wilson - Level One Fighter 

❋ ❋ ❋

Grant Wilson had gotten into a fight with his father the morning of the 3rd.  

A spat, really. It’s the sort of squabble that only comes from a man that finds no respect in being late, and a son that only sort of kind of cares about the sport he’s playing. It’s the worst fight he’d thought he’d get into today. It was a consistent, routine and trivial.

But there’s blood on the grass and a blade in his hand. He’s standing in a field of wildflowers and flames, smoke catching on dried grass like his sweat on warm iron. There’s a tick in his head, like a bomb, counting down with every moment he stares down at the stream of red and gore. The body isn’t decomposed enough to smell rot. It’s warm under foot, and still squishes against his touch. Despite that, something similar sticks in his nose and lingers. A whiff of a smell that reminds him of maggots, of the dead mice the feral cats sometimes leave at their doorstep. 

It reminds him of the blood between his fingers, and the red in his eyes.

“Grant?” 

His head hurts.

“You can uh- You can lay off now. We’re fine. The other two ran off,” The words fall through static. Broken, and sticking, “Terry is fine, We’re all uh… Jesus christ.”

There’s a tremble through his form. Shallow, unrestraint, and completely, uncontrollably involuntary.

“Hey, is he going to be okay?” He hears someone say, with the same sort of tilted concern that comes when he gets knocked too hard by a ball. It doesn’t feel like he’s gotten hit though. His head pounds with the light, like theres too much going on and it’s just another cherry on the cake of uncertainty.

When he brings his hand up to shield his gaze away from the light, red smears on his cheek. 

“I ‘unno,” The same voice, he thinks. Sounds a little different. Not by much, “Maybe try moving him away from the body? He looks like he’s gonna be sick.” 

Someone grabs his arms, and he blinks. Lets go of the blade. It stands stiff in place, and when someone attempts to guide him away it’s met with a stumble. 

“Hey uh, do you want to. Go sit down?” 

There’s blood on the grass, on his clothes, against his teeth. 

Grant Wilson has just killed someone.

“I.. I don’t…” His body speaks without his input, but in turn moves with the same force. There’s a ringing in his ears that he’s not sure anyone else can hear, echoing in his skull as palpable as a battering ram on wood. They pull him away from the scene with hurry, hands lingering on his arm and feet stumbling with his weight.

He vomits once. Kneels over in his spot until the weight of hallow panic and worry has stopped echoing through his bones, then vomits again for good measure. 

The ringing in his ears has stopped by the time someone speaks to him again. The stoner kid, he thinks, when he sees black painted nails on tanned skin and smells something he can barely pinpoint as weed. 

“Uh,” He says. Then, just to confirm his suspicion (Because he by no means trusts his eyes at the time) “Nick?”

“Drink,” Nicholas says. It’s not an order, but it sort of feels like one. When he looks up, he realizes Nick has this short look on his face, like it’s not really something he’s willing to compromise on. And, his stomach is still dropping, and head is still spinning, and you need to understand. Grant’s never had a drop of alcohol a day before a day in his life.

.

(Well, that’s also not entirely true. His dad has his own brew, and sort of slips him sips at times. Gets this stupid look on his face and won’t leave him the hell alone until he says, “Yes, dad, it tastes great!” even though it sort of tastes like piss and smells like vomit and he just wants to get back to playing fortnite or something.)

.

Holy shit, he thinks again. For good measure, I just killed someone.

The bottle is already uncapped. It’s shoved close enough to his face that the smell of it burns his eyes.

He reaches over and steals the bottle, gulping down as much as he can before the alcohol burns his throat to the point that he’s forced back hacking out a lung. And, to Nick’s credit, it snaps him out of whatever stupor he’d been spiralling into. His nose wrinkles up, his eyes water, and he’s left gasping for some semblance of breath.

“Hey!! How come he gets some!?” One of the twins says (He doesn’t really know them well enough to say which, didn’t even realize he’d been standing there), around the same time Nick laughs out something of a startled, “Woah, okay, alright-”

“Where did you get this?” he asks. Mumbles it, really. Stares down at the bottle like it’s stabbed him personally, like it had forced itself onto his lips and made him drink. He drags his thumb around the top of the bottle in slow, calculated movements, wiping away spit and replacing it with.. Blood? 

“You know-” He doesn’t know, “The uh. Guy you stabbed had it on him?” He catches Nick making vague, loose gestures to the corpse. Smiles something guilty, but not guilty enough to have avoided handing him the bottle in the first place.

He takes another drink. He kind of wants to vomit again.

He wrinkles his nose again this time around, breaths out in a shiver. But he doesn’t like how the taste is already beginning to grow on him, doesn’t like that it’s what’s settling his stomach at the moment.

Lark. Uh. Sparrow?

The other twin, the one not standing over him like he’s waiting for him to give up the bottle, is standing over the body. Digging through it’s pockets like it’s the most natural thing to do in this situation. The sword still sticks out of his back, angled crooked and low. Like it’s made it’s home in flesh and bone.

And like.. He gets it. He plays, video games. Search the body, you know. But in the here, in the now. It feels wrong. Foreign. Despite being nowhere near the gore, he still tastes blood on his tongue.

‘“Lark! Lark, this guy has a knife!!”

 … That one must be Sparrow, then. He tries to note that in the back of his mind. It won’t stick- feels like white noise, in the moment. 

Lark lights up in front of him, already distracted from the disappointment of having his turn of alcohol taken from him, “We don’t need it! We have magic fingers!! Magic fingers that we can summon cool lasers with!” And then he darts off. And he’s left alone with Nick. 

“Sorry,” He says, after the silence grows too thick, and he realizes he’s not going to be able to stomach anymore of the bottle in his hands, “I don’t need this. Can you just…” He goes to shove it into Nick’s hands, but realizes too late that the other needs to fumble to catch it. A little tips out the side, scattering across the ground around them. Nick shoots him a dirty look, but it’s noncommittal and apathetic at best. 

“Where are we?” He finally asks, scrambling to pull himself up and off the ground. To at least pull himself away from the corpse. It only sort of works. He has enough energy in him to turn away from it, but not enough to move much farther from the spot he’d been sitting. He didn’t know much about drinking, but he was near sure it shouldn’t effect him as quickly as it did. 

“No clue!” 

“What happened here?”

“Still figuring that out,” 

If he feels bad about the vague sort of answers he’s giving, his face doesn't show it. But he supposes that’s just fine, because the questions he gives are robotic at best, and half hearted at worst. Nick takes his own swing of the bottle, squinting to try and read the label. 

A little under half the bottle is already gone. He’s almost positive it was near full when Nick had handed it off his way.

He feels woozy. 

“You’re helpful,” he says, but the tone of his voice comes off as far less venomous than he’d intended. Instead he sounds.. Weak. It’s enough that Nick turns his gaze from the bottle back to his face, actually dares to look him in eyes. 

“I woke up around the time you dashed forward to put blade through a guy,” Nick tells him, flops onto the ground next to him with the casualty of someone who’s seen this all before.

“I know-- eesssshhhhhh, maybe about as much as you do right now.” He takes the alcohol far smoother than Grant had, in quick, heavy gulps. If there’d been a little under half the bottle before, it’s near gone now, and Grant no longer feels bad about how much he’d stolen in his trauma.

Grant breaths. Nick laughs, though there’s no humor in it, “Oh man,” He says, flops back into the bed of flowers like he hopes it will cushion his fall, “We’re totally fucked!”

At least someone said it. 

There’s still smoke in the air, and it doesn’t take Grant more than a moment to realize it’s only growing. Blooming across the otherside of the field in an uncontrolled frenzy. If the twins are bothered by how close it seems to be pulling to them, neither of them give it any mind. In fact, one of them turns to send a stick spinning into the flames.

There’s a hole in the back of his throat. It burns with the fuel of his confusion, settles in a way that burns down his throat. He thinks, if he’s not careful, it might just overtake him.

The sword is still stuck in the man’s gut, and It somehow bothers him less.

“So,” He rests his chin against his knee. Something in him calms, “What’s this about lazer fingers?”

Nick pulls himself off the ground. Finishes off the bottle with a final swing, like it’s an unearned victory, “Ask them,” It’s not insistence, the way he says that. Instead, it’s blunt, it’s careless, and he walks away without another word to him.

Grant lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Uh. Hey.” 

When Terry speaks, he jumps. He’d forgotten he was here. Terry tilts his head down, but his eyes linger on the body. Studying it like he hadn’t even been looking at his phone throughout their entire interaction together, “Thanks. For stabbing them. Uh...” His hands grip his sleeve. 

If he catches the shine of blood on the others clothing, swiped against a pantleg like he’d rid himself of dirt, he doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, he simply nods in shallow slow motions, and finally finds the strength to pull himself up right. 

They need to move, he thinks, before the flames overtake them.

#Dndad #Dndads #Dungeon and Daddies #Dungeons and daddies

[monochrome-sunsets]

wc prefixes and suffixes

prefixes: Acorn, Adder, Alder, Aloe, Amber, Ant, Apple, Ash, Ashen, Aspen, Auburn, Babble, Badger, Barley, Basil, Bat, Bay, Bear, Beaver, Beech, Bee, Beetle, Berry, Birch, Bird, Black, Blaze, Blizzard, Bloom, Blossom, Blue, Bluebell, Blueberry, Bone, Borage, Boulder, Bounce, Bracken, Bramble, Brave, Breeze, Briar, Bright, Brindle, Bristle, Broken, Brook, Brown, Brush, Bubble, Bumble, Burning, Burn, Buzzard, Buzz, Cave, Cedar, Cherry, Chestnut, Chirp, Chive, Cinder, Claw, Clay, Clear, Cliff, Cloud, Cloudy, Clove, Clover, Coal, Cold, Copper, Cotton, Creek, Cricket, Crooked, Crouch, Crow, Cypress, Daisy, Dandelion, Dapple, Dappled, Dark, Dawn, Dead, Deer, Dew, Doe, Dove, Downy, Drift, Drizzle, Duck, Dune, Dusk, Dust, Dusty, Eagle, Ebony, Echo, Eel, Elder, Elm, Ember, Elk, Falcon, Fallen, Falling, Fallow, Fawn, Feather, Fennel, Fern, Ferret, Finch, Fire, Fish, Flame, Flare, Flash, Fleet, Flint, Flood, Flower, Flurry, Fog, Forest, Fox, Freckle, Frog, Frost, Frozen, Gentle, Ginger, Golden, Goose, Gorge, Gorse, Grass, Green, Grey, Grizzled, Grouse, Gull, Gust, Hail, Half, Hare, Haven, Hawk, Hay, Hazel, Heather, Heavy, Hemlock, Heron, Hickory, Hill, Hive, Hollow, Holly, Honey, Hop, Hornet, Hound, Hush, Ice, Icy, Iris, Ivy, Jagged, Jay, Jump, Juniper, Kestrel, Kindle, Kink, Lake, Larch, Lark, Laurel, Lavender, Leaf, Leopard, Lichen, Light, Lightning, Lilac, Lily, Lion, Little, Lizard, Long, Lost, Loud, Lynx, Mallow, Maple, Marigold, Marsh, Meadow, Minnow, Mint, Missing, Mist, Mistle, Misty, Mole, Morning, Moss, Mossy, Moth, Mottle, Mottled, Mountain, Mouse, Mud, Muddy, Mumble, Myrtle, Needle, Nettle, Newt, Night, Nut, Oak, Oat, Ocean, Odd, Olive, One, Orchid, Osprey, Otter, Owl, Pale, Parsley, Patch, Peach, Pear, Pearl, Pebble, Perch, Petal, Pheasant, Pigeon, Pike, Pine, Pink, Plum, Pond, Pool, Poppy, Pounce, Prickle, Puddle, Quail, Quick, Quiet, Rabbit, Ragged, Raccoon, Rain, Rat, Raven, Red, Reed, Ripple, Rising, River, Robin, Rock, Root, Rose, Rowan, Rubble, Running, Rush, Russet, Rust, Rusty, Rye, Sage, Sand, Sandy, Sap, Scorch, Scratch, Sea, Sedge, Seed, Shade, Shadow, Sharp, Sheep, Shell, Shining, Shore, Short, Shred, Shrew, Shrub, Shy, Silent, Silk, Silver, Skip, Skunk, Sky, Slate, Sleet, Slush, Small, Smoke, Smudge, Snag, Snail, Snake, Snow, Soft, Song, Soot, Sorrel, Spark, Sparrow, Speckled, Speckle, Spider, Splash, Splinter, Spotted, Spring, Spruce, Squirrel, Stag, Starling, Stoat, Stone, Stork, Storm, Stream, Striped, Stumpy, Sun, Sunny, Swallow, Swan, Sweet, Swift, Tabby, Tall, Talon, Tangle, Tansy, Tawny, Thistle, Thorn, Thrush, Thunder, Thyme, Tiger, Timber, Tiny, Toad, Torrent, Torn, Tortoise, Trout, Tulip, Tumble, Turtle, Twig, Twilight, Valley, Velvet, Vine, Violet, Viper, Vole, Vulture, Wasp, Water, Wave, Weasel, Web, Weed, White, Wild, Willow, Wind, Wolf, Wren, Yarrow, Yellow, Yew

suffixes: adder, ant, apple, ash, aspen, babble, bark, beam, bee, belly, berry, bite, bird, blaze, bloom, blossom, blotch, bounce, bramble, briar, branch, breeze, briar, bright, brook, bud, burn, burr, bush, call, chaser, catcher, cherry, chive, cinder, claw, cloud, clover, cough, crawl, creek, crest, crow, cry, curl, current, daisy, dance, dapple, dawn, drop, dove, dusk, dust, ear, echo, eye, eyes, face, fall, fallow, fang, feather, fern, field, fire, flake, flame, flare, flash, flight, flood, flower, flurry, fox, foot, freckle, frond, frost, fur, gaze, gleam, grass, grove, gorse, hail, hare, hawk, haze, heart, heather, holly, hop, hush, ice, iris, ivy, jay, jaw, jump, leaf, kelp, kestrel, lake, larch, lark, lavender, leaf, leap, leg, lichen, light, lilac, lily, lion, lizard, lotus, mallow, marsh, mask, meadow, mint, mist, moss, moth, mouse, murmur, needle, nettle, nose, nut, oak, oat, olive, patch, path, pelt, perch, petal, pigeon, pool, pond, poppy, pounce, puddle, quail, quill, rain, rat, raven, rapid, reed, ridge, ripple, rise, river, root, rose, rubble, runner, rush, sage, sand, scar, screech, sedge, seed, shade, shadow, shell, shine, sight, skip, sky, slate, slip, smoke, snow, song, soot, sparrow, spark, speck, speckle, splash, spot, spots, spring, stalk, step, stem, sting, stone, storm, stream, streak, stride, strike, stripe, stone, sun, swipe, swoop, tail, talon, thicket, thistle, thorn, throat, thunder, trail, tooth, tuft, tumble, vine, vole, water, watcher, weed, whisker, willow, wind, wing, wish, whisper

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