#Graveyard Dirt & Salt

[starb3rrys]

I've read your Tecchou breaking down... so would you mind doing the same but for Chuuya?(if it hasn't been done yet)

Like our baby needs to, considering how much he had gone through...

(Also, the comforting person can be either a genderless person or maybe Dazai... your choice)

Thank you ❤️

Aww, you’re right, poor Chuuya needs more love! I have never read stormbringer so take everything I write with a grain of salt. In addition, I apologize for the long wait but I do hope you enjoy this! ＼(٥⁀▽⁀ )/

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Tired Nights

Chuuya x GN!Reader

Slight angst, Fluff/Comfort

Scenario: The death anniversary of the flags was right around the corner, Chuuyas mood always seemed to be at an all time low around this time of year. Hateful thoughts, regrets, and pain flooded his mind...I suppose even the strongest of people could admit defeat at the eyes of the past || Tecchou Ver.

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On a quiet afternoon, the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the numerous graves of once lively people. Your eyes scanned the quiescent area, locking onto a familiar figure sitting by five lone tombstones atop a hill.

Leaves crunched under your feet as you walked, alerting the once calm man. "Oh, it's just you.", the man said with a small sigh. "Yep, just boring old me.", you said with a neutral tone as you sat on the grass next to the man. "How'd you even find me here? Stalking me now?", the man said with an unintentionally annoyed tone.

"Oh come on, Ive known you for how many years now, Chuuya? I know you like the back of my hand...just like how I know that around this season, every year without fail, you disappear without a word and come to this graveyard.", your voice was confident as you looked at Chuuya, taking notice of his tired eyes.

Your gaze switched to the five untouched gravestones, each reading a different name but sharing the same death day. "Were they close to you?", the question left your lips in a quiet whisper. Chuuya scoffed, "That doesn't even scratch the surface...", Chuuyas hand softly swiped some dirt off one of the gravestones. "They were like my family, honestly, the only real family I've ever had."

Your once confident smile faltered into a small frown, it was rare to see Chuuya like this as you could practically hear the sadness dripping in his tone. "What happened to them?", you asked curiously.

Chuuya let out a shaky breath, "Selfish acts made by selfish people.", he grimaced. "Do you miss them?", sympathy present in your voice.

"Of course I do.", Chuuya said with a serious yet gentle tone."They were good people--maybe not in the eyes of others--but they lived fighting for my happiness...and died for my well-being...", his voice wavered. "Hey...it's not your faul-" "BUT IM NOT INNOCENT EITHER!!", Chuuya cut you off.

Your eyes widened at the sight of Chuuyas face; tears streaming down his face, teeth clenched as his eyes were glaring at you.

"I SHOULD'VE BEEN THERE! I SHOULD'VE KNOWN!", Chuuya let all of his frustrations out. "Chuuya you couldn't have known-" "BUT I SHOULD'VE! I SHOULD'VE DONE MORE! IF I CANT EVEN SAVE THOSE CLOSE TO ME, THEN WHAT IS THE POINT OF HAVING THIS OVERPOWERED ABILIT-Mnh...", Chuuya is cut off as he felt your soft lips on his, after a few seconds he melts into the kiss, instantly calming him down. You pull away and caress his hair, tucking a strand behind his ear, "Its okay...".

Chuuya tears up and moves into your arms, his head resting against your chest as quiet sobs left him. "I miss them so much..." "I know, shh... I know...".

Chuuya let out a broken chuckle, "If they could see me now, they'd probably laugh."

You kissed the top of his head, "They definitely would, you have a lot of snot and boogers right now", a giggle following your playful comment.

Chuuya rolled his eyes and sniffled against your chest, "Shut up..."

"You know you love me, Chuuya~", "Do I?", he asked sarcastically.

You both snickered, bodies close to one another as night overtook the sky...

EXTRA:

"The flags would have definitely liked you..." "Really? How so?" "Cause you're a huge pain in my ass, they'd find you funny." "I mean- not to BRAG or anything, but I make one of the port mafia executives laugh on a daily." "Really? What idiot would laugh at your lame jokes?" "I WAS TALKING ABOUT YO-"

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I love the pookie Chuuya, sadly I'm too lazy to read the translated version of stormbringer without the pictures. I always like making the reader playful yet kind with the characters, mostly because I find that dynamic funny. (Im sorry.) Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this story I did in the backseat of my car...16 hour roadtrip!! SEND HELP

#bsd chuuya #chuuya x reader #chuuya angst #bsd x reader #bsd fanfic #bsd #light angst #comfort #anime

[supernaturalfreewill]

You brushed the soil from your palms as Dean held out an ice cold beer for you that he’d retrieved from a cooler in the Impala. “Thanks,” you said, accepting it. The condensation dripped ice cold over your fingers.

He popped the top on his own and took a swig before glancing back over at you. He smiled and you felt your heart jump in your chest. 

“What?” you prompted him. 

“You’ve got some dirt on your cheek,” he said, gesturing to his own cheekbone.

“Oh.” You swiped a few fingers over it but Dean let out a low laugh. 

“Yeah, never mind. It’s way worse now,” he said.

You looked at your palms in the glow of the lantern. They were still rather dirty. “Yeah, that makes sense. Oh, well.” You looked out over the stillness of the graveyard, blanketed in velvety folds of shadow. “Didn’t you say graveyard dirt is used in some spells or something? Should we grab some before we go?”

“Mmm,” Dean hummed, swallowing another gulp of his beer, “Yeah. Probably a good idea. You never know when you’ll need shit like that.” The only sound for a moment was the chirp of a lone cricket nearby and a quiet rustling as the breeze tickled the leaves on the large sycamore overhead.

You let out a light laugh and Dean met your eyes again. “Of all the places you could bring me on a date... a salt and burn case in a cemetery.” You shook your head and he shrugged.

“Yeah, but would any of them have been as memorable? Hey—you said you were curious about the hands on stuff. It was a nice, easy case... I thought you’d enjoy it! Besides, it’s nice and quiet here and we’ve got the place to ourselves... no nosy neighbors.” He flashed you that boyish smirk that drove you wild. “It’s nicely landscaped. Well-manicured lawn...”

“Except for the giant pile of freshly disturbed earth and six foot deep hole,” you pointed out, picking up a handful of soil and playfully tossing it at him. It made a satisfying sound as it sprayed against his leather jacket.

“Yeah, except that,” he laughed. 

“Well, listen, if you think you’re getting lucky in a graveyard you’ve got another thing coming...”

“Damn,” he laughed, clearing his throat a second later. “Can I suggest we move to the back seat of the car then?”

You felt your face flush with heat but laughed heartily. “On the first official date and you think I’m going to agree to that? Nice try, Dean.”

“Ahh, well,” he shrugged. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Can’t blame a guy for tryin’.” 

#dean winchester imagines #dean drabbles #spn drabbles #supernatural fics #fanfiction #dean x reader #dean winchester x y/n #reader insert #dean x you

[theangryweasel]

That's right, you heard it here first!

Homestuck Candles now for Sale!

Purchase here, list of current stock and their scents below the read more.

Aradia Megido: Black cherry, graveyard dirt, and petrichor

Sollux Captor: Honey, sage, citrus, and apple.

Karkat Vantas: Black coffee, maraschino cherries, and warm cotton sweaters

Eridan Ampora: Sea salt, violets, ozone, and damp scarves.

John/June Egbert: Blue razzberry gushers, fresh air, coconut, and bright lime.

Roxy Lalonde: Cotton candy, orchids, and sea spray.

Jake English: Pine, cedar, cut wood, woodsmoke, and caramel popcorn.

All currently $11 each with a minimum of $6 shipping per order. If you don't see your favorite character, I have a suggestion form here, and a commission form here if you just can't wait. I can do just about any fandom or character as long as you're willing work with me!

#homestuck #aradia #sollux #karkat #eridan #John Egbert #June egbert #Roxy Lalonde #Jake English #aradia Megido #sollux captor #Karkat vantas #eridan ampora #candle #small business

[howlingday]

So, i have one ideia for The Jaune Werewolf AU: Silver and Salt.

Werewolves in Mythology have weakness to Silver Bullets, as we ALL know, but Brazilian Mythology says Werewolves fear Holy itens like Holy Water and Salt. You Can do Blake trying to feed him Salty food and him saying he has pressure problems or something similar.

Oh and there's also The thing of in Brazil werewolves Normally have at least 7 older sisters. If you want to know more about Mythology you can dm me.

Previously

It had been a few months since Jaune came forward about all the secrets he'd kept from his friends, and yet the biggest secret had remained all the more kept from them. But these secrets would not stay hidden for long. Blake had been hot on the trail of this Jaune Arc since his reveal to her that he was creature of the night.

...Okay, maybe it wasn't exactly that and maybe that term could use a bit of an update, but her point still stands: Jaune needs to come forward and admit that he is a werewolf, just like all of his kin! ...Okay, wow, these are some really aggressive statements she's making, but they're all with good intentions, she swears!

...Okay, that's enough thinking.

Instead, it was time to focus from the past to the present, in which she is following Jaune on one of his nightly walks. What started as a once a month gradually grew into a once every other night for the young werewolf. Blake noticed this increased departure and now decided to start following why he'd do this so suddenly.

He made his way out of the city, taking the bus to the outskirts where the cemetery sat. The two departed and entered the resting place of many a civilian and huntsman. Sadly, not all of these tombs were filled, instead replaced by a cherished memento of the dearly departed, as there were many an instance when the body couldn't be found, or worse, couldn't be buried in so little plots with so many pieces.

Blake kept her distance, though she and Jaune both paid to enter the cemetery. Due to the natural increase of negative emotions that may occur while attending, two huntresses had to be paid protection fees when visitors came. Thus far, no Grimm had even wounded their prey upon their reveal. Whatever the kingdom did to ensure the safety of it's mourners, it did well enough with their current plan.

"Oy! Water you doin ear?!" Blake flinched at the gruff voice. Looking up, she saw a burly man, hunched over like his head and shoulders were too heavy to be supported by his back. He had a tooth jutting out of his lower lip, which was extended further than his upper lip, and swollen left eye that she was sure impairing his eyesight. "Shooden you be up in the clouds?"

Was he shouting at a ghost who had left the graveyard? Or maybe an angel who'd descended to Remnant with a prophecy? Or perhaps-

"I'm back for another lesson~!"

Or it was another case of Jaune being Jaune, making all sorts of new friends wherever he goes.

"Anudder one?" The hunched man rubbed his chin. "Iza furteenth tem this week!"

"Yeah, I guess it is!" Jaune said with a laugh. "But I'm curious what else you can teach me!"

"Foin! Foin!" He waved his hands in the air. "Bet only after yeh tell me aboot yerself!" He hobbled away from Jaune. "Nah errynigh I getta tuk up a where wulf."

"Sure, sure." Jaune chuckled. "But, uh, I don't know about being a werewolf. It kinda makes me sound like a monster."

"Buh thaz what ya err!" The gent said as he approached a grave, before smacking it's stone with his cane. He then tossed Jaune a shovel. "Ta dig wit ya!"

Jaune nodded, digging his blade into the dirt before the headstone. She'd heard many stories about werewolves digging into graves to consume the corpses inside. Such a horrifying thought made her stomach churn, but still she crept closer. She had to see for herself.

"Noof!" Jaune stopped, looking to the gravekeeper. "Ah, juss a fyoo way froom a meeder!" Jaune began refilling the hole. "Yoos yer back en shoolders!"

"Yes, sir!"

"An whattaya sistas? Ya had seven?"

"Yup! All older sisters!" Jaune patted the ground. "And before you ask, no, they're not werewolves."

"Ull bleeve it win uh sees it."

Blake crept closer, noticing Jaune's muscular back facing her. By everything she considered precious, he was built like a wall of animal hair and endurance. She started imagining rubbing it as he laid in their bed, before turning over and grabbing her and-

"OY! WATER YOU DOIN EAR?!" Blake jumped at the sudden shout in her ears. "Nuh uh ya degenerates err loud in ear!"

"Blake?" She looked up to see Jaune towering over him. "When did you get here?"

Blake prepared for this moment! She thrust forward an emblem from Menagerie; a dual-sided mask with opposing horns. She waved it around, keeping her feet firm in the ground. She never really believed in the God of Animals, but if just this once, she could- "Ow!"

"Doon be shaygin that ear!" The gravekeeper shouted, shaking his cane. "It raddles up the ghosties!"

"Blake, were you following me?" She looked into Jaune's eyes, immediately regretting her decision as she fell for his big, blue puppy-dog eyes.

"Y-Yes..." Blake sighed. "You kept sneaking out, so I thought you might have been..."

"Oh... I get it now." Suddenly, he caught her in his powerful grip. "You were worried about me." He looked to his friend, though Blake didn't notice because she was in hairy, muscular heaven~. "I'll take it from here, Mr. Damp. Thanks again for tonight's lesson."

"Dinna minshun it." He then shook his cane at Blake. "Bet be worry aboot that one. She ruhminds me of me wife!"

#rwby #my answer #my answers #jaune is a werewolf #werewolf au #jaune arc #blake belladonna #knightshade #rwby au

[zmediaoutlet]

ww: letters (5)

for the @wincestwednesdays prompt: withdrawal

I spent two hours at a coffee shop talking to a woman. Complete accident. I asked to read her paper if she was done with it and she wondered if I had a phone charger she could borrow. She was eating a chocolate muffin and said she was an addict and smiled in that way people do when they know the joke is lame but they’re also not really joking. She said then that she was going to a meeting in the church across the park but she didn’t like that it was in a church. The whole higher power thing isn’t for her. I asked if the steps really helped or if it was just the talking and she said mostly it was the really shitty coffee that kept her coming back. She was cute. She missed her meeting and gave me her number. You’d be proud.

I actually looked at the steps, once. Higher power, fearless moral inventory, making amends. Turns out I was hitting them all pretty spot-on, for a few years there. But there was this thing that they insisted on, with the language—that you’re never recovered, you’re always in recovery; that you always are, and never were. Maybe that fits with the sort of stuff people go to meetings for. They never exactly formed a group for what I had. I mean, can you imagine. Hi, I’m Sam Winchester, and I—

Not a drop in fifteen years, nor a craving for one. That’s not denial. It really did carve out of me clean. Like someone cored a hole right through the middle and cauterized it and the skin grew over without a scar. Even versions of me that only wanted power or answers or to fix everything with a snap of my fingers—going back to that really never was an option. No meetings necessary.

I left the coffee shop and sat in the park. Sunset and then dusk. Cold still but spring’s starting to creep through. The sky to the east a thin deep blue. I watched it get dark and got that old second wind. Still half-expecting to get a call and start running. Still, despite everything, despite this whole year, expecting that I’ll hear that monster engine turn the corner and I’ll hear the horn and I’ll turn and even if I can’t see through the window in the dark I’ll get up and I’ll get in the passenger seat and we’ll go—to a graveyard, to a bar, to a drive-in playing a shitty zombie double feature, to a motel on the outskirts of town with ugly wallpaper and a shower in contention for worst in the country and there’ll be two beds because despite everything there were always two beds, whether we were fighting or whether we were good, and there’ll be the TV on the news muted and there’ll be a twelve-pack on the table and the heater rattling under the window and the smell like smoke, grease, and the warm salt there at the back of your neck where you’d tip your head forward when I came up behind you and you let me—when you let me get away with a lot. You let me get away with a lot.

The keys are in my pocket. I’ve balled my hands into a knot between my knees and my heart’s pounding sick and high in my throat. Across the park the church has people pouring out a side-door. Holding styrofoam coffee cups, cigarettes little orange flares in the dark. I tip my face up at the dark sky and feel my cold lips and nose and ears and let the adrenaline drain through my skin, dropping to the bare dirt below.

There’s no admission to a higher power. No moral inventory to account for and no amends to make because there’s nothing I’d apologize for, now, and nothing I’d change. I will practice this principle in all my affairs.

It’s never going to be were. We are. And, Dean—

#wincest wednesday #wincest #my writing #happy wincest wednesday

[gothamsgaygirlgang]

that post I reblogged reminded me that I have never posted this sketch of the wonderful @spyvstailor character Benny from their Graveyard Dirt & Salt series so have it now

#my art #its a couple years old now and you can tell but it still looks good

[melanieathene]

Suptober 2023 Day 3 - Inspired

It had been the day from hell. Nothing had gone right on a hunt which was supposed to be easy-peasy: a simple salt and burn; a no brainer for a seasoned hunter like himself. Dean was supposed to return to the Bunker in triumph, not bruised and limping, covered with graveyard dirt and weary to the bone. Sure, the ghost had eventually been laid to rest, but at what cost?

“I'm getting too old for this.” Dean sighed, and rested his head against the Impala's steering wheel, trying to summon up enough energy to get out of the car.

All he wanted to do was grab a quick shower and tumble into bed. He was hungry, but food could wait till the morning. Head hanging low, he headed towards his room, so lost to introspection and self-recriminations that he almost stumbled into the surprise that literally lay at his feet.

Scented candles lined either side of the Bunker's hallway, pointedly illuminating a path that was meant to be followed.

“Damned fire hazard,” Dean griped, blowing out candles one by one as he slowly made his way to the bathroom door. His eyes were watering from the curling plumes of smoke by the time he reached the trail's end. The cloying scent of the candles, and the exertion necessary to extinguish them all, left him slightly short of breath.

“At least they're sandalwood, not some frou-frou flower shit,” he muttered. “Sam had that much sense at least.” Obviously, his little brother was planning on getting some, and had gone all out to impress a lady friend.

But Sam was miles away, working a case with Jody... Was this Sam's idea of a joke?

Dean turned the doorknob and warily peeked inside. He was met with a billowing cloud of steam which revealed yet more candles once the mist lifted. Candles of all shapes and sizes perched on every available surface: lining the perimeter of the room; balancing on the edge of the tub; reflecting in the mirror, giving the room a soothing, golden glow.

A fluffy white towel lay on the counter. An equally fluffy white robe hung from a hook on the bathroom door. Scattered rose petals laid an inviting path to a steaming hot bubble bath. Lavender scented water, if his nose correctly identified the smell

“What the hell?” Dean exclaimed. “Who the fuck used up all the hot water if it wasn't Sam? Cas? Since when does he bathe?”

He trailed a hand through the bubbles; the temperature was perfect, offering the much needed relief his sore muscles craved.

“No sense in letting all this go to waste.” he said and quickly shrugged out of his clothes, leaving them in a pile well back from any flame.

“Ahhhh,” he sighed, as the welcoming water enveloped him. He tilted his head back and relaxed. He could easily have fallen asleep, and maybe did doze off for a few minutes, but the cooling water and sputter of dying candles roused him enough to crawl out and dry himself off. The towel was indeed soft and fluffy. His clothes were too disgusting to put back on...

The white robe wasn't really his style (he preferred his dead guy robe), but it was there, it was clean and dry, and it proved to be even softer than the towel.

Barefooted, he shuffled across the room and opened the bathroom door.

The candles in the hall were burning brightly again.

“Huh,” he said, and followed their lead back to his bedroom. “There better not be rose petals on my bed,” he grumbled.

There weren't.

But, of course, there were more candles. And, on his nightstand, a hamburger was carefully centered on a plate, an opened bottle of beer standing beside it. Clean sheets were on his bed, the covers folded back, ready for him to crawl in.

Castiel was there too, his back turned to the door. He must not have heard Dean's silent approach. He was too intent on removing a box from a grocery bag without tilting the contents.

“Ha! Caught you!”

Castiel spun around so fast the box almost flew out of his hands. “Dean!” he said.

“Whatcha doin', Cas?”

“Uh... I-- I just--” Castiel sputtered. “Before he left, Sam mentioned you've been tense lately. I found a magazine that suggested various methods of reducing stress. It inspired me. And I thought... I thought maybe...”

“Is this a seduction, Cas?”

“W-what? I-- No! I--” Castiel's cheeks turned an alarming shade of red.

Dean folded his arms across his chest and unsuccessfully tried to suppress a smile.

A frown creased Castiel's brow as their eyes met and held.

“Would... Would you like it to be?”

“That depends. Is there pie in that box?”

“There is.”

Dean crossed the room and gently took the box from Castiel's hands, setting it down next to the beer on the nightstand.

“Then my answer is yes,” Dean whispered, as he took the angel in his arms. “It's always been yes. All you had to do was ask.”

#Suptober #suptober23 #suptober23 day 3 #destiel #spn #supernatural #Dean Winchester #Castiel

[dross-the-fish]

Silly, but, perhaps a drabble of Adam catching anon fainting?

(and sorry, this is probably bit of a boring request 😅)

Some gore in the beginning. Gets rather fluffy towards the end. Sorry to put Anon through some ordeals but I had to think of a reason for them to faint. ..... “Adam’s destroying the last of the coffins in that den as we speak. Anon, would you be so kind as to go and check on him? He might need a hand and the rest of us have our hands full digging up these graves,” said Watson as he pressed a torch into their hands, handed them a jar of salt and pointed them to the opening to a small crypt. Anon couldn’t help but chuckle a little as they watched Larry, muzzle planted in a fresh grave, burrow away with his large forepaws while Quincey protested that he was getting dirt everywhere.

Destroying empty dens during the night had become a regular task and Anon thought little of It. It was simple enough, smash or burn the empty boxes and then scatter salt over the earth the vampires slept on. Without refuge they would no longer have a place to hide from the sun and would perish come morning. While this wouldn’t help with vampires born on English soil it was sufficient take care of certain members of Dracula’s brood.

Holding the torch before them Anon entered the crypt. Being fairly new to the crew they were not yet burdened with heavy tasks and so were unprepared for what they would find once they entered the main chamber. Adam was wrestling a large, bat-like creature out of an ornate coffin. The creature screeched and clawed at him, biting at his arms and trying to twist its body away but Adam dragged it to the floor, pressed a heavy foot against its back and brought the claw end of his hammer down on the unfortunate vampire’s skull. Bone split and bloody chunks sprayed across the stone floor. The creature fluttered helplessly, like a moth pinned by a spider. With one final CRACK! it went limp and stilled. Panting Adam straightened, curled his lip, and ground his heel into the mess. “What misfortune that this one chose to sleep in while his brethren took flight. Ah, well, now he sleeps once more and ne’er again shall the dusk rouse him from the slumber I have supplied,” he muttered darkly.

For anon, it was too much. The sight, the sound, the smell, all of it, instantly overwhelmed their senses and sudden cloud of grey descended over them. Before they could hit the ground Adam had rushed to their side and caught them, lifting them to his chest as easily as if they were a child.

“Alas, now you sleep too! Soft-hearted thing that you are, you are not made for the violence of our work. It’s alright! I shall relieve you the sight of this carnage and you shall wake once out in the clean night air,” he said with the barest hint of affection as he settled Anon in his arms.

To his relief as soon as they had cleared the dank tomb and Adam had carried them to a clearing beyond the graveyard, Anon began to stir. Still woozy they gripped Adam’s coat and leaned their head into his shoulder.

“Easy there, breathe slowly, I’ve got you,” Adam soothed them, sitting down on the grass with them.

“Blood…so much b-blood,” Anon stammered.

Adam rubbed their back, “Are you going to be sick?” he asked furrowing his brown in concern.

“N-no. I was-I was surprised,” they said, trembling from head to foot as they drew their knees up to their chest.

Adam fished around in his coat pocket for a flask, “Here, I have some water, sip it,” he instructed.

Anon’s hands shook so badly that Adam cupped the back of their head and pressed the flask to their lips to help them drink, “There we go, drink slowly. I’m sorry I couldn’t forewarn you. We didn’t expect a live vampire to be there after dusk.”

Anon rocked back and forth a little, hugging their knees tightly. Adam sighed and stretched out on the grass, patting a soft spot next to him.

“I find that when I am distressed it does me good to admire the splendor of nature. There is a wonderful starlit blanket above us tonight, would you like me to tell you their names? For 100 years I have collected the writings of sailors and I know each constellation and every planet.”

Anon uncurled enough to lie back next to him following his hand as he pointed out start clusters. Before long their dizziness was forgotten, in its place a comforting warmth had settled and they let Adam carry on their stargazing until Watson finally called them back.

[honeyweaselcandles]

Candle Catalogue

Here you can find a list of all the candles I have on offer, with a link to the page to buy them and a description of the scent of said candle. It will also contain my commission information, all under the read more.

Commissions

Linked above is my commission form, once submitted I will look it over and contact you when I am ready to begin discussing it with you. Depending on other orders/commissions/my own schedule, I may not get back to you right away. Commissioned candles are, of course, more customizable than my premade variety. If you want a specific kind of vessel for your candle, for example, provided you have the funds I can make something different than my usual metal tins.

Commissioned candles do not have to be fandom related. You're welcome to commission a candle with a specific scent you like and can't find elsewhere, for religious purposes, or just about any reason you can think of. You could also commission a candle I make already, with modifications, in a different container or subbing out a scent. You could make your own blend for a character I already offer, anything at all is on the table.

If you do get a commission in my standard 4 oz tin as many people do, however, here are my prices:

To clarify: if I already own the scents necessary for what you want, there will be no extra charge. If I need to purchase new ones because I don't own them yet, that is what would cost extra.

Pre-made Candles

Here I will list all of my currently available candles and their scents, with links attached.

Julian Devorak: Orchid, rosemary, seasalt, black coffee, and a hint of leather. (Tealight Link)

Egbert: Fresh air, light florals, white musk, coconut, zingy lime, bright blue razzberry gushers. (Tealight Link)

Rose Lalonde: Roses, lilac, fresh rain, and old books. (Tealight Link)

Jade Harley: Green leaves, fresh fallen snow, turned earth, and light musk. (Tealight Link)

Dave Strider: Juicy apple, thyme, sandalwood, jasmine, and vinyl. (Tealight Link)

Jane Crocker: French vanilla, almond cupcakes, and tobacco smoke. (Tealight Link)

Roxy Lalonde: Sweet cotton candy, orchids, and sea spray. (Tealight Link)

Jake English: Caramel popcorn, pine, cut wood, cedar, and woodsmoke. (Tealight Link)

Dirk Strider: Orange soda, teakwood, amber, hints of motor oil and steel. (Tealight link)

Sollux Captor: Honey, apple, sage, lemon and citrus. (Tealight Link)

Aradia Megido: Graveyard dirt, black cherry, and petrichor. (Tealight Link)

Tavros Nitram: Worn playing cards, rock sea cliffs, warm caramel, and coconut. (Tealight Link)

Karkat Vantas: Warm cotton sweaters, coffee, and maraschino cherry. (Tealight Link)

Vriska Serket: Blood orange, grapefruit, lemon, ginger, and steel. (Tealight Link)

Nepeta Leijon: Dry leaves, dirt, chamo-meow-ile, mint, and a touch of patchouli. (Tealight Link)

Kanaya Mayram: Rosemary, blackberries, pepper, clean linens, and steel. (Tealight Link)

Terezi Pyrope: Dragon's blood and fruity red kool-aid. (Tealight Link)

Gamzee Makara: Baked goods, lime, cannabis, and sea salt. (Tealight Link)

Eridan Ampora: Violets, cashmere scarves, crackling ozone, and sea spray. (Tealight Link)

Feferi Peixes: Ocean air, teakwood, fresh strawberries, and sakura blossoms. (Tealight Link)

Calliope: Brown sugar, linen, books, and lime. (Tealight Link)

Frog Candles

Green Frog:

Pink Frog:

Gay Pride Frog:

Trans Pride Frog:

Bi Pride Frog:

Nonbinary Pride Frog:

Lesbian Pride Frog:

#homestuck #candle #candles #fandom #small business #fan creator #nepeta leijon #dirk strider #rose lalonde #dave strider #julian devorak #jake english #sollux captor #eridan ampora #gamzee makara #calliope #the arcana

[thewitchoftheweed]

Crossing Paths

The village is silent. 

Shamura stays cautious as they approach, a laughably short dagger clutched tightly in one of their hands. As always, Kallamar presses close, almost to the point of tripping on Shamura’s cloak. His tiny tentacles grip their clothes, small black eyes searching every shadow for hidden dangers. 

As they get closer, they expect to at least see some lights on in the windows. People walking home, or talking with their neighbors. They see a hole half-dug. They see bodies bound in white sheets, in piles. Kallamar is now visibly shaking. They still haven’t convinced him to wield a weapon, even in self-defense. He just cries. 

“Maybe we should leave,” Kallamar whispers.

Shamura listens hard for any sign of life. Spiders aren’t known for their excellent hearing, but years of surviving on their own have forced them to be observant. They expect coughing, groaning, anything. But there’s nothing. 

They reach the village center. All the shops and homes are dark. There are more piles of bodies here, all hastily wrapped in sheets. Some are beginning to decompose where they lay, staining the linen of their shrouds. Kallamar wraps four tentacles around one of Shamura’s arms, as though the corpses might reanimate at any second and attack. Shamura feels a sense of grim recognition settle over them. No natural plague kills this completely. 

The statue in the center of the village all but confirms it. A lion goddess, Baast, stands as a stoic witness to the destruction. She holds a bowl that could contain a fire, but the ashes have long gone cold. A divine plague, another community abandoned by their deity. 

They will find no one to trade with here, only graves to rob. Shamura sighs. “They’re all dead, Kallamar. They can’t hurt you.”

“What if there’s a necromancer nearby?” he asks, voice trembling.

“Then we have bigger problems. Come on; we may be able to find something we can use.” They have to practically drag Kallamar into the first hut. It’s thankfully empty; perhaps its occupants are already wrapped in sheets outside. Shamura starts opening drawers, cabinets, chests, whatever they can find. There isn’t much to take; some dried herbs, a couple of quilts, a singular smoked fish. They move to the next house. 

“I don’t like it here, Mura,” Kallamar says. He’s no longer clinging to them like a flea, but he doesn’t dare stray further than a couple feet. “This place is cursed. We should leave.”

“We need food,” Shamura insists. The cold hard truth of the matter is they might be the first to find this blighted village. They could go years without seeing a scavenging opportunity this bountiful. “Let’s just look around some more. Hold my hand if you’re scared.” 

A little tentacle once again wraps around their nearest free hand. They give it a reassuring squeeze and keep moving. Some of the buildings are occupied, but none of the residents ever stir. They lie in their beds, on the dirt floor, curled up in agony or lying as though sleeping. 

But at least there’s a decent amount of scavenge. They find a number of tools and utensils, several more quilts, smoked fish, a few salted hares, three loaves of bread, and even a pot of cream. All the food is still edible and fresh; the plague burned through these people like wildfire. 

A mere week ago, maybe days, this place had been full of life. Now it’s a graveyard, creatures decomposing where they fell. 

They slip into the last house, its only door a black beaded curtain. It’s a sparse hut. There is one bed, a wardrobe, and two stools set beside the fireplace. A female cat lies in the bed, her arms wrapped around a black kitten. Both of them are so newly dead they hardly look like corpses. The woman could easily be sleeping, but she doesn’t stir when Shamura noisily pulls open one of the drawers. 

These two didn’t have much. There are some handmade kitten-sized clothes, a working dress or two, some knitting needles and a half-finished scarf. In the way of food, they only have hard tack biscuits. One of them has fresh gnaw marks, made by sharp little teeth. 

Behind them, Kallamar shrieks in horror: “Shamura!” 

When they turn around, there’s a pair of crimson red eyes glaring at them. The kitten is awake, still cradled in his dead mother’s arms. He lets out a weak hiss.

“It’s undead! Kill it, kill it!” Kallamar runs and hides behind Shamura, almost knocking over the wardrobe in the process. Shamura instinctively pulls him behind them, shielding him with their arms. The kitten just watches, angry at their presence but too weak to do anything about it. His mother doesn’t move, her cold arms draped limply over him. 

“He’s not undead,” Shamura says. “He’s alive.”

Somehow. The pestilence unleashed on this village killed everyone. Everyone but him. Shamura doesn’t know if that’s supremely lucky or unlucky. 

The kitten hisses again, his voice hoarse and strained, “Get out. Get out of our house.” 

Does he not realize his mother is gone? Does he not know his village is now an open air tomb? Shamura approaches the bed slowly and kneels in front of him. 

He withdraws, hissing and spitting, jolting his mother’s corpse as he does. “Get out!” 

“Your mother’s gone,” they say. “You’re the last one left in your village.” 

“She’s sleeping!” the kitten insists, though the tears gathering in his eyes tell them he already knows. Perhaps he was just waiting to waste away. After all, a child alone in these lands stands no chance of survival. He would be on someone’s altar within the week. Black cats are especially popular with certain gods— and Baast’s enemies have been empowered by the village’s demise. They’ll want to celebrate. 

“You’re in danger if you stay here,” Shamura says. “Come with us. We can keep you safe.” 

Skeptical crimson eyes dart between Shamura and Kallamar, still cowering in the corner. He says flatly, “I doubt it.” 

They almost laugh, though nothing about the situation is funny. It’s another mouth to feed, another little brother to protect. But they can’t leave him here to rot with the rest of this village. “This was a divine plague. A god did this. Their followers will arrive to make sure everyone is dead. You don’t want to be here when that happens. We’ll take you someplace else, far from here. I promise.” 

The little kitten turns to look at his mother, brow furrowing as more tears gather in his eyes. “Mata said she was just going to sleep. She promised.”

“She didn’t have any choice,” Shamura says. “Death is inevitable; we rarely get to choose when it claims us. She held on as long as she could.” They dare to reach out and set a hand on his shoulder. It’s slick with sweat, though he isn’t warm to the touch. His fever must have broken recently. “Please, come with us. I don’t want to leave you here.” 

The kitten looks to his mother, as though she might suddenly wake and begin to argue with this stranger. After a heartbeat passes, he nuzzles his face into her neck, tears flowing down his cheeks. He lingers for a moment, claws digging into the linen of her sleeping gown as though he’s considering never letting go. Instead, he slips out of her arms. They fall limp against the sheets, heavy and lifeless as logs. The kitten’s ears flatten against his head. He stares at her for another long moment, then slides off the straw mattress. 

His legs almost buckle when his paws hit the dirt floor, but Shamura catches his arm and steadies him. He’s alive, but the sickness has left him weak. The kitten leans against them briefly to stabilize himself. Thin bones wrapped in dull black fur press against their side. Even before the sickness came, they struggled. He pushes off of Shamura, using them for momentum. He eyes their full travel bags with suspicion. “You’ve been looting.” 

“They don’t need it anymore,” Shamura says. “We do.”

“How old are you?” Now that he’s up and considering the situation, he seems more skeptical than angry. That’s progress, perhaps. “Where did you come from? Why do you want to help me?” 

“I’m Shamura. I’m fourteen. I came from Silk Cradle,” Shamura says. “Kallamar is from Anchordeep. Neither of us have families, so we take care of each other. What’s your name?” 

The kitten looks them up and down as he considers their answers. After a moment of contemplation, he volunteers his own name: “Narinder. I’ve seen nine winters.” 

“Kallamar is eleven,” Shamura says. “He’s not much older than you.” 

Narinder’s gaze shifts to Kallamar. He’s stopped cowering, at least, now reassured the kitten is not an undead thrall or rotting zombie. He inches closer, uncertain but curious about this potential new addition to their family. Narinder hisses when Kallamar finally steps near, then smirks when he visibly startles.

“Shamura!” Kallamar complains. 

“That usually doesn’t work on people,” Narinder says, sounding pleased. The small smirk slides from his face when he once again glances towards his mother. “…I’ll go with you. For now.” He hesitates, then stumbles to the wardrobe. 

Kallamar moves out of his way like he’s a charging bear rather than a malnourished kitten. Narinder opens the drawers and swaps his sleeping gown for traveling clothes. Every movement is slow, as though he’s fighting fatigue. They won’t be able to get far from the village in this condition, but at least he’ll be among the living. 

Once he’s dressed, Narinder goes over to the hearth. There’s firewood still there. He stoops and grabs a large piece, then wraps it in a discarded rag. Shamura watches him, tilting their head. “Are you making a torch?”

Narinder glances at them, still so full of suspicion. “Yes.” 

They want to ask why, but they have a feeling that won’t win them any favors with Narinder. Instead they go digging through their bag until they locate one of their more valuable finds from the village: a bottle half full of lamp oil. They hold it up, and Narinder steps closer. He offers the rag-wrapped tip to them, face solemn. It is getting dark; perhaps Narinder is just thinking ahead. 

They produce a fire starter — piece of iron and a piece of flint — and strike them together until a spark jumps onto the oil-soaked cloth. It goes up in a greedy blaze, beginning to consume the cheap fabric almost instantaneously. Narinder exits the hut, so they follow after. Kallamar is close behind, trying to keep Shamura in between him and the torch. 

Narinder stops in front of the doorway and looks back at his home. It isn’t much. Just a square wooden hut with a thatched roof. He considers it for a few moments, perhaps realizing this would be the last time he ever sees it. Shamura wonders if he’s weathered all nine of those winters within those four walls.

The small cat lifts the torch with grave resolve and holds it to the thatched roof of his own home. Flames lick the corners and catch the wood. Kallamar gasps behind them and draws back. “He’s crazy!” 

“Hush,” Shamura says. They press him backward, away from the fire. Heat and squid don’t mix. Their eyes widen as they watch burning amber tendrils snake across the roof. What is he doing? 

Narinder turns and begins to walk toward the edge of the village. As he goes, he uses the torch to light thatched roofs, the bodies wrapped in their linen, hay bales, anything that will burn. Shamura hurries Kallamar through, trying and failing to quiet his growing panic. Narinder stops at the edge of town while Shamura ushers Kallamar further away, into the tree line. The blaze spreads quickly, the wooden and thatch buildings igniting with the fury of a hundred bonfires. 

The air grows thick with black smoke, accompanied by the sour scent of burning flesh and fur. Narinder stands at the village boundary, silhouetted by the red glow, the half-burned torch still in his hand. 

“What is he doing?” Kallamar is crying again.

“I think,” Shamura murmurs, “he’s saying goodbye.” 

Narinder tosses the torch away, sending it further into the burning village. He stands there, transfixed, even as Shamura walks beside him. There are tears flowing freely down his cheeks, but his face is eerily calm. He says, “Why didn’t I die?” 

“I don’t know,” Shamura says. It is odd, but not impossible. “Even the worst plagues always leave some survivors. No one knows why. Some people are able to withstand it.”

The heat from the village is getting to be uncomfortable, even from a distance. They gently take Narinder’s hand. Claws try to dig into their exoskeleton, but only just barely find purchase. He doesn’t look at them. His eyes remain fixed on his village, ears flat against his head, the growing blaze reflected in his tear-filled eyes. “Where are you going to take me?” 

“I don’t know,” Shamura admits. They can’t attempt this kind of blunt honesty with Kallamar. But maybe Narinder needs to hear the truth. “I’m making it up as I go, trying to keep us fed and clothed and off some god’s altar. But I’ve kept us safe so far. I can show you how to fight and hunt and forage. I’ll protect you. I promise.” 

The boy who burned down his village finally meets their eyes. He pantomimes an X over his heart and gives them a measuring look. “Cross your heart?” 

Shamura copies the motion. “Cross my heart.” 

His other hand tightens around theirs. The claws ease away. Narinder allows them to gently lead him further from the village. Halfway down the path, Kallamar joins them, anxiously wringing his tentacles as he emerges from the trees. He eyes Narinder fearfully, tears still gathered in the corners of his round black eyes. “Why did you do that?!”

Narinder once again looks back at the burning buildings. A roof collapses in on itself, sending up a tower of sparks. “Bodies make people sick if they’re left to rot. And I couldn’t bury them all.” He adds softly, “They deserved to be.”

Shamura squeezes his hand. It feels so small, so thin. Delicate as a bird’s wing, but with claws. “You did what you could for them.” 

The kitten considers that, then nods. “Let’s go.” 

They walk further into the forest. Ash begins to fall like snow. 

*

Narinder does not want to fall asleep. 

The spider, Shamura, makes him a bed of blankets out of the ones they took from the village. They insist he burrow inside of it and stay warm, so that’s what he does. Shamura is clearly the one in charge; the squid flinches every time Narinder looks at him. They tuck Kallamar into his bedroll and quietly reassure him: “You’ll get to know him, he needs our help, it’ll be alright.” 

He curls into himself beneath the quilts. The shivering has started again, though he doesn’t feel chilled and achy like before. Narinder just can’t get comfortable, can’t bring himself to close his eyes. All he can think about is Mata. The way she held him, both their bodies burning with fever. 

“Go to sleep,” she whispered. She tried to purr, a weak and rattling noise that unnerved him more than any cough or fever. “You’ll feel so much better when you wake.”

“Don’t go anywhere,” he pleaded. Narinder wasn’t stupid; he’d watched their neighbors fall over the past week, saw the bodies swathed in linen and knew what it meant. 

“I won’t, little one. I’m just going to rest, I promise,” Mata said. The thin arms wrapped around him offered a weak, reassuring squeeze. She kissed the backs of his ears, light and gentle as the brush of a butterfly wing. “Sleep, Narinder. You’ll be well when you wake.”

When he woke, he did feel better. But Mata’s arms were turning cold. The warmth in her died like a fire with nothing left to burn. There were no voices outside, no more neighbors going door to door to see who was sick, who was dead, who was well. Narinder resolved to lay there until he slipped away too. Until Shamura and Kallamar arrived. 

Now he’s in their tent, shivering beneath blankets that belonged to his dead neighbors. The smell of ash clings to his clothes and his fur. The cloying rotten scent has faded, but it sticks in his mind like a burr. Everything about it does. 

Why did Mata go cold when she died? Why did everyone else die, but not him? Why did it happen at all? Because the grown-ups worshiped Baast instead of some other god?

“You should try to sleep,” Shamura says. They sit on their bedroll, strategically positioned between Narinder and Kallamar. “You still need plenty of rest if you want to get better.” 

If I get better, Narinder thinks. What if the plague isn’t done with him? What if it comes back while he’s sleeping to steal his breath and fire? “I don’t want to sleep.” 

Shamura’s black eyes blink at him. They have four of them, large and dark with only the barest hint of a pupil. They reach into one of their bags and produce something he’s never seen before. Narinder uncurls slightly, wary and intrigued all at once. It looks like a box, but it unfolds into thin strips. 

“…what’s that?” he asks. 

“It’s a storybook,” Shamura says. 

Narinder stares at them blankly. 

“Did your mother ever tell you stories?” Shamura asks. 

He nods slowly. 

“This is a collection of stories,” Shamura says. They turn the storybook towards him. There is a picture of a tabby cat with a quiver and hunting bow slung over his shoulder. He stretches a hand up to a rabbit on a tower balcony, dressed in pretty fabrics and jewelry. Beside it are a bunch of strange symbols. Magic? “I read them to Kallamar when he can’t sleep, sometimes.” 

Curiosity wins out over fatigue and sorrow. Narinder has never seen magic before. He wiggles out of his blanket mound to crawl over and look at it. It doesn’t look magical. But what else could those strange symbols be? He hesitantly reaches over and touches it. Narinder flips from one sheet to another, revealing even more strange symbols. “How do the stories get in there? Magic?” 

Shamura smiles. “I guess in a way it is. But it’s just regular writing. Each of these symbols is a letter. Put them together and it forms a word. All the words together tell a story, the way you would if you were telling it aloud. Do you want me to read one?” 

He hesitates, then nods.

“You have to lay down,” Shamura says, gesturing to the blanket pile. 

Narinder huffs, but does as he’s told. When he’s once again half buried in the blanket mound, he gives Shamura a pointed look. They scoot closer and turn the storybook to a new illustration. This one shows a young fawn in a brilliant red cloak walking down a wooded path. In between the pillars of trees, a black wolf leers. 

“This story is called Little Red Riding Hood,” Shamura says. They clear their throat and start to read, running their fingers beneath each of the words as they do: “Once upon a time there lived in a certain village a little fawn, the prettiest creature who was ever seen. Her mother was excessively fond of her; and her grandmother doted on her still more…” 

They read him several stories. Most of them involve children in peril. They’re faced with hungry lying wolves, greedy dragons, or gods demanding tribute and sacrifice. But no matter how small or weak the child, quick thinking and clever planning wins out over sheer power. They’re nice stories, even if real life is the opposite. Narinder didn’t survive the plague because he was smart or special. Just lucky. 

Exhaustion creeps in, settling over his shoulders like a heavy fur shawl. His eyes keep trying to drift closed, lulled by the sound of Shamura’s voice and the turning pages. But each time sleep tries to sink its claws into him he remembers the coolness of Mata’s fur, the slackness of her arms. As though someone snuck in and replaced his mother with a cold, empty doll.

He does not want to be cold and empty. 

“Narinder,” Shamura says.

He starts again, tired eyes blinking up at the spider. They smile reassuringly. It looks a bit funny with their large fangs, but the intent is there. “I can tell you’re worn out. Go to sleep.”

“Will I wake up?” he asks. 

“Yes, of course you will,” Shamura assures him. “You’re past the worst of it now. But you need to rest if you’re going to get any better. I promise you’ll wake up in the morning and I’ll be here when you do.” 

“Cross your heart?” Narinder is too tired to make the sign over his heart. 

Shamura does the motion anyway. “Cross my heart. Now get some sleep.”

*

The next morning, Narinder wakes up. He is not cold and lifeless— though he is quite hungry. Shamura is also awake, sitting cross-legged on their bedroll and talking to Kallamar. 

“…he scares me,” Kallamar says. “What if he gets us sick? What if he bites me? He burned his village down!”

“He didn’t want his neighbors and friends to rot in the open air,” Shamura says, their voice clipped and irritated. “Be nice, Marmar. He’s been through a lot. You should be able to sympathize with that.”

“I’m awake,” Narinder announces. They both look towards him, startled. His eyes fix on Shamura. “And you’re still here.”

They smile. “Of course I am. I always keep my promises.” 

“…you meant what you said?” Narinder asks. His tail betrays his trepidation, swishing back and forth anxiously. He’ll need someone to teach him how to survive; there’s no getting around that. “You’ll protect me? And teach me how to fight and hunt and stuff?” 

Shamura nods. “I meant it. I call Kallamar my little brother; you could be our brother, too.” 

Lots of kittens in the village had siblings, but never Narinder. It has always been him and Mata, just the two of them scraping by. He supposes that’s what Shamura and Kallamar do, too. Maybe it won’t be so different. 

Narinder smiles at the idea of having big siblings. “…will you teach me how to make the stories come out of the book?”

Shamura returns his smile with one of their own. “Absolutely.” 

“Then I guess I could stay for a while,” he relents. 

And with that decided, Shamura lays out breakfast for all of them. Narinder eats and curls back up beneath the blankets. They leave Kallamar to watch him while they go to scout the nearby area, though Narinder doesn’t have the energy to mess with the squid again. He sinks back into the blankets and closes his eyes. 

Shamura will be back when he wakes up. 

#cotl fanfic #long read #my fanfic #fanfic #cult of the lamb #cotl narinder #cotl shamura #pre-ascension bishops #cw for plague and non-gorey corpse descriptions #how Shamura found Narinder #at least in my mind #this was going to be a drabble i swear #i was possessed by the spirit of toww and given a vision #and the vision was goth as fuck #cotl kallamar

[lunasapphire]

Here is a little duplicate universe offering spell of one I did the other day

Inside the acorn ⬇️

• quartz 
• rosemary 
• graveyard dirt 
• salt 
• pepper 
• sand 
• paper with spell chant

#witchblr #witchcraft #witch community #witchcraft community #witch #baby witch #magic #magick #nature #crystals #acorn #spell #spells #easy witchcraft #life #hidden spells #the universe #universe #universe offering #offerings #offering #witchy wednesday #witchcore #beginner witch #eclectic witch #witch tips #witch aesthetic #beginner #fyp #tumblr fyp

[notthesomefather]

My altar for Halloween / Samhain / Spirits Night.

I carved Othala, Hagalz, and Eihwaz into an apple my in-laws picked to emphasize my intentions for connecting with family and loved ones across the realms (particularly Helheim).

I felt an overwhelming sense of love and comfort, and I’m humbled by the experience 💜

For anyone curious the altar is decorated with stones that remind me of Hela and the bowl is full of an herbal mixture I made (containing: sea salt, mugwort, dandelion root, graveyard dirt, ash bark, gotu kola, mistletoe, and some blood from when I accidentally cut myself shaving then saved).

#heathen #asatru #norse pagan #altars #holidays #samhain #paganism #witch #seidr

[synthcult]

what are some of the rules pertaining to visiting a cemetery? i wasn't aware that there were guardians for them, or that it's best to bring offerings. what offerings are good, and how would i offer them to the guardians? i want to visit cemeteries while being as respectful and kind to the dead as possible :)

Hello!

It depends on how formal you want to be. Obviously the guardians of graveyards and cemeteries know that not all of the living are aware of them, so they don't particularly go out of their way to bust anyone who didn't stop by and bring them a penny. But! If you want to be more formal, the proper etiquette is to bring a little offering to the guardian of the site you're at; which are usually either coins, tobacco or alcohol. Try to be mindful of the general atmosphere of the site. For example, there is a really, really old cemetery full of soldiers from the mid 1800's near a place I go to on vacation every year. The guardian would probably prefer a satchel of tobacco over a handmade cupcake or the newest bottle of Jack Daniels. Down the street from this location, there's a site full of children also from the 1800's. They would probably like the cupcakes, or a sweeter drink! They would probably not know what to do with the tobacco, haha.

Another rule, and the most common is; to be respectful. Know your boundaries. Try NOT to take pictures or recordings of the site, unless it's for yourself. If you ever feel a bad vibe while taking pictures/recording, it's a good idea to stop and delete the footage. Guardians can sometimes be really picky about it and I've found the more secluded cemeteries have pickier guardians who aren't usually fond of anyone snapping photos or recording. A lot of the ghost shows we see in cemeteries that catch footage (of aggression more often than not) are usually catching footage of the guardians trying to ward them out.

Treat the site like it's a museum in terms of being mindful about yourself and everything around you. Don't touch every single thing you see, don't jump around on the headstones, don't chase each your friend around, don’t pick flowers unnecessarily, don't dump salt on someone's grave and try to do a Hollywood ritual. Remember that you're a guest to the dead's resting place and live by that! Walk the experience like you would walk a stranger’s home. 

If you need graveyard dirt, there’s tons of resources on how to get that; but the basis for that is to be respectful about it. You’re using the dirt of the dead, it’s not something to take too lightly, haha. 

Below, I’ll give some references to offerings for you so you can get a general idea of what to offer to certain lots. Try to leave offerings nearby the entrances. If that’s too difficult to do, leave it where you feel it might sit the best. 

If majority of the occupants are from the early 1900′s or late 1800′s:

Whiskies (just a little shot will do. you can get shooters from stores!)

A sprinkle of tobacco

Pennies, dimes, nickels 

Fresh bread (with some butter might help in your favor, hahaha.)

Plain water

Floral arrangements (a lot of these graves are forgotten/the family has died out, so they don’t really get brought a lot of the ‘prettier’ things. women from this time period might appreciate the floral arrangements more than men and children.)

If majority of the occupants are from the 1950′s and up:

Music! Playing some oldies or newer music might be nice!

Whiskey, vodka, wine (you can get shooters from stores!)

Foods in general, but bread is great to bring. 

Reading the general like news and stuff? This sounds weird, but some guardians and occupants of sites like to know what’s going on the world. You’ll know if it works.

A good attitude. A lot of the modern cemeteries are pretty public and open, with the occupants sort of.. used to people being around, if that makes sense. If you come in good spirits, you can sometimes get a pass through that. Just mind your manners!

I hope this helps!! 

#witchcraft #witchy #witchblr #necromancy #graveyard #my posts

[tabletoptrinketsbyjj]

Trinkets, Books, 10: An eclectic library of dusty tomes, fictional textbooks, pocketbooks, paperbacks, hardcovers, booklets, leaflets and magical manuals. Paper leaves and the binding surrounding them can help define a character, kick off a subplot, fuel a fetch quest or simply serve as a generic macguffin. Commonly seen in video games such as Baldur’s Gate, Neverwinter Nights, World of Warcraft and Skyrim, book items are a way to subtly world build while still handing out sellable loot. A wizard has a spellbook, a cleric has a holy text and now you have a trinket list.

An ornamental prayer book of Random Domain with illuminated pages and semiprecious stones.

Ars Optica: An ophthalmic guide that’s treasured by magicians, who read its dull and technical pages not for purposes of spectacle manufacturer, but for the construction of resonance spheres; Pressurized, lensed devices used in the contact of alien realms.

A book the size of a large man's hand, composed of ten plates of blue-black jade mounted in thin silver and bound with black silk lacing. Each plate is inscribed in silver with charts of the night sky.

The Book of Math: What seems like a boring book about maths problems is in fact all about Mathom, the God of Delays, and has this title because the author was distracted and unable to finish said title. It contains all sorts of important information on Mathom and His Priests, but is frustratingly not completely finished, as it seems that the author was unable or unwilling to finish it. Knowledgeable PC’s are aware that the books is very rare, as only a few copies were ever successfully made before first the printing press broke, then the ink supply ran out, and then the printers were raided by the police by mistake, then the building caught fire...

My Life as a Gnome Bodyguard: A moderately-sized autobiography of Mifierwa Cinibnil, a gnome paladin that served as the protector of Queen Evelyn Crystaldown.

A very old book of coastal charts, which has obviously seen heavy shipboard use in the past; the pages are marked and stained and smell faintly of salt. Next to an unnamed island on a map of a distant coast, an unsteady hand has drawn a deaths-head marker and scrawled: “blaydes dont cutt em but fires wil burn em upp.”

Blood Debt Ledger: A small book bound in wolf hide and decorated with the beast's claws and fangs. It has ninety-nine pages, each with nine names inscribed on it. Knowledgeable PC’s can discern that it originally belonged to a hag who used it to record the names of those who owed her a debt.

Tippy's Gardening Tips and Tricks: A farmer's almanac, focusing on the cultivation of herbs and their various medical and culinary uses.

A large instructional manual entitled “195 Easy Projects with Human Skin”. Knowledgeable PC's are aware of its notoriety for its gruesome, yet imaginatively intricate, woodblock illustrations.

A small personal journal penned by a hunter of the supernatural. Although the majority of the pages are too bloodied, dirty, burned or torn to be legible, a cluster of pages near the middle detail the process of an infernal summoning ritual. The book describes that a specific order of fiend can be called into the world by digging a hole in the dead center of a set of crossroads and burying a box containing a picture of the mortal wishing to make the deal, some graveyard dirt, and a bone from a black cat. This specific type of “crossroads demon” looks like a human except for their blood red eyes and are tasked with ‘buying’ souls for Hell through deals with mortals. The demon can grant the summoner’s wish in exchange for ownership over that person's soul, resulting in the person dying and going to Hell to be transformed into a demon upon death.

—Click Here to be directed to the Hotlinks To All Tables post, which provides (As you might have guessed) convenient links to all of the loot and resource tables this blog has.

—Click Here for additional Book Descriptions to give these objects even more personality.

—Keep reading for 90 more books.

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

An ornamental prayer book of Random Domain with illuminated pages and semiprecious stones.

Ars Optica: An ophthalmic guide that’s treasured by magicians, who read its dull and technical pages not for purposes of spectacle manufacturer, but for the construction of resonance spheres; Pressurized, lensed devices used in the contact of alien realms.

A book the size of a large man's hand, composed of ten plates of blue-black jade mounted in thin silver and bound with black silk lacing. Each plate is inscribed in silver with charts of the night sky.

The Book of Math: What seems like a boring book about maths problems is in fact all about Mathom, the God of Delays, and has this title because the author was distracted and unable to finish said title. It contains all sorts of important information on Mathom and His Priests, but is frustratingly not completely finished, as it seems that the author was unable or unwilling to finish it. Knowledgeable PC’s are aware that the books is very rare, as only a few copies were ever successfully made before first the printing press broke, then the ink supply ran out, and then the printers were raided by the police by mistake, then the building caught fire...

My Life as a Gnome Bodyguard: A moderately-sized autobiography of Mifierwa Cinibnil, a gnome paladin that served as the protector of Queen Evelyn Crystaldown.

A very old book of coastal charts, which has obviously seen heavy shipboard use in the past; the pages are marked and stained and smell faintly of salt. Next to an unnamed island on a map of a distant coast, an unsteady hand has drawn a deaths-head marker and scrawled: “blaydes dont cutt em but fires wil burn em upp.”

Blood Debt Ledger: A small book bound in wolf hide and decorated with the beast's claws and fangs. It has ninety-nine pages, each with nine names inscribed on it. Knowledgeable PC’s can discern that it originally belonged to a hag who used it to record the names of those who owed her a debt.

Tippy's Gardening Tips and Tricks: A farmer's almanac, focusing on the cultivation of herbs and their various medical and culinary uses.

A large instructional manual entitled “195 Easy Projects with Human Skin”. Knowledgeable PC's are aware of its notoriety for its gruesome, yet imaginatively intricate, woodblock illustrations.

A small personal journal penned by a hunter of the supernatural. Although the majority of the pages are too bloodied, dirty, burned or torn to be legible, a cluster of pages near the middle detail the process of an infernal summoning ritual. The book describes that a specific order of fiend can be called into the world by digging a hole in the dead center of a set of crossroads and burying a box containing a picture of the mortal wishing to make the deal, some graveyard dirt, and a bone from a black cat. This specific type of “crossroads demon” looks like a human except for their blood red eyes and are tasked with ‘buying’ souls for Hell through deals with mortals. The demon can grant the summoner’s wish in exchange for ownership over that person's soul, resulting in the person dying and going to Hell to be transformed into a demon upon death.

A History of Tea: A book bound with tea stained wood that (As its title proclaims) is a comprehensive history of tea, a plant first discovered and cultivated in the Northern land of Awn, where it remains most popular. A History of Tea denotes the conflicts, agricultural developments, and serving preferences surrounding tea over the last two millennia. Helpfully, the book contains a list of all herbs and barks capable of being steeped in addition to black tea. It is a hearty reference document for travelers and adventurers in need of a hot brew, regardless of its origin or quality.

Brobson's Guide to Decoys: A gamesmans' guide, devoted to fishing flies, wooden ducks, and other such beast lures. Written in unceasingly-energetic confidence about their use, history, composition, and construction. A book treasured by hunters of prey both mundane and monstrous, as it contains details for luring both plant-eaters and predators of varied size. Many a fisherman has thanked Brobson for his wooly bugger lure, as have countless cutters for his pattern for false goats, which is much cheaper than buying an actual goat.

A book on the proper ways to do mundane domestic chores written in large simple words similar to a scholarly document. Simple pictures take up many of the pages and it is probably meant to be used as a reference guides to young maids and scullery girls. An extremely perceptive reader will discern the book’s true purpose. When held to the light, hidden writing is exposed revealing a list of assassins, thieves, fences, sellers of illicit goods, safe houses and other black-market connections that can be found in the nearest capital city.

Identification of Irritants; A Gentleman's Guide to Avoiding Discomfort in the Field: A guidebook that proved to be too good for the purposes it was designed for by providing in depth identification guides, descriptions of growing conditions, and technical analyses of the properties of many dangerous plants, including several very rare and incredibly poisonous ones. Someone has scribbled recipes for several dangerous poisons derived from some of these plants in the margins.

A brown, leather-bound tome with the image of a knight emblazoned on the cover. When opened the book contains a riveting story of a knight, a princess, a dragon, and a kingdom in peril.

Practical Exercises for Young Magicians: An instructional book written by Amelia Popper containing intricate finger and voice exercises divided into several dozen etudes for magicians. The book consists of detailed charts and a series of movements that serve as educational practices and introductory techniques to the physical complexity of magic and spell casting. Popper's work has been used throughout many mage academy curriculums as a structured, refined method to spellcasting.

Manual of Flesh Golems: A thick tome imbued with magical properties and stamped with arcane symbols on the cover. The book contains theoretical musings on the construction and control of golems. It goes into some detail on how the reader may construct a servant of assembled, animated flesh which will obey the creator without question.

A small, thick sea captain's journal. Leather bound and filled with dense, near unreadable notes. The cover has a piece of lead shot embedded deep into it from a run-in with pirates.

Magical Bleed and the Effects of Lingering Aura: A tome of arcane theory that introduces and focuses on Sir Bleepin Loopfoodle's Model of Epi-Magical Exchange. The detailed treatise describes how magical leftovers from a spell changes the environment and soul and the impacts can differed based on the nature of the spell. The book contains examples on how intensely supernatural creatures such as venerable dragons, elder aberrations and extraplanar outsiders (Such as celestials, elementals and fiends) passively affect their environment.

The Faerie Queen: A vastly underappreciated collection of Light Cottonstream's poems about the summer court, detailing the queen's affairs, courting at the summer court, and the involvement of love potions.

Wintering with Wizards: A hard-bound, extravagant, lengthy volume chronicling the adventures of the author, Earnest Holcomb, during his stay at a wizard’s school over a long winter. It’s clear to any wizard that the author hasn’t a clue what he’s talking about.

A Comprehensive Encyclopedic Approach to All Things Draconic: A massive and richly illustrated compendium of dragon lore that covers nearly all areas of knowledge pertaining to dragonkind. With various sections devoted to prismatic, metallic, and rare dragon breeds (As well as smaller sections on drakes, half-dragons, dragonborn, and even wyverns) this is likely the most thorough text on the subject. Not many copies of the book exist and it is coveted among collectors and curators alike; finding a copy and the access to read it can be an expensive venture on its own.

Pendlesea's Scroll Compendium of Scrolls: An exceptionally long and somewhat stiff scroll safely kept within the confines of a dark leather scroll container about two feet long and four inches in diameter. The scroll contains the rambling treatise of a slightly crazed wizard named Bidoop Pendlesea. The treatise examines the various uses of scrolls and the not-so-subtle embellishment of their claimed superiority to books by the author.

A brand-new copy of “Volo's Guide to What to Expect When You’re Expecting” with advice and guides on humanoid pregnancy. A big brightly colored “Congratulations!” is written on the inside cover and the chapter summary pages are dog-eared.

A thick wood-bound chapbook of gnomish jokes.

A leather-bound book detailing the complete genealogy of a noble family.

An illustrated travelogue of remote and exotic locations rumored to include sigils for teleportation circles hidden in the text.

A pocket-sized book devoted to the ancestry and heraldry of the vampiric Bloodlines of Erubescence. This copy has been annotated with cutting remarks about the various families, sometimes revealing embarrassing gossip or secrets.

A slightly tattered but complete copy of a rare first printing of the Saga of the Sacred Cauldron, a chivalric romance recounting a quest in the realm of Elfhame involving such colorful characters as Bellstajj the Capacious, Blue-Eyed Molly, Fennrix the Blind, Fun Guy the Barbarian, the Knight of Harts Petalu Morriden, Susurrus Psithurisma, Weevil Stench, Wick the Silent, and the notorious Sparks & Mud.

A stained manuscript containing fan fiction for the popular and long-running Wendolyn the Werewolf sequence of serialized romantic novels.

Noland's Small Book of Portals Vol III: The work contains a collection of fine lithographs of man-made, natural, or magically occurring portals, in good detail as well as their destination. Not all are sized for people to fit through. Many include detailed description and measurements, and might prove useful for a magic user or scholar of the arcane looking to understand the planes and magical travel better; this may be for good or ill.

Seven Jistkan Forms of Ancient Hygh Majiks: A thread-bare tome, with pages that are more dust than parchment. Some of the pages are actually made of papyrus and were literally cut out of scrolls and sewn into this work. The runes described inside are incomplete, and use one ancient, dead language, to transcribe the words of an even older and even deader language that was destroyed by a great volcanic explosion. Most of the time the book is spent on the names of the offspring of the offspring of a myriad of gods, with incomplete glyphs and logograms.

The Case of the Disappearing Daughters: A historical horror novel that is also known as The Mad Queen and her Daughter, this is the true(ish) story of how the once capable ruler Queen Yocasta of Vallermoore went insane after her daughter's death, and how the daughters of her subjects were kidnapped to replace her original daughter and then murdered when they failed to be just like her. In the end the Queen went insane, took her dead, decaying daughter from the royal tomb and had her by her side at all times as if she was still alive.

A small prayer book with a green leather cover and indecipherable notes in the margins.

A large tome bound with unadorned black leather, containing a multitude of jumbled essays, theorems and anecdotes, all of a mystical, slightly odd or perverse nature. The more one reads or uses the book, the more the writing within makes sense but such clarity comes at a horrible price.

Dimensions of Evil; A Guidebook to the Nether Realms: A demonhide bound grimoire written in Infernal that provides information relating to the Lower Planes of the Nine Hells. Dimensions of Evil paints a fairly accurate and unflattering view of the Lower Planes and its inhabitants. Due to its subject matters several faiths of good deities have banned this book and attempt to confiscate any copies that appear. Others encourage their followers to read the book, going so far as to create multiple copies.

The Theory and Application of Force Magic: A tome that provides information relating to spells involving the use of magical force. Many wizards consider Aeroth Blith's book the best reference about force magic ever written. Well organized and clearly written, if a little dry and analytical in places, the tome examines force magic as a mysterious power akin to a fifth element. Copies of this book can often be found in universities and larger libraries that cater to war wizards and battle mages.

Commoriom: A bound manuscript written in symbols barely recognizable as a script. Its pages number in the hundreds, and splitting the book in two is a single engraving upon a thin sheet of metal; a deserted city square surrounded by tall pillars, and in the middle, a hideous, crooked monstrosity squats as it devours his screaming victims. The image is atrocious, but has some weird magnetism, and if one looks upon it for some time, a weak voice in his head says, "Beware the vile offspring of Knygathin Zhaum."

A children’s book filled with stories of long dead heroes and the sacrifices they made to light the path ahead.

De Vermis Mysteriis: A book whose cover is made of black leather with copper insets covered in a green patina. It describes the rituals and tools of priests who seek the worlds that lie beyond. An excerpt of the book reads as follows; "A R'lang is an item that the caster imbues with his soul before travel to the Beyond. To begin, one should find a shell or piece of polished wood on the shore of the ocean. It must be placed in the ground not further than ten paces from the timeline on the 20th day of the lunar month. After exactly nine days, mark the place with two circles and proper signs. Chant thrice the incantation: "Khlu Sya Asa Nmrihg Aym Eghu Akaman" to grant it its powers..."

Chaos Theory; A Calculated Cataclysm: A tattered book that seems to have had numerous pages torn from it and perhaps entire chapters. It is hard to be certain as it seems to have been rebound multiple times.

Druid's Staff Quarterly: An intriguing, regularly published journal that appears to have pages made from thin bark; these pages are jagged and irregular.

Fish are Friends, Not Food: A strange dietitian guide that encourages the reader to choose alternative protein sources to fish.

Grimoire of Devilish Contracting: A worn, leather-bound tome with an oversized silver and gold latch that requires a key to open it. If one can manage to gain access to the text, the reader will find extensive advice on how to broker deals with fiends of the lower planes and get out with one’s soul relatively intact. The volume has no information how to actually summon a devil to bargain with.

It's Hyyyydra-matic!: A peculiar book that contains a bard's tale of encountering a mighty hydra. It contains over 100 uses for various hydra body parts.  

Shorthalt's Journal of Awful Limericks: A well-worn, cloth-bound book inscribed with scrawlings of horrific poems, each of which are imbued with enchantment magic. There are also bizarre, childish drawings of humanoids doing various acts of vile behavior.

Tales of a Troglodyte Named Thomas the Truthful: An interesting parable that tells of a Troglodyte named Thomas the Truthful that rose to power in a small Underdark community by virtue of his honesty and good nature.

The Arts Alchemical: A Primer: A strange volume fashioned from the hide of some unidentifiable creature. The vellum pages contained within describe the steps to creating a variety of potions.

These Furry Fellas: A notebook with beautiful calligraphy that describes the types and habits of various small beasts and critters. The accompanying sketches are quite cute.

When Life Gives You Lemons: A simple, single-page pamphlet filled with positive affirmations that emphasize the importance of seizing opportunities.

...And the Bear Says...: A worn, small leather journal that appears to be a naturalist's notes from time spent tracking a family of bears.

A is for Aboleth: A rare copy of the famed children's book. It has simple cartoon pictures and humorous descriptions of monstrous creatures, all the way from A – Aboleth to Z – Zuvembie.

A scuffed and well‐worn text written with manticore blood ink on fine linen paper, bound in aged dried leather. It bears the title “Elementary Principles of the Arcane Instrument”.

Lords of the Pit; a Guidebook to Devils: A beautifully illustrated book, bound in leather with a pentagram on the cover. It describes the various types of devils with dubious accuracy.

Gusty Fintagel’s Most Excellent Miscellany: A cheaply printed chapbook of random facts, lists and bits of trivia. It would be perfect for someone to memorize before a social event and pepper in the information to create an illusion of schooling or worldliness.

An obviously handmade bark‐covered annotated scrapbook filled with rare pressed flowers and herbs, and exotic feathers.

A blue leather folio entitled “The Fey King of Darkwood and Other Tragedies”. It was written by the celebrated bard and playwright Iancu Petronas.

A History of the Lonely Coast: A historical tome written by Brenn Unger, it is a dry account loaded with bias towards the Locher family. The book is of black leather with silver‐bound edges.

The Sampalataya: A leather tube containing a long scroll with carved wooden handles. Told horizontally along the scroll is an illustrated epic poem on the birth of the gods of the distant kingdom of Gopura. Unrolling the scroll slowly tells the story.

A torture manual bound in skin of dubious provenance, featuring disturbing etchings. It was written and illustrated by the notorious Count Vaklav of Treblik.

A heavy tome with a steel scale cover inlaid with carnelians written by Elfric Stonyfist. Entitled “Songs of the Dwarves”, the text contains the traditional versions of classical Dwarven songs as well as detailed stories of their origin.

A spellbook bound in basilisk skin, branded with the arcane mark of the wizard Vaskaren a noted abjurer.

When the Stars are Right: A book roughly bound in mottled purple leather and marked with a large staring eye. Supposedly written by Idris Bahar, it contains insane ramblings about eldritch beings from the alien realms beyond our own.

A book bound in wooden covers, with paintings of flowers and plants decorating the pages. The text contains prayers to the Nature Goddess and details various methods to commune with nature, encourage the growth of plants and speak to animals.

The Poems of Caranthir Greenmantle: A blue leather folio decorated with silver, containing twelve loose sheets, each a handwritten poem.

Decline and Fall of the Hobgoblin Empire: A painfully dry historical text bound in barghest pelt and set with three sapphires.

Common Mycological Meals: A recipe book, all focused around making food out of easily accessible fungi, mosses and mushrooms. Its pages are made out of an unusually textured material with a light-yellow hue.

A gruesome manuscript bound in what is probably dwarfskin, judging by the number of hairs still left on it. The text is written in Infernal and entitled “Sculptors of Men”. Even without being able to read the text, it’s clearly full of anatomical diagrams, runes and sigils, alchemical recipes and handwritten marginalia. Knowledgeable PC’s who can read the text are able to determine that it is a manual on how to create flesh golems and animate them through demonic power rather than through arcane or alchemical means. These changes make the construct much cheaper and easier to animate but with exponentially more risk to the creator’s soul and the ease of which the golem can be controlled.  

A cheap-looking book whose cover bears the image of a handsome half-elf with a cheesy grin splitting his face. Titled “Breaking Through” it is an autobiography of the mildly famous bard Shagwyn Starfellow. The story itself is a turgid, self-aggrandizing affair with occasional spelling errors, anecdotes which are exaggerated far beyond belief, unfounded criticism of his siblings and some of the least funny jokes you can remember having been committed to parchment.

A slim volume bound in an orange-red slipcase which feels warm to the touch. Entitled “Elementary Pyromancy” it is written entirely in Infernal. The book contains promisingly detailed arcane symbols, with runes the reader immediately associates with fire and flame.

Entitled “The Atlas of Forever” and the bright blue ink seems to crackle on the page, and the reader immediately senses that the book is old and powerful.

A black board-bound book with bright bands ribbons. It’s partly unreadable with age. You think it says something like “Arcanus”

Hunger More: A book of various legends and fables all of which relate to the origin of the mythical being known as the Frost King. The compilation is entirely written in sylvan and none of the storied are marked as the “correct” version, as if the writer wanted the reader to decide which of them is the true story.

Tome of Solis: A spellbook with leather front and backing. On the front is a gold imprint of a magic circle with an image of a lion in the center of the magic circle. All text inside this book is made with gold and is unburnable.

A manuscript recounting the memories of a dying dwarf folk hero.

A notebook detailing an elvish account of an important treaty being signed over 400 years ago.

A girdle book mounted in cobalt leather backing ermine. The book itself is trimmed with brass tabs but the vellum pages are blank.

A fragmentary diary of a mercenary recruit who was separated from his squad and died in the local area. According to his own scribbled words he took on a mortal wound and has able to hole up, write his last words and will drink his flask of brandy and try to drift off peacefully.

Manual of the Numinous Realms: A book bound in orichalchum, written in silver ink on the finest vellum, and illustrated with strange diagrams that move on their own, the manual describes the interplay of elemental forces and spiritual currents that underlie the illusion we call reality. According to the text, by manipulating these fundamental levers of reality, you may accomplish great feats of magic.

A tome is filled with unintelligible runes from languages long forgotten. If somehow deciphered, it details a theory of magic one practiced by those referred to as the “Mejai” who stole the souls of those who opposed them and bound them within objects giving them great power at the cost of the spirit’s eternal torment.

A large, leather bound, gold trimmed ledger containing the complete financial information of a duke of the nearby kingdom. The archive goes back five years and the information contained within would be extremely valuable to the duke's enemies as blackmail.  The duke himself would probably offer a reward of some sort on its discrete return.

A small lexicon of nautical terms.

Travels of a Planeswaler: A cloth-bound book containing lurid tales of seductive genies, underwater cities and fiery snakelike creatures.

A tome with a cover promising one hundred wonderful stories. All but one have been torn out.

A small journal titled “A Guide To Creating A World Without End”. It always smells like the delicious confectionery known as lokum.

The Measure: A massive codex of duties, laws, and crimes, the Measure serves as a guide to a strict, ordered society. The semi-religious text is written and maintained by the militant order known as the Hell Knights. Based upon centuries of legal codes from ancient empires, as well as passages from the strictures of Hell itself, this body of laws extols justness rather than justice.

An evil tome of dark construction with wrinkled patches of rough skin that have been sewn together around plates of some hard material that serves as the cover. Bones from two human hands have been fastened to the binding as if cradling the book. It’s is always bone chillingly cold to the touch as if stealing heat from anyone foolish enough to look inside. When opened, it smells of brimstone and copper. Inside, profane diagrams and hideous illustrations accompany spells penned in some fiendish script. Everything is composed in crimson but not in ink. Those who choose to read from it will discover it the spellbook of a powerful necromancer.

An old book filled with blank pages. Anything written in these books disappears at sunset.

Manifestations Arcanum: A quintessential text written by an archmage from a previous era. This enormous tome outlines the metaphysics of magic, how it works and the divine symbology, sacred geometry and the religious practices involved.

A book with no name, but it holds the true history and ascension of an old but very powerful deity.

The Clouded Mirror: A encyclopedia of portals and other means of interplanar travel, including secret paths between planes that are not normally considered contiguous, ways to reach and navigate the Far Realm, and instructions to find hidden places that are normally inaccessible.

A Deal with the Devil: A tome detailing various historical contracts that have been made with devils. The text goes to great lengths to make it sound as if it were actually very easy to find loopholes in fiendish contracts. Insightful readers suspect that the book may have been written or published by servants of the infernal powers in an effort to lure unwitting souls to believe that they can outwit a demon when the average person is in fact far more likely to lose their soul in an unholy bargain than come out ahead.

Death Eternal: A book written by an ancient dwarven smith famous for making cursed blades. It describes rituals needed to create blades that trap the souls of those killed by them, with the blades growing in strength as the number of souls trapped within grows.

Under The Silver Moon: A hidebound book that contains information on lycanthropy and the effects that it may bestow upon a creature lucky enough to be gifted it. The author makes lycanthropy sound like a REALLY good idea with little to no downsides.

Cooking with Grandma: A seemingly pleasant-sounding cookbook whose first few pages are simple wholesome recipes designed for two people working together. The book was actually written by hags, and the majority of the text goes into great detail explaining how the flesh and bones of older humans can be used to make delicious food.

Fall of Revelation: A heretical tome bound in the skin of the author, Hazeomeel (An angel), it describes the celestial's fall from the heavens because it attempted to use divine prophecy to find which humans could be killed to prevent evil from occurring.

The Endless Litany: A thick tome whose every single page of which is filled with the same phrase repeated over and over again “The end is never the end is never the end is never the end”. Despite this monotony, when a creature starts reading from the first page, they can not stop of their own volition, nor will they ever reach the end no matter how long they spend reading it as the book has an infinite number of pages.

Paradoxomicon: A bound volume of the collected works of a plane-shifter wizard who has dedicated his life to finding loopholes in magic and testing them in parallel planes of existence, collapsing each one of them in doing so.

Jerbe Kendalcanthe's 'Love Elixirs': An alchemical tome detailing the formula and instructions on how to make a highly addictive potion that possesses no benefits other than addiction. The book warns that small villages have been wiped out as every resource is pooled into acquiring the materials needed to produce more.

Into the Labyrinth: A tome bound in red leather emblazoned with the symbol of an open flame stamped in gold leaf on the front cover. In a well-practiced, easily readable handwriting, the author had penned a short warning: “This volume is strictly forbidden from being read, except by those ranked at least Bishop or higher in the Church of The Eternal Heavenly Flame. In it are detailed some of the foulest, most pernicious pieces of magic ever devised. This volume only exists in order to offer ways to defeat these spells, in the off chance these heresies ever resurface and must be confronted again. Be warned, the spells grow progressively more deranged towards the end of the book. The original scribe was driven quite insane by recording them, and ended up having to be committed to an asylum.”

[karmazain]

My colleague Miss Michaele at Hoodoo Foundry wrote a blog post a while back that I added to the Rootwork Education section of my pre-Seraphin Station blog, Big Lucky Hoodoo (which is still active and still the permanent home of the hoodoo-rootwork-specific stuff, in case you were wondering about the two blogs thing). It was about "grocery store conjure," which is a favorite topic of mine. I used to do consultations focused on this, even - client lives in the middle of nowhere and has to get something set up *tonight.* They could send me a little info and their address and I'd coach them through a trip to the dollar store, 10 minutes each in an Ace Hardware and the tea aisle of a Walmart, maybe get them to drop by a graveyard on the way home, depending, and they'd be good to go with time to spare before sunset. I am not knocking the fancy stuff if you have the time and means to get it and you like to work with it. Hell, I make and sell some of the fancy stuff. I am quite fond of lots of it. But you don't have to have fancy shit to do effective rootwork. Just step away from the Pinterest boards and the shiny Instagram eye candy and find you a nice patch of grass or dirt or something to stand in for a minute - barefoot if you can. Then take a deep breath, banish that stuff out your brain, and give yourself permission to not give a crap what it would look like in your IG feed. Go find you a dollar store candle and the olive oil, and then pray your ass off and go get some dirt under your fingernails. Trust me, real rootworkers get dirt under their fingernails. It's a whole vibe. Give it a shot. And if your great grandmother wouldn't have approved, well, I assure you that my great grandmother is proud of you, in case you need to borrow her for a little while. Especially if you manage to fling a little salt after, or chuck a feather duster towards, the next annoying person you find all up in your business. No fancy shit required. Link to Big Lucky Hoodoo (and Miss Michaele's article) in bio. Look under Resources and Recommended Reading on the rootwork topics index page. https://www.instagram.com/p/CnzgyFrr3EW/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[maestro-of-clockwork]

WHAT ARE YOUR MUSE’S AESTHETICS ?

BOLD any which apply to your muse ! remember to REPOST ! feel free to add to the list !

red  //  orange  //  yellow //  green  //  blue  //   purple   //   pink   //  beige  //  fire   //   ice   //  water   //   air   //   earth   //   claws   //   fangs  //   wings  //  gold   //  brass  //   diamonds    //   grass   //  leaves   //   trees  //  roses  // metal  //  iron  //   rust  //  rain   // snow  //  lace  //   leather   //   silk   // velvet  //  denim   //  cotton   //  sun   //   moon   //  stars  //  blood  //  dirt  //  mud   //  silver  //  steel  //  sugar   //  salt   //  pepper   //   lavender   //  glass   //   wood   //  paper   //   wool   //  fur   //  smoke   //  ash   //   cigarettes   //  cigars  //  candy   //   bubbles   //  ocean   //  cityscape   // bruises  //  scars   //  wind  //  spices  //  light  //  dark   //  paint  //  lingerie   //  charcoal   //  wine  //  phones   //  hard liquor   //  sweat  //  tears   //   dust   //   lips  //  smiles   //  bare feet   //   hats   //   canine   //  feline   //  coffee  //   tea   //  books   //  photos   //   sketches  //  analog   //  digital   //  clockwork   //   scratches  //  petals  //  thorns   //   hay   //  glitter  //  heat  //  cold   //   steam   //  frost   //  dewdrops   //  candle   // sword  // dagger  //   arrow   //  staff  //  hammer   //  axe   //  shield   //  spikes   //   sand    //  rocks   //  roots   //  feathers   //  pearls   //  rubies  // sapphires   //  emeralds  //  amethyst  //  herbs   //   waves   //  lightning   //  sunlight  //   moonlight  //  rainbow   //   money   //   clay   //  stone   //   brick   //  lions   //  wolves   // black  //  white   //  birds   //  eyes   //  hands  //   flowers   //  angels  //  heaven  // holiness  //  hell  //  medicine  //  needles   //  sharp objects  //  guns  //  mechs  //  dragons  //  pastels  //  dreams  //  poetry  // video games  //  hacking  //  neon  //  distorted images   // spiders  // insects  //  deep water  //  elysium  // graveyards  //  death  //  resurrection  //  nature  //  churches //  priests  //  crosses  //  sacrifice   //  skulls  //  nymphs  //  strings  // instruments //  antiques  //  

#tw eye strain #[[ ooc ]] #bold what applies #[[ hc memes ]] #[[ headcanon ]] #tw religion mention #tw weapons #tw death mention