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thefeaturesof · 2 months

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Agatha Christie Books in Order.

Hercule Poirot Books

Hercule Poirot Collections

Miss Marple Books

Miss Marple Collections

Tommy and Tuppence Books

Tommy and Tuppence Collections

Superintendent Battle Books

Standalone Novels

Short Story Collections

Non-Fiction Books

Agatha Christie Hercule Poirot books in order

Here are the names of Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot books in order. It will help you start with your reading while ensuring the best experience.

The Mysterious Affair at Styles (1920)

The Murder on the Links (1923)

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (1926)

The Big Four (1927)

The Mystery of the Blue Train (1928)

Peril at End House (1932)

Lord Edgware Dies (1933)

Murder on the Orient Express (1934)

Three Act Tragedy (1935)

Death in the Clouds (1935)

The A.B.C. Murders (1936)

Murder in Mesopotamia (1936)

Cards on the Table (1936)

Dumb Witness (1937)

Death on the Nile (1937)

Appointment with Death (1938)

Hercule Poirot’s Christmas (1938)

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe (1940)

Sad Cypress (1940)

Evil Under the Sun (1941)

Five Little Pigs (1942)

The Hollow (1946)

Taken at the Flood (1948)

Mrs. McGinty’s Dead (1952)

After the Funeral (1953)

Hickory Dickory Dock (1955)

Dead Man’s Folly (1956)

Cat Among the Pigeons (1959)

The Clocks (1963)

Third Girl (1966)

Hallowe’en Party (1969)

Elephants Can Remember (1972)

Curtain (1975)

The Monogram Murders (2014)

Agatha Christie Hercule Poirot Collections in Order

Poirot Investigates (1924)

Murder in the Mews (1937)

The Labours of Hercules (1947)

Poirot’s Early Cases (1974)

Agatha Christie Miss Marple Books in Order

Here is the list of Agatha Christie’s books in order based on their publication date.

The Murder at the Vicarage (1930)

The Body in the Library (1942)

The Moving Finger (1942)

A Murder is Announced (1950)

They Do It with Mirrors (1952)

A Pocket Full of Rye (1953)

4:50 From Paddington (1957)

The Mirror Crack’d (1962)

A Caribbean Mystery (1964)

At Bertram’s Hotel (1965)

Nemesis (1971)

Sleeping Murder (1976)

Agatha Christie Miss Marple Collection in Order

The Thirteen Problems (1932)

Miss Marple’s Final Cases (1979)

Agatha Christie’s Tommy and Tuppence Books in Order

Here’s the list of Agatha Christie Tommy and Tuppence Books in Order

The Secret Adversary (1922)

N or M? (1941)

By the Pricking of My Thumbs (1968)

Postern of Fate (1973)

Agatha Christie’s Tommy and Tuppence Collections in Order

Partners in Crime (1929)

Agatha Christie’s Superintendent Battle Books in Order

Here’s the list of Agatha Christie Superintendent Battle Books in Order

The Secret of Chimneys (1925)

The Seven Dials Mystery (1929)

Cards on the Table (1936)

Murder is Easy (1939)

Towards Zero (1944)

Agatha Christie’s Standalone Novels in Order

Here’s the list of Agatha Christie Standalone Novels in Order

The Man in the Brown Suit (1924)

Giant’s Bread (1930)

The Sittaford Mystery (1931)

Unfinished Portrait (1934)

Why Didn’t They Ask Evans? (1934)

And Then There Were None (1939)

Absent in the Spring (1944)

Death Comes as the End (1944)

Sparkling Cyanide (1945)

The Rose and the Yew Tree (1948)

Crooked House (1949)

They Came to Baghdad (1951)

A Daughter’s a Daughter (1952)

Destination Unknown (1954)

The Burden (1956)

Ordeal by Innocence (1958)

The Pale Horse (1961)

Endless Night (1967)

13 at Dinner (1969)

Passenger to Frankfurt (1970)

The Murder at Hazelmoor (1984)

Agatha Christie’s Short Story Collections in Order

Here’s the list of Agatha Christie Short Story Collections in Order

The Mysterious Mr. Quin (1930)

The Hound of Death (1933)

The Listerdale Mystery (1934)

Parker Pyne Investigates (1934)

The Regetta Mystery and Other Stories (1939)

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories (1948)

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories (1950)

The Under Dog and Other Stories (1951)

The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding (1960)

Double Sin and Other Stories (1961)

Star Over Bethlehem and Other Stories (1965)

The Golden Ball and Other Stories (1974)

The problem at Pollensa Bay and Other Stories (1991)

The Harlequin Tea Set (1997)

While the Light Lasts and Other Stories (1997)

Agatha Christie’s Non-Fiction Books in Order

Here’s the list of Agatha Christie Non-Fiction Books in Order

Come, Tell Me How You Live (1946)

Agatha Christie: An Autobiography (1977)

Top 10 Agatha Christie Books to Read

Given the number of books in the Agatha Christie series, readers generally hesitate to begin. Further, to understand the series well, one needs to read Agatha Christie’s novels in order. To ease things, the readers generally look for the best novels or books to read them directly and avoid all the hassle. So here are the top 10 Agatha Christie novels that will offer you the best mystery story reading experience.

#agatha christie #poirot #hercule poirot #miss marple #tommy and tuppence #superintendent battle #literature #english literature #books #classics #crime novles #1920s #1930s #1940s #1950s #1960s #1970s #vintage

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scotianostra · 24 days

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youtube

Happy Birthday the Scottish folk singer/songwriter Brian McNeill born on April 6th 1950 in Falkirk.

Brian was a founder member of the Battlefield Band, one of our finest Folk Groups. He also joined several other top Scottish Folk musicians including Dick Gaughan in Clan Alba.

Brian is a multi instrumentalist – chiefly fiddle, bouzouki, mandocello, guitars and concertina – and the importance of his songwriting has long been recognised with such songs as The Yew Tree, The Lads O' The Fair, The Snows of France and Holland, Strong Women Rule Us All With Their Tears, Any Mick'll Do and No Gods and Precious Few Heroes. Many of his songs have been performed and recorded by artists worldwide. He has been described as ‘Scotland’s most meaningful contemporary songwriter’.

Brian’s audio visual shows, The Back O' The North Wind, about Scottish emigration to America, and the sequel, The Baltic Tae Byzantium, exploring the influence of the Scots in Europe, have won wide critical acclaim. His long connection with America's Lone Star State led to him being created an honorary Texan by the then Governor George W Bush. For six years Brian was Head of Scottish Music at the RSAMD, now the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland.

Brian is increasingly in demand for his production skills and his album credits include Davey Arthur, The Paul McKenna Band, Lorne MacDougall, Rua Macmillan, Eric Bogle and John Munro, Matt Tighe and Tad Sargent, The John Wright Band, Drones and Bellows and Missouri a cappella quartet The Wee Heavies.

As well as his musical talent Brian has also turned his hand to writing, he pens short stories, crime and mystery fiction involving his hero, busker Alex Fraser and his heroine, private sleuth Sammy Knox.

Brian is currently on the road with the The Feast of Fiddles 30th anniversary tour.

A song Brian wrote is one of my favourite modern folk songs

No Gods And Precious Few Heroes

I was listening to the news the other day Heard a fat politician who had the nerve to say He was proud to be Scottish, by the way With the glories of our past to remember "Here's tae us, wha's like us", listen to the cry No surrender to the truth and here's the reason why The power and the glory's just another bloody lie They use to keep us all in line

For there's no gods and there's precious few heroes But there's plenty on the dole in the land o the leal And it's time now to sweep the future clear Of the lies of a past that we know was never real

So farewell to the heather and the glen They cleared us off once and they'd do it all again For they still prefer sheep to thinking men Ah, but men who think like sheep are even better There's nothing much to choose between the old vain and the new They still don't give a damn for the likes of me and you Just mind you pay your rent to the factor when it's due And mind your bloody manners when you pay

For there's no gods and there's precious few heroes But there's plenty on the dole in the land o' the leal And it's time now to sweep the future clear Of the lies of a past that we know was never real

And tell me will we never hear the end Of puir bluidy Charlie at Culloden yet again? Though he ran like a rabbit down the glen Leavin better folk than him to be butchered Or are you sittin in your Council house, dreamin o'er your clan? Waiting for the Jacobites to come and free the land? Try going down the broo with your claymore in your hand And count all the Princes in the queue

So don't talk to me of Scotland the Brave For if we don't fight soon there'll be nothing left to save Or would you rather stand and watch them dig your grave While you wait for the Tartan Messiah? He'll lead us to the Promised Land with laughter in his eye We'll all live on the oil and the whisky by and by Free heavy beer! Pie suppers in the sky Will we never have the sense to learn?

That there's no gods and there's precious few heroes But there's plenty on the dole in the land o' the leal And I'm damned sure that there's plenty live in fear Of the day we stand together with our shoulders at the wheel Aye, there's no Gods

#scotland #scottish #history #singer songwriter #folk singer #Youtube

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spindlesaurus-rex · 2 months

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Eothiriel murder mystery au mark 2

Because @konartiste asked!!

After the Funeral

It was, in the end, a beautiful day. The sun was strong for September and the air was warm. The beech trees in the garden of the graveyard of Meduseld’s parsonage gently waved and light fell through them, dappled and surprised, onto the neatly trimmed verges that were as they had ever been. The blackbirds were singing, ready for the autumn glut in the hedges and ditches, bright and clear in the morning air. It was an English morning, pure and true. And Uncle Theo was still fucking dead.

Eomer Eadig, Earl of Meduseld, and just plain Eddie to his friends was currently attempting, in his own way, to square up to that fact. He stood by the fresh earth of the grave, alone, and tried to find some sort of meaning in it all. He did not succeed. All he saw, instead, was the earth that covered his uncle’s body and the neighbouring plot that held his cousin and no rhyme or reason for why he still stood there at all.

He wondered just how much Wynnie would resent him if he took the bike and left. Just drove out of the grounds and down, away from all the sober suited people who must still be milling about the chapel grounds or starting up the vast lawn and through the yew walk to the house. His house. Damnit, he didn’t want the thing. Besides, that manicured thing that George the gardener called a lawn wasn’t the way to come upon the house anyway. To see it properly you needed to go via the meadows instead, wild grass in the wind, tramp down the path that wound from the hill and trip down those final steep steps until you came upon the roof below you, blinding in the sun. The wildflowers would be out, purple mallow bright against the green and yellow of the long grasses.

How hideous it was to love something so fiercely, he thought, and be so afraid of loving it at the same time. From behind him came a little cough.

“They’re starting to head up, old chap. Wyn’s in the lead, so they’ll be alright for a while, but I promised I would come and tell you.”

Imrahil, master of the neighbouring Amroth Hall, stood tall and unbent. His hair was beginning to grey, silvering his temples and his clipped sharp beard. It lent him an oddly roguish air, as if one could ever forget that he had spent his youth running about in rigging. Eomer loved him fiercely, and had since childhood, having spent the best and earliest days of it running around Imrahil’s home and his own. Neighbouring was a stupid word for it, it took the better part of three hours to ride from one to the other and by the time you had the vistas changed from rolling ranging hills to the sharper cliffs of the sea, but neighbours they were. Imrahil had been staying at Meduseld for the week, helping everywhere. The idea of him leaving this afternoon, of all of those people who only a moment ago he had resented leaving him alone in that great big house without Theo or his Uncle suddenly threatened to bend him in two and he pulled air sharply into his lungs to say something, anything but the words wouldn’t come and he staggered slightly. Imrahil put out an arm. Steadied him. The sun fell brightly still through the trees and, for just a moment, Eomer wept.

The breeze stirred the leaves above them. Eomer passed a hand over his eyes. Imrahil squeezed his shoulder and he straightened, turned to face his dear friend. “You know I’ve told Wyn to go?” he asked softly, gesturing at the path ahead of them.

“She’s worried about leaving you.” Imrahil matched his stride, knocking his shoulder against Eomer’s as they left the churchyard and headed into the sunshine. “And I can’t say that I blame her. I don’t like the thought of you rattling around in Meduseld just now on your own. You know you’re welcome with us, don’t you? For as long as you like? Alfie would love it above all, you’re my grandson’s favourite as we all know, and -” He broke off. Eomer was smiling at him, softly, but shaking his head nonetheless. For a while, neither of them spoke. The birds sung still in the hedges about them and the yew walk came into view. Finally, Eomer cleared his throat.

“I can’t. He trusted me to do this. I have to begin it.”

Imrahil sighed beside him. “We’ll stay, if you like, as long as you want. Or simply ride over. You can or we will. Hell, I doubt you’ll be able to stop Lola -”

“Lothiriel? Your Lothiriel? Little Lola? I thought she was still in Paris?” Eomer did not try to hide his surprise. He hadn’t seen Imrahil’s youngest child, his only daughter, for some time. She had been in some theatrical or something her brothers had dreamed up, a last hurrah before she went off to school. He remembered her collar, starched and wide and white against the navy of her dress, and how she blushed when they all applauded, pleased with herself. She had blushed, too, when he had kissed her hand in a show of appreciation meant more to make her brothers laugh than to please her. Yet he had been fond of her. She and Wyn, when they could, would sneak away from any governess and join him and the brothers, Amrothos always so brash and Erchirion always so cunning and Elphir trying to keep them all from anything too dreadful, and all of them roving the hills with grass-seed in their boots and plans packed in their bags alongside the ginger beer. Lola and Wyn had never turned from a thing, giddy alongside them. He hadn’t thought to age her in his mind and, for an absurd moment, he imagined her riding over on the pony she had had then, collar flapping.

Imrahil laughed. “I wouldn’t recommend calling her Little Lola to her face, old thing. I think she’d likely take a parisian heel to your tenderest toe! She tried to make it back for today, of course, but her train was delayed in London. She’ll be here soon, I shouldn’t wonder. Telephoned from the hotel this morning to say she’d buy a car if she had to. She was very fond of your Uncle and - well, she wanted to be here. So she’ll be down and around and about in the shire. I’ll need you to keep her out of trouble, I shouldn’t wonder”

They had almost made it within sight of the party. Already Eomer could hear the voices, the bubble of polite chatter. Within moments he would be back amidst the thick of other people’s grief and there would be right things to be said and done and thought. He paused, and Imrahil, catching his movement, paused too.

“She isn’t going back?” He asked. “To Paris? To school?”

Imrahil laughed again. “School?” he fixed Eomer with a questioning look “She’s twenty two, Eomer. She’s been done with school for some time. She took a degree and has been keeping my sister company. But now Irviniel is coming back and Lola claims Paris has delighted her long enough. Even if it hadn’t been for this, she would have come back over with Ivy in a month.”

“I can’t think of her as twenty-two, I don’t think” Eomer confessed softly and Imhrail snorted as they resumed their steps.

“Imagine being her damn father,” he muttered and together they rounded the corner and came upon the rest of the funeral.

#my writing #fanfic #lotr #lord of the rings #eomer #lothiriel #au #inspired by agatha christie #my beloved #jeans wips

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clairekreads · 20 days

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The Mystery Of Yew Tree House @lesleyjmthomson @ariesfiction @HoZ_books @rararesources #promoblitz #publicationday

🎉🎉🎉 Happy Publication Day to Lesley Thomson 🎉🎉🎉 The Mystery Of Yew Tree House, the ninth in the Detective’s Daughter series is out today! If this tickles your fancy, you can get your copy right now: https://geni.us/TMOYTHRRR Continue reading The Mystery Of Yew Tree House @lesleyjmthomson @ariesfiction @HoZ_books @rararesources #promoblitz #publicationday

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#Aries Fiction #Blog Blitz #book promo #Head of Zeus #Lesley Thomson #promo blitz #Publication day #Rachel&039;s Random Resources

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junipers-rain · 7 months

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A Dance in the Rain

Willow Tremaine (Vampire) x Micah (Fallen Angel) (Oc's)

Contains: Fluff, modern fantasy setting.

A/N: This is my first writing I'm comfortable enough to publish, and hopefully I will have more to publish. It's not much, just something to get myself started. Also! This was inspired by write-it-mutherfuckers prompt.

✧˖°⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡°˖✧ ✧˖°⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡

The stereotype that vampires live near or on graveyards, in large castles, or in basements isn't too far off. Micah's wife, for example, lived in a lovely dark blue Victorian house on the edge of the cemetery that contained a church in the middle, making it Holy Ground. She kept the gravestones well maintained for the owners, who knew what she was. They didn't mind of course, after a deal was struck. Plus it was good for business, having a vampire nearby. No questions were ever asked.

Of course, Micah's' darling kept to the stereotypes of fashion as well. It wasn't old Victorian-esque or dusty. No, not at all. Rather, it was a bold, 1920's Italians, to match him. Or a gentle 1950s French for a cloudy day out that they could enjoy together. On occasion, she wore comfortable modern clothes with Micah. They fit her well, though he had no clue what to call it. It was just.. Her. whatever it was she wore, it was her. The fashion, the colors, the mystery. His Willow.

“Micah my love!” Willow called to him from outside of the house. She had started playing slow, romantic music that could stretch across the graveyard for miles around. But she had not a care in the world. Why would she? A vampire invited to live on Holy Land that was littered with yew trees, she was as safe as could be.

Micah walked out to see his love dancing in the rain. Her auburn hair soaked, her clothes drenched, all while she twirled around with smooth movements, keeping light on her feet.

“Join me my darling!” She giggled softly as she called once more, twirling a little closer to only pause at the porch steps, her hand extended out for him to take.

“But it is raining my love, and the night is near-” He responded hesitantly. He wasn't worried of the night, but rather what was to come with it.

“Ah, but Amare,” She cut him off with that sweet tone, beckoning him to come closer. “And the dead are unlikely to judge us. Come, such moments of innocent joy are far too few and fleeting to simply let pass by.” She curtsied to Micah, an invitation to dance.

Innocent Joy she called it. Sometimes he forgot his wife was Immortal as he with what she said.

But he couldn't help but chuckle, shaking his head slightly. "If that is what you wish, My dear,” Micah said as he stepped down into the rain, his large black wings extending to wrap around her in a comforting embrace.

And so, the dance began with a new song. Time in a bottle, Jim Croce. The first song they danced to.

.𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 . 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝.

Willow enjoyed dancing with her husband, it was a pastime for them. An intimate act between the two. It was an act of trust for a vampire, giving control to another - Even their lover - as they led the dance.

As they danced lost in each other's eyes - gray mirroring red - they talked. About their day, and their future, but never the past. At least not far into the past, memories without each other were painful now, and it was an unspoken understanding.

But all the same, they danced as the night fell upon them, the moon slowly rising as the Stars littered the sky.

At the end of the song, they would depart for the night - Micah to sleep, and Willow to feed, as well as walk the cemetery. Before joining him for the night, she would pick out clothes for the two of them and lay them out for tomorrow's day.

But until then, they would enjoy this moment in the pouring rain. Hand in hand, body to body, and music to bind.

#writers on tumblr #writing community #creative writing #fluff #fluffy #oc #my ocs #my writing #original character #fantasy #vampire #lovers #fallen angel

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cobalt-knave · 2 years

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Media (Mostly Podcast) Recs Based On Your Favorite Episode Of Unknown 9: Out Of Sight

If you don’t know, Unknown 9: Out Of Sight is an absolutely fantastic audio drama following Blake, an urban explorer / ghost hunter whose only way to deal with a trap is to walk into it, and his producer Lazari, a living ghost who can’t be remembered or noticed by most. They have a podcast and go on “house calls” to investigate weird stuff. Whatever it is, they’ll believe you. Quickly, it develops from episodic into a mystery meta plot, and the characters and their friendship is wonderful. Highly recommend.

If you have listened, here is what you should listen to or read based on your favorite episode, and - on the other side - if you like one of the recs, you may enjoy the podcast. Recs rend to skew towards being more horror than Out Of Sight itself is.

Episode 1: The Hole

The Magnus Archives - If you enjoy the slightly off, no solid resolution kind of horror. Where there’s a hole that the tenants worship and others can’t even see. Where you look back and everyone has gone missing, seemingly into a hole that was never there in the first place. You may enjoy The Magnus Archives. It even has its own bottomless pit into Too Close I Cannot Breathe! The podcast also goes from primarily unrelated statements to developing a meta plot.

“The Hole” by Tomska - This is a funny video that this episode made me think of. Warning for sudden loud sounds and gunshots.

The Dead Letter Office Of Somewhere Ohio - Another podcast with an episode focusing on a mysterious hole! It kept getting bigger and bigger and you can’t ignore it! This podcast is solidly in the weird horror and acid trip genres following a lot of dream logic.

Episode 2: The Nightmare Artist

Archive 81 - Ok, I’ve only listened to a couple episodes so far of this podcast, but the nightmare artist reminded me of it. If you liked the fucked up artwork and sculpture in this episode, you may enjoy the fucked up music described in episode 2 of Archive 81.

A Monster Calls by Patrick Ness - The description of the twisting branches that make up the sculpture put me in mind of the yew tree in this book. It is a heartbreaking book (really good though, one of my sibling’s all-time favorites) following the main character whose mother has cancer, and he has been interacting with this yew tree who is sentient and seems like could help, but what can really help?

Episode 3: The Elevator

Someone Dies In This Elevator - Literally right before starting this podcast, I had been listening to the new minisode for SDITE, which was entitled “The Elevator Game”, the literal premise of this episode of Out Of Sight! This is an anthology podcast with one common thread. Every episode, someone dies in this elevator. Range of genres from horror to tragedy to comedy to superheroes.

Episode 4: The Dead Girl

The Invisible Life Of Addie LaRue by V.E. Schwab - This fantastically-written book follows Addie LaRue, who was born in 17th century France and made a deal (with the devil? perhaps. or simply a god who answered after dark.) for more time and for freedom, leaving her immortal but unable to leave a mark or be remembered. Gorgeous, gorgeous writing.

A Voice From Darkness - This podcast takes the form of a radio show for educating people on supernatural horrors. One person who called in had the same affliction: he could never be remembered (not immortal though).

Zeroes by Scott Westerfeld, Margo Lanagan, and Deborah Biancotti - Another book with a (more minor) character unable to be remembered, Tybalt or Anon. The book is YA and follows several teenagers who have various powers. It is ...ok. It’s not the best book I’ve ever read, and they completely disregarded a fantastic friendship that was developed between Tybault and Ethan in favor of pairing them up with different romantic partners, but I digress. It has a place here if I am assembling characters unable to be remembered.

Episode 5: The Disappearing Town

The Mistholme Museum Of Mystery, Morbidity, And Mortality - This podcast has a newer episode, season 4 episode 7 “Lingering”, that has a disappearing town, albeit in a different way. The podcast has a generally different vibe to it, taking the form of the Audio Tour Guide showing you around the museum and explain the different exhibits. Genre is new folklore-eque I suppose.

Duggan Hill - This podcast follows main character Zoe looking for her ex-partner who went missing just outside of a mysterious town in Saskatchewan. The town has a lot of weird stuff going on with the ability to leave as well as people being completely forgotten.

Episode 6: The Sleeper

Patient 33 - Least strong connection haha. If you were intrigued by the coma patient, you may like this podcast. It is completely different vibes. A medical comedy - drama that we hear from the perspective of the coma patient.

Episode 7: The Intruders

I Am Eskew - This podcast is told by David Ward, and he is in Eskew, a wrong place. A unique kind of strange and off-putting horror. Imagine if instead of being weird fiction, Welcome To Night Vale was hard horror. The strange people in the house, put me in mind of David’s new ... housemate. Uninvited and unseen.

Buffy The Vampire Slayer - This tv follows Buffy, a teenaged girl who becomes the Slayer and then must hunt vampires and demons on top of simply living her life. Ignore how dull my one-line description is; it is an absolutely fantastic show and one of the best writing-wise. This episode put me in mind of Giles and Ethan and the Ripper plot thread.

City Of Ghosts - If you were intrigued by the agoraphobic character, you may enjoy City Of Ghosts, which has a main character, Prizrak, with agoraphobia. The podcast takes place in 1990s New York with main character, El, a private investigator who has schizophrenia and can see ghosts.

Episode 8: The Hotel

The Magnus Archives - If you enjoyed the fucked up architecture and hallways of the hotel, you may enjoy this podcast. Specifically, you will like the Distortion with its funky hallways and MAG 85 “Upon The Stair”. Described above.

I Am In Eskew - This podcast has messed up architecture as a primary feature. Described above.

The Hotel - I have not listened to this podcast, however the concept and description sounds relevant. The description from it’s feed: “It's not haunted... It's not hell... It's THE HOTEL! From five star resorts down to seedy motels, each episode the Hotel changes her shape and a new guest checks in with The Manager, The Lobby Boy, and The Owner. Good and bad, innocent or guilty, Hotel policy is no one is turned away, and no one checks out. Not even the staff.”

Episode 9: The Gateway To Hell

Desperado - The content is quite different, but the vibes are shockingly similar between these two podcasts. The easy banter, the central friendship(s) on top of the horror or roughness of the main plot. Desperado is set in a world where all gods that people believe in are real and have power, but in a lot of the world, the worshippers of the Old Man In The Sky (Christians) try to snuff out the others. The three main characters are all connected to different gods of death and try to find safety and fulfill their gods wishes.

King Falls AM - Fucking love strong central friendship? Look no further than this podcast. Takes the format of a radio show in the small, supernaturally inclined town of King Falls. Fantastic central friendship between the two main characters, Sammy and Ben. Genre starts out as comedy and then becomes -uh- intense(?) will make you emotionally invested and then scream and then stare blankly at a wall but in a good way.

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derangedrhythms · 3 years

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I would love to see a collection of quotes about the moon/moongazing. Thanks

"We looked at the moon and the moon looked at us."

— Helen Oyeyemi, from ‘White Is for Witching’

"How bright, glaring-bright, the moon […] Shreds of cloud blowing across it like living things."

"A cold-glaring full moon suspended in the sky like the unblinking eye of God."

— Joyce Carol Oates, from ‘We Were the Mulvaneys’

"There is something haunting in the light of the moon; it has all the dispassionateness of a disembodied soul, and something of its inconceivable mystery."

— Joseph Conrad, from 'Lord Jim'

"As the moon’s shadow passes over you—like a rush of gloom, a tornado, a cannonball, a loping god, the heeling over of a boat, a slug of anaesthetic up your arm…"

— Anne Carson, Decreation: Poetry, Essays, Opera; from ‘Totality: The Colour of Eclipse’

"Under the shield of night, / let me unburden the moon."

— Forugh Farrokhzad, Reborn; from ‘Border Walls’, tr. Sholeh Wolpé

"The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary. / Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls."

— Sylvia Plath, Ariel; from 'The Moon and the Yew Tree'

"The brimming moon looked through me and I could not move."

— Ted Hughes, Recklings; from ‘Keats’

"The full moon is out, casting her equivocal corpse-glow over all."

— Margaret Atwood, from ‘The Testaments’

"I never go walking in the moonlight, never, without being met by thoughts of my dead, without the feeling of death and of the future coming over me."

— Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, from ‘The Sorrows of Young Werther’ tr. David Constantine

"And the moon is wilder every minute."

— W. B. Yeats, Michael Robartes and the Dancer; from 'Solomon and the Witch'

"A moon loosened from a stag’s eye,"

— Theodore Roethke, Praise to the End!; from ‘Give Way, Ye Gates’

"Moon full, moon dark,"

— Sylvia Plath, Collected Poems; from ‘Goatsucker’

"Let’s order one last round and kiss in front of god and the rest of the drunks, then pour ourselves out into the night, following the moon anywhere but home."

— William Taylor Jr., from ‘Literary Sexts: Volume 2′

"In the window, the moon is hanging over the earth, / meaningless but full of messages."

— Louise Glück, A Village Life; from ‘A Village Life’

"while from the moon, my lover’s eye / chills me to death"

— Sylvia Plath, Collected Poems: Juvenilia; from ‘To a Jilted Lover’

"The moon has a strange look to-night. Has she not a strange look? She is like a mad woman, a mad woman who is seeking everywhere for lovers."

"Look at the moon! How strange the moon seems! She is like a woman rising from a tomb. She is like a dead woman."

"Oh! How strange the moon looks. You would think it was the hand of a dead woman who is seeking to cover herself with a shroud."

— Oscar Wilde, from 'Salomé'

"The moon has nothing to be sad about, / Staring from her hood of bone. / She is used to this sort of thing. / Her blacks crackle and drag."

— Sylvia Plath, Collected Poems; from ‘Edge’

"Where, indeed does the moon not look well? What is the scene, confined or expansive, which her orb does not hallow?"

— Charlotte Brontë, from 'Villette'

"And the tarnished sliver of moon glows / Like an old serrated knife."

— Anna Akhmatova, Seventh Book: from ‘In a Broken Mirror’, tr. Judith Hemschemeyer

"In the full moon you dream more."

— Margaret Atwood, Morning in the Burned House; from ‘The Ottawa River By Night’

"…the moon appeared momentarily […] her disk was blood-red and half overcast; she seemed to throw on me one bewildered, dreary glance, and buried herself again instantly in the deep drift of cloud.

— Charlotte Brontë, from ‘Jane Eyre’

"It is not so much moonless as the moon is seen nowhere / And always felt."

— Dorothea Lasky, Black Life; from ‘Poets, You Are Eager’

"If the moon smiled, she would resemble you. / You leave the same impression / Of something beautiful, but annihilating."

— Sylvia Plath, Ariel; from ‘The Rival’

#compilations #moon #long post

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sabrinasgrimoire · 4 years

Text

God Studies: Lugh

Also known as Lug Lámfhota (Irish) and Leu Llaw Gyffes (Welsh), Lugh is one of the Celtic High Gods. The name “Lugh” may be derived from a few different etymological sources. It could come from “lug-” which roughly translates to “oath” or “pledge”. The second is more likely, and comes from “leuk” meaning “light”. He is similar to the Roman deities Mercury and Mars in that he was a God of great skill in general, and great skill on the battlefield. He was even nicknamed Sam Ildanach in Ireland, which translated roughly to “the many skilled”. One such legend that gives him his name sake is of his entry to Tara. When Lugh approached the great gates of the city, he was stopped by the guardsman at the gate. When Lugh asked the man why he was being denied entry, he was told that they were only accepting one person of each craft, i.e. blacksmith, cook, tailor, etc. So Lugh began to go down the list of professions, asking the guard in turn if they already had someone of each practice in the city. Each time, the guardsman said they already had one such person. Finally, Lugh asked him if they had anyone who could do all those things. When the guardsman said no, Lugh was admitted into the city.

Another equally important aspect of Lugh is that of the sovereign and war. We see his warrior aspect in a few myths, specifically in the Second Battle of Mag Turedh. Many Celtic warriors also bore his name as a form of devotion, and as noted in the Leinster poems. His sovereign aspect is explored in a few myths as well, the most notable in the tale “Baile in Scale”. In this story, Conn Ceadcathach goes on a hunting trip with a band of men. In the middle of the woods, they come across a thick and mysterious fog. Seeing no other way out, the men travel into the fog and end up in the Otherworld at the House of Lugh. Here, the God offers Conn Ceadcathach a golden cup from which to drink. Lugh tells the man of the future High Kings of Ireland, the drink from the golden cup sealing the future.

Lugh carried with him many mythical weapons and had many animal companions. I will go over a few of the most important and notable of these items. The first is the Spear of Assal, which was said to be unbreakable and unbeatable in battle. It was also said to have transformed into a lightening bolt when Lugh threw it, and came back to his hand at his call. The second weapon was a sword named Fragarach, “The Answerer”, which forced the truth from any man who touched it. Both these weapons were gifted to Lugh by his foster father Mannanan Mac Lir, a Sea God. Another gift from Mannanan was the horse Enbarr, who could travel over land and sea. His final animal companion was an Irish Greyhound named Failinis, who accompanied Lugh into battle and turned his water to wine.

Correspondence Chart:

Other Names: Lug Lámfhota (Ireland), Leu Llaw Gyffes (Wales)

Solar System: Mercury, the Sun

Celebrations: Lith, Lughnasadh, Yule

Trees: Apple, Birch, Holly, Yew

Plants: Gorse, Grain

Stones: Obsidian, Sapphire, Topaz

Metals: Brass, Gold

Magickal Beings: Faeries

Animals: Rooster, Crane, Eagle, Raven, Boar, Dog, Horse, Lion, Lynx

Issues & Intentions: Agriculture (Harvest), Battle/War, Beginnings, Business, Communication, Confidence, Creativity, Decisions, Defense, Healing, Knowledge, Light, General Magick, Solar Magick, Solar Power, Prophecy, Protection of the Weak, Rebirth/Renewal, Revenge, Skills, Warmth

Works Cited:

Patti Wigington (April 26th, 2019), Lugh, Master of Skills, Learn Religions, https://www.learnreligions.com/lugh-mas ... ls-2561970

Sandra Kynes (2013), Complete Book of Correspondences, Llewellyn, Print, Page 336

Mary Jones (2007), Lugh Lamhfada, Jones’ Celtic Encyclopedia, https://www.ancienttexts.org/library/ce ... /lugh.html

Gregory Wright (Unknown), Lugh, Mythopedia, https://mythopedia.com/celtic-mythology/gods/lugh/

#Lughnasadh #lugh #celtic #witchblr #grimoire

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scotianostra · 3 years

Video

youtube

Happy Birthday the Scottish folk singer/songwriter Brian McNeill born on April 6th 1950 in Falkirk.

Brian was a founder member of the Battlefield Band, one of our finest Folk Groups. He also joined several other top Scottish Folk musicians including Dick Gaughan in Clan Alba.

No Gods (and Precious Few Heroes)

I was listening to the news the other day Heard a fat politician who had the nerve to say He was proud to be Scottish, by the way With the glories of our past to remember

"Here's tae us, wha's like us", listen to the cry No surrender to the truth and here's the reason why The power and the glory's just another bloody lie They use to keep us all in line

For there's no gods and there's precious few heroes But there's plenty on the dole in the land o the leal And it's time now to sweep the future clear Of the lies of a past that we know was never real

So farewell to the heather and the glen They cleared us off once and they'd do it all again For they still prefer sheep to thinking men Ah, but men who think like sheep are even better

There's nothing much to choose between the old vain and the new They still don't give a damn for the likes of me and you Just mind you pay your rent to the factor when it's due And mind your bloody manners when you pay

And tell me will we never hear the end Of puir bluidy Charlie at Culloden yet again? Though he ran like a rabbit down the glen Leavin better folk than him to be butchered

Or are you sittin in your Council house, dreamin o'er your clan? Waiting for the Jacobites to come and free the land? Try going down the broo with your claymore in your hand And count all the Princes in the queue

So don't talk to me of Scotland the Brave For if we don't fight soon there'll be nothing left to save Or would you rather stand and watch them dig your grave While you wait for the Tartan Messiah?

He'll lead us to the Promised Land with laughter in his eye We'll all live on the oil and the whisky by and by Free heavy beer! Pie suppers in the sky Will we never have the sense to learn?

#Scotland #scottish #folk singer #songwriter #author #happy birhtday #musician #independence

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irelise · 5 years

Text

the yew tree 3.2/3.4

Erik has worked with Sebastian Shaw ever since Shaw rescued him from human experimentation when he was a boy. He is reluctantly enlisted to assist in Shaw’s newest scheme: seducing the wealthy and enigmatic Lord Xavier to claim his vast fortune. With Shaw posing as Xavier’s doctor, Erik goes undercover as Xavier’s personal manservant to convince him to fall in love with Shaw.

But Xavier has secrets of his own, and it isn’t long before Erik starts having second thoughts about the whole thing…

Featuring mysteries, hidden agendas, a jealous and conflicted Erik, and a whole heap of master/servant tropes.

(the handmaiden inspired au - no canon knowledge required

part one and two now on ao3!

beginning of part 3)

Warnings for this part: Referenced human experimentation, referenced sexual exploitation of children Rating: M Word count: 3984 Notes: the long overdue update is finally here! this is basically the end of the emotional arc of the story - the next update will probably be the last (unless i get impatient and split it into two) and will mainly tie up loose plot threads

It’s a beautiful day out in the grounds, golden sunlight and verdant greenery as far as the eye can see. In the distance, a lark trills as it ascends in flight.

An automobile idles in the driveway. It is sleek and black, its engine rumbling quietly like a great predator at rest.

The window rolls down. A powerful, thick-fingered hand beckons Charles forward.

“You’ll be good,” Uncle says. His face is half-hidden in shadow.

How do you know you’re doing the right thing?

Charles bows his head. “Of course, sir.”

The only way to stop him is to kill him.

“You remember our agreement. Our deal.”

You make it sound so easy.

“Yes, sir.”

It is.

***

Sunset. They’re to stay put until the dark of night, so the two of them are in Charles’ study now, the air so thick with tension that Charles rubs at his temples, resigning himself to a migraine. Not tonight, he prays. If all goes according to plan, everything will end tonight.

The clock ticks, the march of time slow, inexorable. Beside him, Erik stirs, crossing and uncrossing his long legs. There is a book propped open on his lap, but as Charles watches him, Erik’s eyes skim through the text without seeing, gaze flickering across the same line over and over again. His mind is a storm of questions, but it’s tempered by concern; Erik has resolved not to push Charles for answers before he’s ready, and he’s determined to stand by his decision even though curiosity is eating him alive.

Charles loves him very much at that moment.

One hour to go. He can’t delay any longer. Charles has made a promise and he doesn’t intend to go back on his word. Still, it doesn’t change the way his whole chest goes tight, shame and anxiety and fear making it difficult to breathe. His hands tremble as he shuts his book (he hadn’t read a single word these past few hours), and immediately Erik’s attention snaps to him.

Charles musters an unconvincing smile. “Let’s be going, shall we.”

Finally, Erik’s thoughts shout, but all he says is: “You sure you’re ready?”

“I don’t think I ever will be,” Charles tries to joke, but it falls flat, too honest to be funny. He shakes his head. “I’ll do what I must. Let’s go.”

He’s walked the path to the recital hall many, many times before, almost every single day of his life. But never before has he felt this mix of choking fear coupled with quiet, fragile hope.

The last time. Whatever happens, this is the last time he has to walk this path.

Erik’s mind sparks with the keen interest of a hunter as Charles pushes open the door to the hall. His sharp gaze sweeps through the room, cataloguing every detail. The small raised dais, open and exposed. The rows of benches arranged in a circular pattern, allowing the hungry audience to watch the performance from every direction, every angle.

The bookshelves, each of them stuffed to the brim. Uncle had kept expanding the hall as his collection grew. Now the bookshelves are ordered in neat, dense rows, enough of them for a small library. Display cases of glass break up the monotony, proudly exhibiting intricate scrolls and illustrated texts.

Confusion creases Erik’s brow. “This is…” Just a normal room, his mind supplies.

If only.

And the thing is, Charles can keep up the deception. The trapdoor is right there. He can just lead Erik down to the lab, leaving this whole sorry chapter of his past behind him. Erik never has to know his shame. His weakness. He does not owe Erik this part of the truth; this has nothing to do with the lies he had told concerning Shaw.

But – and Charles doesn’t wholly understand it himself – some part of him wants Erik, someone, anyone to know the truth. The whole truth. He’s lived with the lies and the silence for too long.

He wants – he hopes – for Erik to understand.

But what if he doesn’t? Or, worse, what if every time Erik looks at him from now on, he only sees a victim? Someone weak, someone piti–

“Charles?”

Erik’s voice jolts him from his thoughts. Erik is watching him with a frown. He wants to demand answers, Charles can sense it, but the greater part of his thoughts is preoccupied with concern for Charles.

Charles takes a deep breath, licking dry lips. He can’t look at Erik.

“The bookshelves. Just. See for yourself.”

Erik’s footsteps are soft as he picks his way across the hall. Charles closes his eyes, building up the barriers around his mind. Already he regrets his decision.

Paper rustles.

Then–

Shock. It pierces clean through Charles’ mental defences, and Charles freezes like a child caught eavesdropping. He can hear the turning of pages again, loud and quick, a noise like a panicked bird beating its wings.

Erik tosses the book away. It thumps against the ground. He rips open another book, flicking through the pages so rapidly that Charles can hear it as a snap-snap, snap-snap, the crack of the whip, the breaking of bones.

“Charles. What is this.”

He cannot answer. Charles stares at the ground, waiting for Erik’s scorn. His eyes burn.

“Charles!”

He shakes his head.

From far away, he hears the ragged exhale of Erik’s breath. “You. All this time. Every single time you went to read for him, every single day… I, that time I forced you into that costume…”

All his usual eloquence had deserted Charles. He closes his eyes, mute, and Erik lets out a snarl, fury battering against Charles’ shields.

“How long?” Erik demands. “How long has he– When did this start?”

“I was six,” his voice sounds so quiet, nothing like himself at all, “from memory. It was shortly after I first arrived here. I…”

His voice cracks. He swallows, rubbing at his eyes, a childish habit he can’t seem to break. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t– I didn’t know how to say no. You must think me so–”

Charles jumps as Erik suddenly moves, arm sweeping out to send the row of books tumbling to the floor in a series of sickening thuds. They lie there like dead, broken things, pages bent and crumpled, covers askew. He catches a glimpse of a half-torn ink drawing, the legs ripped apart.

“Erik?”

The whole room trembles. Wood splinters, the nails that hold the bookshelf together rattling and warping. The whole thing comes apart with a clatter, rows and rows of books falling to the floor, the wooden frame tumbling down to crush them. Charles stares uncomprehendingly at their broken-spined forms. He almost feels like he’s one of them, lying helplessly on the ground as Erik pulls the world apart right around his ears.

Silver flashes through the air: metal, responding to Erik’s command. Veins bulge from the back of his hand as he clenches it into a fist, and the metal soars in deadly arcs across the bookshelves, scything across wood and paper alike.

Pages flutter to the ground. Another bookshelf trembles, coming apart with a groan and sending a cascade of books spilling across the floor. Almost in a dream, Charles stoops to pick one of them up, only for Erik to snatch it out of his hands and throws it back onto the pile. “Never again,” he says harshly, but the words seem to slip out of Charles’ dazed mind the instant he hears them. He can only watch, still uncomprehending, as Erik steps contemptuously over the pile, crushing the delicate pages beneath his shoes.

Another crash. Something falls: an inkwell, splattering black stains across the fallen volumes.

Erik is pausing, one of the exposed pages catching his eye: …if anyone desires to use you in any manner whatsoever, he will use you…

Fury. Charles’ mental shields crack.

Erik, on the ground, blades of metal ripping through the pages.

A scattering of red. Ink? Blood? Charles makes a small noise – Erik shouldn’t hurt himself, not over this – but it’s swallowed up by the tearing of parchment as Erik rips apart a stack of papers, trampling them underfoot.

One of the glass cases shatters, its metal frame warping. Crystalline shards slice through the scroll on display. It’s one of Uncle’s favourites, a depiction of a woodland hunt, the baying hounds immortalised in ink, the fleeing boy naked and half-mad with fear.

All gone now. The ragged, ruined edges of the parchment burn in Charles’ mind.

Another shelf topples. The very bones of the house seem to shake with the force of Erik’s rage, a red tide that crashes over Charles’ mind.

Strange. He doesn’t fear it, not like the way he fears Uncle’s red thoughts.

Something hard shifts under Charles’ foot. His heart skips a nervous beat when he realizes he had just stepped on one of Uncle’s books. Instinct takes over and Charles flinches away – he remembers this book, remembers being twelve and sitting on the dais and reading it aloud as every single man in the audience fantasised about raping him – and he jumps at another thunderous crash as Erik takes an armful of books and dashes them all against the ground.

He’s never seen such deadly focus in Erik’s eyes before.

Never again.

Gingerly, his heart pounding, Charles nudges at the book with his foot, pushing it beneath the growing pile of rubble. He’ll never have to see it again. He’ll never see any of this again.

The mad racing of his pulse doesn’t slow, but with that first little act of defiance, some of the fog around his head lifts. Although he still can’t bring himself to speak, Charles scrapes together enough courage to touch Erik lightly on the elbow, guiding him to the back of the room where a discreet false wall swings open to reveal an alcove filled with accoutrements Uncle likes to keep on hand: racks of wood and metal – the sort perfect for tying a small, unwilling body to – and long braided whips, silken ropes and the faceless mannequin Uncle had liked to see him straddle.

Erik destroys all of it. Charles stares at the twisted metal, the shattered wood, hardly daring to breathe, hardly daring to believe. In a daze he leads Erik to the trapdoor, only dimly aware of the devastation Erik leaves in their wake.

Down the stairs they go, the cold darkness broken by Erik’s churning anger and disbelief. All this time, how could I not have known…

The steel door, heavy and forbidding. Erik wrenches it apart with nothing but a flick of his wrist.

Electricity sparks. The entire bunker rumbles ominously, but Charles feels no fear; a first, considering his usual experiences in this place. He’s curiously calm as he watches Erik plant his feet against the ground and raise his arms.

The humming of Erik’s power grows, rising to a crescendo. Charles’ breath catches in wonder as every single piece of metal in the room shudders, then floats, effortlessly borne aloft by Erik’s power. There must be enough metal there to build a warship, but Erik lifts it all without a hint of strain, the look of focus on his face absolute and intense.

Then, with a defiant shriek that shakes the very foundations of the mansion, all the metal in the room crumples. The cabinets and the machinery, the cruel surgical tools – all rendered harmless in an instant.

The silence that follows is deafening. Standing in the middle of the wreckage, Charles gazes at the remnants of the only life – the only home – he had ever known.

Erik turns to face him. Under the stark white lights of the ruined laboratory, his eyes blaze. “I’ll kill him,” he vows, fierce. “He’ll never hurt you again.”

Charles blinks. The fog blanketing his head stirs sluggishly. “I… I don’t…”

“We’ll wait for him to come back from his trip. Forget Shaw – we’ll deal with this first.”

“Erik.” Charles finds his voice again, the fog around his head burning away. “Stop.”

Erik whirls around to face him, fury and disbelief twisting his face into that of a stranger’s. “Don’t tell me you’re planning to let him go. Marko needs to die.” His hand sweeps out, gesturing at the twisted wreckage of the room. “After everything he’s done – all he’s done to you! You can’t walk away from this, Charles. You need to take revenge.”

It feels like they’ve had this conversation before, arguing in circles. “I don’t want his death and I don’t want revenge. I only want to ensure he never does the same thing to anybody else.”

“Killing him does the same thing.”

“I don’t want revenge!” Charles repeats in a snap, heat flaring in his chest. Some days he thinks he spends his entire life shouting into a void, unheard, all his words futile. “Enough, Erik. Please.”

He’s spent his whole life being bent to serve Uncle’s will. He doesn’t think he can bear it if Erik turns out to be the same.

Perhaps Erik sees some of his thoughts on Charles’ face. Charles doesn’t know; he’s still too much a coward to delve into Erik’s mind again, too fearful of the possibility that he may be faced with Erik’s scorn and pity. Whatever the case, Erik softens, but his eyes lose none of their intensity. “We can’t let him walk free. You know that.”

“Yes, of course.” But what can he do? Restless, Charles begins to pace down the length of the room. Some of that dream-like haze returns, but Charles forcefully shoves it away – no time for that, he can process his shock later, lock it away and toss away the key. Right now, Erik is waiting for him to come up with a plan. Charles can feel his eyes boring into his back as he walks, fingertips trailing against ruined fixtures and crumpled shelving, the physical evidence of Erik’s fierce anger.

Anger. For him. On his behalf. Even now, Charles can feel it brushing against his shields, a thundering roll of righteous fury, and there’s something else–

Protectiveness, Charles realises, with no small amount of awe. Despite everything, Erik still cares about him.

He cannot – will not – let Erik down.

Charles takes a deep breath, centering himself. Erik is right; Uncle must be dealt with, but how? Charles’ mind turns to the principles he had clung to all his life, to his belief in knowledge and education and communication, but the thought of talking to Uncle is so ludicrous that he almost laughs. No, Uncle will never listen to him.

Is there truly no other way? Charles refuses to accept that. His eyes scan the room, searching for a solution.

A pile of battered folders lies in his path, Uncle’s notes spilling onto the ground. Picking up one of the files, Charles flicks it open, carefully locking away the revulsion stirred up by memories of all those experiments. Uncle had never shared the results with him before. Now, Charles frowns at the jumble of numbers and graphs, trying to wrestle them into some semblance of sense. There’s so much information here, and this is only one file out of hundreds from the years Uncle had spent studying his telepathy – how much had he discovered that Charles knows nothing about?

Charles closes the file with a decisive snap. He bends, beginning the laborious task of stacking all the remaining folders into a neat pile. “Erik, help me gather all the files you can find.”

Erik’s discontent rubs against his mind like prickling static. “I hope you’re planning to destroy them.”

“No, I’m going to use them.” Charles responds evenly. “Despite their…origins, by all rights they should belong to me.”

“They’re the product of human experiments. Human cruelties. You don’t need them, Charles.”

How to explain this? Erik is striding up to him, footsteps quick and angry, and Charles meets his eyes without flinching. “You of all people should understand the concept of using the enemy’s own tools against them. The research exists already. Destroying it would be a waste when we can channel it towards something more productive.”

“Such as?”

Charles brushes his fingers across the back of the battered folder, all its crinkles and imperfections rough under his fingertips. “I… If I’m to live away from here, in the outside world, I need to master my telepathy. I’ve been afraid of it for far too long. These files, all the files in this lab, they contain the details of every single experiment my uncle has ever run on me and every other mutant that has passed through these doors. Our powers, our genetics, our biology, our health…” A plan is beginning to coalesce in his mind. He’ll reclaim everything Uncle has ever taken from him; he’ll take all of Uncle’s twisted research and use it for good. “We can use this knowledge to help our people.”

Erik isn’t convinced, that much is clear, but neither does he make any move to stop Charles. “The files will be dangerous in the wrong hands.”

“Then let’s make sure they stay in ours.”

His plan solidifies. Resolve settling into his bones, Charles takes a moment to savour how good it feels to finally, finally be sure he’s doing the right thing. He’ll gather every single scrap of Uncle’s notes with or without Erik’s help.

Erik must sense his conviction, because he exhales in that quiet way that Charles has come to recognize as Erik conceding a point.

“We’ll try it your way,” Erik says, but what Charles hears in his mind is: I trust you.

***

They don’t have much time left before their rendezvous with Shaw, and there are so many of Uncle’s notes to pack. It’s impossible to take them all; Charles does his best to pick out the important ones, trying to drown out the ticking of the clock, the movement of the wind and cloud-shadows outside his window. It’s already full dark. The gas lamp flickers as Charles pores over the notes and he rubs at his eyes, trying to will away the growing tightness in his chest.

After the third time he unpacks then repacks their luggage under the guise of rearranging the notes, Erik stops him with a light touch against his wrist. “You’re delaying.”

“I’m only being thorough,” Charles protests, although he knows the truth. “Shaw can wait a few minutes, this is too important to rush.”

“Charles. What’s wrong?”

Charles bites his lip, but, as always, he concedes that he owes Erik his honesty. “It’s nothing serious. It’s just, just rather difficult to believe this day has finally comes.”

Erik watches him, steady and intent. “You mean leaving the mansion?”

“I’ve never left, not since the day I first arrived,” Charles confesses. Automatically, his gaze goes to the window, but at that moment, the thought of the outside world is too much. His eyes skitters away, skin prickling hot and uncomfortable. “I thought I never would.”

“You’re afraid,” Erik observes. Charles braces himself for Erik’s judgement, but there’s not a whisper of that in Erik’s mind, just quiet, thoughtful concern.

“I suppose I am.” For all the time he’s spent living in other people’s heads, Charles has no idea what to expect for himself. What if he leaves only to realize he’s incapable of adapting to the outside world? What if he leaves only to realize that Uncle is right, that the only place for him is inside this mansion, inside Uncle’s reading room?

Unconsciously, his breathing quickens. Chest tight with frustration, Charles scrubs at his eyes, forcefully willing away the tell-tale prickle of heat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to delay us. Shall we go?”

He doesn’t get a response immediately. Erik’s mind is a steady hum of activity, picking out words and phrases only to discard them just as quickly; Charles doesn’t pry into the specifics. He stays carefully still as Erik moves closer, but he can’t help the startled exhale that leaves him when Erik’s warm hand cups his cheek, tilting his head so they face each other properly.

Erik’s pale eyes are grave, solemn with the heavy weight of promise. “You don’t have to do this alone, Charles.” His thumb brushes across Charles’ cheekbone, against the curve of his ear, startlingly gentle. “You’re leaving behind everything you’ve ever known. It might take some time for you to find your way, that’s only normal. I won’t abandon you to do it alone.”

“Erik…” It’s too good to be true. Charles blinks rapidly, trying to quell the rising, foolish hope that threatens to overtake him. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, my friend. Don’t forget we still have our differences.”

“And we can work through them,” Erik insists. “Together.”

Erik’s mind burns with conviction – not a momentary blaze, but a conviction that entrenches itself into his mind with foundations of solid steel. He means it, Erik really does mean it, he’s going to stay…

Charles can’t help it; the hope and affection rushing through him needs an outlet. He stretches up to kiss Erik, swift and urgent – and just a touch uncertain – but then Erik cradles his face in calloused hands and pulls him closer, deepening the kiss. For a long moment, they simply stand there, swaying against each other, Erik cupping Charles’ face and Charles’ arms wrapped around Erik’s shoulders, and the moment is just perfect, so perfect.

The chime of the clock interrupts them. Charles pulls away slowly, his reluctance mirrored in Erik’s eyes, but an unspoken understanding resonates between them. They need to put an end to this. Shaw, Marko – neither can be allowed to continue.

They leave his rooms, moving with purpose. Charles deftly nudges all attention away from them. The mansion is almost eerie in its emptiness as they walk through its lonely halls one last time, their footsteps swallowed by the carpet. All around them, the flickering gas lamps throw strange shadows against the wall as they walk, and Charles picks up the pace, pulse thudding in his chest. Soon.

Erik throws open the heavy front doors. The night air drifts into the mansion, cool and sweet with the first hints of spring.

“Are you ready?” Standing at the threshold, Erik looks ethereal – a spirit bathed in the spill of moonlight, silver threading against the crown of his head.

Icy doubt trickles down the back of Charles’ neck. It’s already far too late for second thoughts, but he can’t help it, all his old fears and insecurities rising in a sudden, crushing tide that constricts his throat and makes it difficult to breathe. “One moment,” he manages. God. Erik looks so untouchable like this.

He jumps as Erik’s hand closes around his, broad and warm and alive, calloused from a life spent working and fighting. Erik laces their fingers together and squeezes his hand.

“Look at me, Charles.”

Charles lifts his gaze. This is real. He’s real.

Erik is looking back at him, and the expression on his face is painfully gentle. Charles swallows down the lump in his throat. He doesn’t deserve this, not any of this, but it’s so hard to protest when he’s surrounded by the candlelit warmth of Erik’s mind, a quiet blanket of safety and acceptance settling around his shoulders.

“I won’t leave you,” Erik vows.

You’re not alone, his mind promises.

And, finally, Charles believes him. He nods. A smile breaks across Erik’s face, fierce and joyous, and he grips Charles’ hand with renewed strength.

They cross the threshold and step into the moonlit grounds. A lively breeze ruffles Charles’ hair, bringing with it the scent of new grass, the fresh growth of spring, the trill of a faraway nightingale.

Erik never once lets go of his hand. Together, side by side, they make their way past the boundary of the estate, leaving behind them the silver-dappled shadow of the yew tree.

(next part)

#cherik #xmfc #my writing

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maculategiraffe · 6 years

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won’t you meet me at the gates to the garden

Little snippet: Nora and the gang, at the Castle, Halloween night. ~1500 words, and a lot of that is quotes from The Canterville Ghost.

Happy Halloween, my darlings.

They can’t celebrate Halloween the way she remembers it, back in Sanctuary Hills, or before that, when she was a kid. Dressing up in fancy store-bought costumes, based on TV and movie and radio superheroes: Grognak, the Silver Shroud, Mistress of Mystery. Nora remembers going as a cat, a cowgirl, a witch, a hippie in thrift-store bell-bottom jeans and a peace sign painted on her cheek. More nervous than excited, holding out a pillowcase or a pail for a neighbor to drop something into.

She didn’t like how you weren’t supposed to say please. Trick or treat, as if you might do something bad to people who didn’t placate you with candy. She didn’t like that idea as a kid. Still doesn’t.

Now Shaun’s the only kid around of trick-or-treating age, and he’s not the type to enjoy filling a sack with sugary treats at others’ expense, anyway. He’d rather run around distributing any available treats to his brothers and sisters, and the other settlers at the Castle.

He’s enough like Nora that he doesn’t much like the idea of disguises, either. Monsters are too real, these days, to take pleasure in the dressing-up of someone dear and familiar as someone, or something, less so.

And the dead are-- well, Nora doesn't believe in ghosts, not that way, not seasonally. If Nate can be here with her, and if there isn't a good reason why he shouldn't be, then he's here a lot more often than once a year.

(She hopes he isn't. She hopes he's with Shaun-- their first Shaun-- in heaven. He believed in heaven, completely. She's about fifty-fifty. But if there is one, Nate's definitely there, and she can't imagine whoever's in charge wouldn't let him have his son with him.)

This time of year, she thinks more about the war, the bombs falling. Ghosts, kind of, but not the fun, spooky kind.

But this year they’ve carved jack-o-lanterns, out of gourds and winter melons, scooping out the seeds to roast with a little salt and a little oil, carving cheerful, jagged-toothed moon faces and setting candles inside. She was just going to show Shaun how, but then everyone else wanted to join in too. After tonight-- after a night of bright faces all over the courtyard, grinning and spilling light-- she'll gather the gourds and melons and cook them, so the meat of them doesn't go to waste.

It's Dee's turn to read aloud tonight, and he’s picked Oscar Wilde's "The Canterville Ghost.” He’s reading outside instead of in the library, so they can all enjoy the jack-o-lanterns, for the little time they last. The night's cool, but not cold; her kids curl against each other, for warmth and for love. Shaun sits in her lap. Hancock's arm rests on her shoulders. A real lantern, not a jack-o- one, lights the page, and Dee's face, in that spooky, atmospheric campfire way. Dee has such a great voice for reading. It's low and gravelly and dramatic as he reads,

"Right in front of him he saw, in the wan moonlight, an old man of terrible aspect. His eyes were as red burning coals; long grey hair fell over his shoulders in matted coils; his garments, which were of antique cut, were soiled and ragged, and from his wrists and ankles hung heavy manacles and rusty gyves.

"'My dear sir,' said Mr. Otis"-- Dee's voice switches registers, turns prim and nasal, so that everyone's laughing even before he goes on-- "'I really must insist on your oiling those chains, and have brought you for that purpose a small bottle of Tammany Rising Sun Lubricator. It is said to be completely efficacious upon one application, and there are several testimonials to that effect on the wrapper. I shall leave it here for you by the bedroom candles, and will be happy to supply you with more, should you require it.'"

Dee switches back to the dramatic voice to continue, "For a moment the Canterville ghost stood quite motionless in natural indignation; then, dashing the bottle violently upon the polished floor, he fled down the corridor, uttering hollow groans, and emitting a ghastly green light. Just, however, as he reached the top of the great oak staircase, a door was flung open, two little white-robed figures appeared, and a large pillow whizzed past his head! There was evidently no time to be lost, so, hastily adopting the Fourth dimension of Space as a means of escape, he vanished through the wainscoting, leaned up against a moonbeam to recover his breath, and began to try and realize his position. Never, in a brilliant and uninterrupted career of three hundred years, had he been so grossly insulted."

Shaun is having a fit of the giggles in her lap, struggling to breathe. Everyone's laughing, as Dee keeps reading, about the family that just refuses to be scared.

"He laughed his most horrible laugh," Dee reads, "till the old vaulted roof rang and rang again, but hardly had the fearful echo died away when a door opened, and Mrs. Otis came out in a light blue dressing-gown. 'I am afraid you are far from well,' she said, 'and have brought you a bottle of Doctor Dobell's tincture. If it is indigestion, you will find it a most excellent remedy.''

"Oh my God," says Victoria, laughing. "It's Mom!"

Even Dee cracks up at that, and loses his place for a second. Nora laughs, breathless with happiness, with her family around her, in the darkness that makes the flickering golden light so incredibly lovely.

The story takes a sadder, sweeter turn towards the end, when the daughter of the family befriends the ghost. Dee's voice goes soft, gentle, when he does her voice:

"'I am so sorry for you,' she said, 'but my brothers are going back to Eton to-morrow, and then, if you behave yourself, no one will annoy you.'

"'It is absurd asking me to behave myself,' he answered, looking round in astonishment at the pretty little girl who had ventured to address him, 'quite absurd. I must rattle my chains, and groan through keyholes, and walk about at night, if that is what you mean. It is my only reason for existing.'

"'It is no reason at all for existing, and you know you have been very wicked.'"

"That sounds like Emily," says Michael, and everyone laughs again, and the story stays funny for a bit, until Dee's voice, his gruff rusty ghost-voice, changes:

"Far away beyond the pine-woods, there is a little garden. There the grass grows long and deep, there are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale sings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold crystal moon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the sleepers.

"Virginia's eyes grew dim with tears, and she hid her face in her hands.

"'You mean the Garden of Death,' she whispered.

"'Yes, death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forget life, to be at peace. You can help me. You can open for me the portals of death's house, for love is always with you, and love is stronger than death is.'"

Nora's eyes are stinging, now. It's Dee's voice, the tenderness and the pain in it, the yearning.

He reads on, and little Virginia bravely helps the wicked old ghost be laid to rest, and everyone lives-- or dies-- happily ever after, and everyone is quiet for a bit. Shaun's asleep, slumped on Nora's arm and chest.

Nora's heart is full, overflowing. He made me see what Life is, and what Death signifies, and why Love is stronger than both.

Max says, "Good stuff. Good pick, Dee."

Dee shuts the book, as everyone murmurs agreement, and says, "Thanks. I thought, you know-- I kinda forgot about all that heavy stuff, there at the end."

Cog says, "It was funny. It was good."

"Thank you, Dee," says Danse gravely.

Dee waves them off. "Yeah, OK. Bedtime. For people that sleep. Look, 2.0's already out."

The night rustles and creaks with everyone's rising, flashes as they move through light and dark.

Nora stays still the longest, Shaun breathing in her lap. Wondering, or imagining.

She isn’t afraid. If they're here, the beloved dead, called by her longing, or by the thinness of the veil tonight, then they belong here, just outside this circle, making the dark gentle for the living.

And if they're not--

(Emily’s voice, remembered: Sleep is a sweetness, so I hear it said.)

Someday she'll be with them, wherever they are.

But no hurry.

"Here, ma'am," says Michael, reaching down. "I'll carry Shaun to bed."

She shifts, lifts her smallest son towards her tallest, feels her husband's hand on her back, as Michael lifts Shaun's sleepy weight from her, as she begins to rise.

#fiction #how life goes on the way it does #nora bowman #grief

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mindbinds-blog · 6 years

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❝ ━━ ✧ VERSE: HOGWARTS: A DARKER SHADE OF MAGIC

G E N E R A L .

House: slytherin Age: 16 Blood Status: mixed-blood Affiliation: hogwarts

M A G I C .

Wand: 14" / yew / dragon heartstring / hard flexibility

yew wands are among the rarer kinds, and their ideal matches are likewise unusual, and occasionally notorious. the wand of yew is reputed to endow its possessor with the power of life and death, which might, of course, be said of all wands; and yet yew retains a particularly dark and fearsome reputation in the spheres of duelling and all curses.

the witch or wizard best suited to a yew wand might equally prove a fierce protector of others. wands hewn from these most long-lived trees have been found in the possession of heroes quite as often as of villains. what is certain, in my experience, is that the yew wand never chooses either a mediocre or a timid owner.

dragon heartstring produces wands with the most power. dragon wands tend to learn more quickly than other types. the dragon wand tends to be easiest to turn to the dark arts, though it will not incline that way of its own accord.

Patronus ( based on this list ): magpie. a relative of the crow, the magpie is considered to be one of the most intelligent animals in the world. also like the crow, they have a bad reputation, but in fact, the magpie is seriously misunderstood. they are very curious creatures and will often fly off with something that they find interesting. magpies are able to sense approaching danger very quickly, making them the perfect patronus!

Best Subject(s): charms / cursing / legilmancy Worst Subjects(s): transfiguration / flying

T H E W I Z A R D.

from the moment of his birth shinsou hitoshi has led a difficult life. his father comes from the long shinsou line of pure-bloods but was disowned for marrying his mother, a muggle. if that didn’t make shinsou infamous enough amongst older wizards who know his name and father’s “shame”, it also doesn’t help that both the mysterious arts of parseltongue and legilmancy run in his family. ironically enough the shinsou line is looked down upon more for being ‘sullied’ than their sordid history of death-eaters and blood purists.

both are fairly misunderstood, though parseltongue the more feared of the two. shinsou has inherited an aptitude for both and is fairly powerful. as legilmancy is often considered an advanced art not taught to the general hogwarts population he is instead tutored by professor aizawa who is a skilled legilman in his own right. legilmancy is often misconstrued as magical telepathy but it involves extracting memories and emotions and the safe-keeping of them. they are often also able to determine whether they are being lied to or not.

shinsou is, in many ways, a very exemplary slytherin. should he have chosen it he also would have been a great ravenclaw but he often operates more with his cunning and ambition. as many slytherins he has no actual desire to be evil or follow in the footsteps of ancestors. in fact, even amongst other slytherins shinsou is something of a pariah and feared.

M I S C.

cursing is his favorite school of magic by far followed closely by charms. he has a way with exerting his will through magic that is both incredibly powerful and incredibly dangerous.

he has not had much opportunity to duel or friends who would practice it with him but given the chance he would excel. his spell casting is quick and precise and he eventually will be able to master wordless spells as well, which is a rarer and useful skill.

his dream is to become an auror. as many expect him to turn completely to the dark arts there aren’t many who take him seriously on this.

because of his father’s disowned status and his own mixed blood shinsou is denied the estate and wealth that he would have been the rightful heir to. instead a cousin of his will inherit the shinsou grounds when he is of age.

he has a black cat named maki who he loves very much.

despite knowing that many of his skills are considered “dark” and feared shinsou does little to hide them. he wants to succeed in life and become a famous auror while defying all the stereotypes.

#❝ ━━ ✧ VERSE 04. A DARKER SHADE OF MAGIC

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thecryptidofbravo · 6 years

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Redwater Fables - The Redwater Children (Pt3) & the Yew Tree and an Explanation

The Redwater Children and the Yew Tree

The three Redwater Children had lived together for some time, and doing well, learning from each other the many things each knew alone.

Eventually Stone-Child could hunt food, and Tree-Child could grow things, and Star-Child could fight monsters. More than that Tree-Child and Star-Child, growing accustomed to the Founder’s place Below, were beginning to look more and more like Stone-Child, who was born of the earth and darkness underneath the world.

No longer did they need to bring light with them as they traveled further down with him, and they began to learn the smells and sounds of things Below, as well as Stone-Child knew them.

Eventually it seemed the three Redwater Children had the same faces, and could scarcely tell each other apart but for their Names.

It was around this time the Yew seed, long planted by Star-Child, and promised that if she was patient it would grow, began to sprout.

It grew fast, and strong, in the good soil of the hill above the Founders place Below, fed by ash and blood and bone, and nourished by the Redwater itself. Its trunk twisted and bloomed, until it was too big for the Children to reach around, even all three holding hands.

The branches grew tall, and wide, covering the hill in shade like night itself, while its roots dug deep, into the Founder’s place Below. These roots became part of the Founder’s place, Holding it tight, creating new walls and tunnels where there had been only cavern and earth and air, and the space between the roots, in the rock, the Redwater Children carved out new houses for each of them.

From the deep Below, further still than the other children could go, Stone-Child brought up gifts from the Founders, and the Rocks That Burn, from which Star-Child made good metal, and sometimes nothing but secrets.

In the night, Tree-Child still ventured out from the Founder’s place, and brought back meat of all kinds, and sometimes old things like the Founder’s gifts, and sometimes nothing but secrets.

In the Founder’s place, where Star-Child spent most of his time, he built things, and taught Stone-Child and Tree-Child things, and he learned things, and they shared secrets with one another.

For many years they lived together, and they grew closer, and, one day, not only their faces looked the same, but their names were forgotten, and Stone-Child, Tree-Child, and Star-Child were no more.

Only the Redwater remained, and we are They.

Our Keepers, who learn the ways of Stone-Child, branching ever further into the Below for us.

Our Runners, who hunt in the ways of Tree-Child, who keep us fed, and keep the monsters Above away.

Our Holdlings, who tend to the Founder’s place, where the Roots still Hold, as Star-Child once did.

Only the Redwater, which fed the Ash Born Yew, and we are They.

Epilogue: An Explanation

The story above is part of the oral history of the Redwater Clan, specifically their origin mythos.

Someone Educated 9wink-wink), or with a few Lores, could pretty easily muss out what it represents, if they ever got the full story, but that would be the much less easy part.

If they somehow got the full story, and spent some time thinking on it, they’d probably be able to figure out the following

Redwater Hold, or “the Founder’s place Below”, was a series of loosely connected old world bunkers on the south side of the Red River.

Whether through radiation, or replacement, the Founders themselves, whoever they were, either became or were replaced in the network by Lascarian progenitors, the character “Stone-Child”.

However long Stone-Child subsisted on the resources of the bunker is a mystery, but at some point, close to when food was especially tight, a group of Natural Ones, “Tree-Child”, potentially an offshoot of tribe Ragnarok or something similar based on the use of tree and spear symbology and several cultural aspects that were adopted by the Lascarians later on, found the entrance to their Hold and set up camp outside, entering negotiations for food, with at least some threat of violence as things escalated and the situation outside worsened.

Eventually they reached a compromise, the Natural Ones were allowed to shelter in the LAscarian’s home, and in return they would venture above ground and assist in providing food and other resources the Lascarians needed. They were also either given permission to farm the earth above the hold, though it is implied they had seeds they brought with them, but little-to-no farming knowledge.

Not long after the Natural Ones joined with the Lascarians, a group of Red Star, “Star-Child” seemed to arrive, on the run from the “monster” or “beast” of the story, likely some sort of angry mob from either the Lone-Star, though details are, at best, going to be assumption more than fact.

It is more than implied that the two other groups were open, but hesitant to allow the third into their home, but negotiations went smoothly, while they allowed the Red Star community to make camp outside the Hold entrance, as the Natural Ones had some years before. The story implies that the Lascarians and Natural Ones had reached an agreement to integrate the refugee Red Star into their community, when the force the Red Star had been fleeing from reached the outskirts and attacked.

The two groups living below joined the battle and were able to flank the opposing force, and overwhelm them.

There is more than simple implication that the Natural Ones had already taken up occasional cannibalism by that time, as both “Children” are said to have begun butchering the beast, to the discomfort of the Red Star. It seems they chose not to voice their objections at risk of offending their new allies.

The Red Star joined the community, serving as a service group and general work force, allowing the Lascarians and Natural Ones to concentrate on their more specialized endeavors.

Eventually, through interbreeding and continued radiation-driven evolution, the Natural One and Red Star Traits were lost, leaving only Lascarians, biologically speaking, but with lingering cultural influence from the original strain communities, most notably:

-a lack of formal religion. The Founders may hold a similar status to a deity, but are not truly worshipped, only invoked. Isolation likely contributed to the major religions not being known to them as well

-isolationist tendencies, relying on each other first and foremost, and strong distrust of outsiders

-language consists of a melding of several Oldcestor dialects. At least one is close enough to the tongue used by most survivors of the wastes that at least one individual (Wandering Eye, presently of Bravo) was able to pick it up relatively easily by listening and trial and error

-preference of handheld weapons and primitive ranged weapons over firearms, though, again, this may have been from lack of knowledge of how to make and use them as much as cultural disdain

-importance of the seed of the Yew, and repeated mention of ash and death in its growing

As for the tree itself, of which much of the story centers on the growth of, the “Ash Born Yew”, it seems undebatable that it does exist, or rather, did exist, until recent events involving the Fallow warlord Mustang, after the Hold was abandoned by the clan due to events roughly one and a half to two years ago. Whether the tree was grown by the clan predecessors, or had already existed is worth some scrutiny, but does not matter in the long run, at least until it can be examined, which is unlikely to happen considering the current state of the Hold and the cultural significance to the former residents.

#redwaterfables #redwaterclan #culture #meta

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ofcloudsandstars · 6 years

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✧ *.🎄Yule Solitary Rituals🎄*✧

As the days grow darker to the shortest day of the year and the frost creeps on the skeletons of dead leaves and flurries seep into the streams of howling winds, we know we are reaching Winter Solstice. Though this is the darkest point of the year filled with frost and shadows, it is the time to fill the night with thousands of lights and celebrate unity, blessings and rebirth since the days will extend slowly as we enter the new year. To celebrate life and longevity in a moment of darkness we decorate the home with plants that keep its prosperous green and red colors. Pine, cedar, holy, mistletoe, rose hips, cinnamon, chestnuts, pine cones and winter fruits. (Interestingly enough plants like pine and rose hips are packed with vitamin C and can be used in healing teas!) This is also a time to gather together with loved ones and share what you have in a time of rest and stagnancy. Though it would be ideal to gather with a circle of intimate people this post shall focus on solitary practices of course!

A lot of us witches practice alone and have our own solitary rituals for each sabbat that we observe (or the ones we’ve created just for ourselves that we observe alone!) Like any solitary eclectic witch I do things my own different way but some of these things might line up with others practices. I do refer to some of the equinoxes/solstices/crossquarters by their celtic sabbat names but I celebrate them in a secular animist way and I treat the wheel of the year as a an argrarian cycle celebrating nature. I use sabbat names as a point of reference and also people that do celebrate these witches sabbats more traditionally might find value in my personal practice! Here is my personal correspondences post and my personal Yule tag!

When I am alone and casting spells a lot of it is visualization/intent so my solitary rituals are more like activities I like to do then specifically casting a spell. If I am doing a spell with an activity based on it a lot would be listening to music to get in the mood and focusing on a candle while visualizing for a period of time! Eves are also important to my celebration as I like to stay up until midnight and cast a spell then!

Winter Solstice's Eve

Wednesday December 20th 2017

Make a Pot Pourri ESPECIALLY if you have a cauldron, fill it up with all kinds of winter magic! Pot Pourris could make a great base for a spell! You can add all sorts of ingredients and maybe slip a paper with written wishes to be manifested inside. If you are very sneaky and a closeted witch it would be a great activity to do in the home! Add orange zest and rose petals for vitality and energy in winter! Put Rosemary and Rose hips for health. Add Pine or Cedar for prosperity! Put in mint and cloves for purity and keeping the space cleansed. Maybe don't add all the pairings I've mentioned in this bullet point, yet consider that each ingredient has it's own magical correspondence! There are great pot pourri recipes online. I like this article for some simple ideas!

Decorate your Altar This is a great activity especially if you live in a house hold where you can't express your spirituality throughout the home and have to confine it to your space. Decorate your altar with the plants of the season! It will smell incredible if you add cedar, pine or cinnamon and look beautiful with holy, rose hips, mistletoe and pine cones. Add peppermint for joy and luck and buy a little string of LED lights to wrap around it or make yule tea lights if you want something non electric. Burn peppermint, cedar, cinnamon or sandalwood incense and make your space jolly and merry!

Grow (borax) Crystals Borax is super fun and non toxic and you can grow crystals overnight! What you will need is a box of borax, a pot you can use for crafts and some white pipe cleaners. You can make a pipe cleaner 'skeleton' for a tea light holder or make snowflake pipe cleaners for the borax solution. Here is a great tutorial on borax crystals. If you add food coloring you can change the color (it will nearly always come out as light pastel unless you add a lot but I like the white color for this sabbat anyway).

Make Sigil Snowflakes Design spell snowflakes by drawing a thin sigil, then folding a paper up into triangles and drawing your sigil on the final triangle. You will have beautiful snowflake designs with amplified energy to hang in your windowsill! (I like this quick tutorial for ideas).

Bake! Winter is the ultimate baking season and it makes the home smell great and you can indulge for the winter! Create delicious treats like ginger bread cookies, cinnamon rolls, red velvet cupcakes or even a mini yule log! You can also make poppets in the form of cookies or spell cookies in shapes of Yule trees (prosperity), ginger bread men or animals (if animals to maybe acquire some kind of quality that animal has to help you in your journey), or stars for joy!

Offerings to Nature In this dark part of the year when you give back it can make an impact. Make pinecone bird feeders (of pine cones you've collected in nature please don't use the craft store scented ones), Orange bird feeder, or treats for the fae. You can make beautiful sun catcher ice sculptures to decorate your balcony or garden with (1 , 2 ). Leave meringue mushrooms or holiday sweets for the spirits!

Spell Baubles Make some spell baubles! Like the way there are spell jars, you can fill these baubles with certain desires and decorate your altar with them. Also as a tip, if you buy the large baubles, keep the ingredients dry so you can add an electric tea light inside and make them spell bauble lanterns! It will be a wonderful decoration in your space when the night is so long.

Smoke Bundles for Cleansing Many of the seasonal fir plants can help cleanse the air! I'd suggest cedar, cinnamon, rosemary, sage and pine. Yew is toxic though I have absolutely NO IDEA who would even decorate their home with yew?? Why? But I could see the confusion occuring only if someone was harvesting pine in the wild and confused it with Yew. It's good to be able to tell apart the difference between Yew and other pines and make sure to avoid it!

Make Scented Candles I made this post years ago and I believe some links are broken (but also my instructions are sketchy cause this was when I was just learning how to make candles so don’t pay attention to my instructions anyway haha the ingredients are what matters), but you can be creative with scented candles! Winter solstice is a great time to make the home smell jolly and be creative plus you can add spells in it! Here are some of my favorite candles that you can find inspiration from! 1- spell pillar with things ontop 2- frosty pillars 3-Pillar with things around it (also my own when they are lit).

Make blessed crafts for friends! If you have witchy friends or friends that respect your practice you can make them cute charms for gifts in the winter! This can be a combination of things above like a scented votive candle, a smoke bundle or a crystal tea light or:

Make a Magical Ugly Winter Witch Sweater: We all need sweaters this time of year but also simple stitching, beading and embroidery is much easier than I thought and I ended up having an idea to embroider some cute tacky witch things on sweaters and make some enchanted sweaters! Michaels and other bead shops in the city sell crystal beads and you can sow stitch magic into it! I am making some for some witchy friends with flourite, amethyst and rose quartz beads as a gift for the winter solstice. If you have some sweaters you'd like to magic-afy but not ruin with kitschy-ness, you can still sew some crystal beads on the inside or in a place that it will not scratch you.

Fill the home with Music! This is definitely the time of year we need cheer within the home! Some music I love for the winter solstice is the Nut Cracker. I also love ambient winter sound tracks like this one that’s very meditative or more mysterious like this one. There’s a lot of winter fairy music on youtube. Look up any Gothic Winter instrumental music and you will find a lot of tracks. There is also Katrina Skye who is super cheesy but she is so cheesy it's charming. Her music tends to be very wiccan though.

Midnight Spell: Winter Solstice is wonderful to do a spell focusing on reviving something for the new year. If there is something you want to bring to life again, an old hobby, an old connection, an old project or goal or dream, you can focus your spell on that!

An activity could be lighting a sparkler envisioning it to ignite the spirit of life and revive you. Pass it around your head, around your body and between each leg (like how you would cleanse yourself with sage or palo santo). Pass it over your magical items and crystals to charge (make sure it's not near anything that's very flammable though). Sparklers can give off a lot of smoke so I would not recommend this if you live in a smoke free environment.

Put to rest As we descend into the slower restful part of the year it would be wise to use this time to focus on goals we want to accomplish for the next year and slow down or halt other issues we want to put to rest in order to focus on ourselves, whether it be bad habits, people that won’t allow us to grow, or locations we keep finding ourselves that are unhealthy. Write down these obstacles on a piece of paper or cardboard, put it in a container full of water and place it in the freezer in order to 'freeze' these things.

Yule Day

Thursday, December 21st 2017

Ice skating Even if you are alone, ice skating on the first day of winter is pretty magical! Set up your favorite magical winter playlist on your ipod or invite a friend and glide away on the ice! The best is if it's an outdoor rink!

Setting up lights It is the shortest day of the year therefore being the darkest. To elevate your space, set up many colorful lights for a magical experience! If you have a space you can have open flame then:

Burn Scented Candles Either the magical ones you've made on the eve or some that you've bought! Winter scented candles really add charm to the space!

Sing! Song worship is a wonderful form of magic. You can sing spells or devote a song to your guides. Even if you don't have a song to sing then intoning is a great way to elevate the space. Intoning would be wonderful to warm up your vocal chords and energy with then you could pick a devotional song or even a carol to sing!

Offerings Your guides have been with you all year and the year (or sun) is going through it's period of rebirth. You can set aside offerings in gratitude for them. If you want to make it in theme with the holidays you can set aside something like milk and cookies! If your guides like something specific then of course offer that to them.

Winter Grounding Do some energy work on the first day of winter to center yourself and go within. Stand in the snow or on the cold hard ground and feel the cold electrify your senses as you ground with the earth. If cold is very much not your thing you can do energy work in your room with a sound bath using white noise tracks or meditative winter music. Put tumbled crystals like quartz, blue lace agate or angel aura quartz in the freezer until they're cold and make a grid on your body by placing one on your third eye, throat, chest, navel etc and meditate. Focus on taking in as much energy to reserve for the season.

Make a Merry Potion! As it's the darkest time of the year the mood can plummet. A personal potion of mine is a wonderful potpourri-like tea that can help boost your mood. It has dried rose hips , hibiscus petals and anise and Rhodiola rosea or rhodiola tincture. I would suggest getting a rhodiola tincture (you can purchase from wholefoods or online) and putting it in there. I swear by this plant and tincture, rhodiola has been a great plant ally to me especially to help cope with depression (it helps increase serotonin) but since I don’t know all the medical specifics you should consult it with your doctor if you are on something like antidepressants. It’s a semi known thing so your doctor would probably have good advice whether its safe for you to take it or not. Otherwise I have literally been spreading this tincture at work and have been seeing changes with my coworkers and my own mental health like it has helped me survive this far so I will be using it to survive winter.

TREAT YOSELF Winter is the season of resting. Make a potpourri-like hot bath with clementine slices, rose petals, epsom salt and anise stars. Be careful to not add something like cinnamon cause the oil can burn the nether regions. Also be careful with peppermint oil cause that can leave icy burns in the nether regions. If diluted properly the two could work but if you are not familiar with working with those oils I'd suggest leaving them out!

Evening

Celebratory Feast If you are alone you can make yourself a delicious winter stew! It will be fun to slow cook something meaty or rich and make the whole home smell great and bring anticipation for dinner! If you are looking for more elaborate dishes I love to use seasonal ingredients for every sabbat. Pine is an excellent flavor that pairs well with fish like salmon. Chestnut is divine either sweet or savory. Roots like potatoes, turnips and ginger are a must!

Blessings Since Yule to me is about generosity and unity I like to use the day to do helpful spells and send blessings to loved ones. Tip when you do a spell for someone: make sure it's something they ask for and truly need. For example if you know your friend has been struggling to find a job or money you can do a money spell for them. If your friend has wished in front of you to be able to move out into a safer place, you can put energy out towards that. However a bad example would be if you think your friend is miserable cause they are single and you do a love spell. That can end up in a disaster! Only do a spell on something you know they need. Otherwise just send a blessing of good energy towards your loved ones!

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