#first time drawing any kind of corpse paint be nice to me please

[avionvadion]

It’s finally dooooneeeeee. Now I can go back to the animatic, lol. My backgrounds suck when it’s not nature, but I tried. XD Part three of chapter 17 for my fanfic, Forest Deep. There’s nothing quite like listening to the original soundtrack when drawing the original (and only) Lord Sesshomaru and Inugang. Yashahime doesn’t exist.

 https://archiveofourown.org/works/24115702/chapters/58056064

Story Snippet:

I barely got two steps in through the doorway when there was a loud meow and I was catching a familiar cat demon in my arms, the kitten curling against my chest and licking the blood off my face. I stumbled and caught myself, standing still for a second as I processed this. I held her up, staring at her big red eyes in shock.

"K-Kirara?"

A voice from inside called out my name and very soon a young brunette came rushing out, barreling into me as she wrapped her arms around my shoulders. Sesshōmaru and Jaken waited outside in the hallway, stopping as if they knew what was about to transpire. "Irene! Do you have any idea how worried I was about you!?"

"S-Sango?" She held me so tight she was shaking. Relief washed over me and I leaned into the touch, having a bit of trouble reciprocating before Kirara climbed onto my head. I clung to her kimono, burying my face in her shoulder. "I-I was so scared that- ohhh, I'm so glad you're safe!"

"I should be saying that about you!" She pulled away, grasping my shoulders. Her eyes widened and she then reached up, resting the back of her hand against my face. "Irene, you're burning up! Your eyes are all red and puffy, too. Were you crying again? Your wounds are still bleeding, too! How much blood have you lost? I'm surprised you're still even able to walk!"

I laughed weakly through the mask, pulling back a hand and tapping at the object. "Mostly because of sheer willpower and this. Think you can make me one sometime? I love it."

"It might take a while, but sure. I'll have to collect the demon bones necessary to do so." She looked over her shoulder, calling out to the others. "Everyone, look! Inuyasha was right; Irene is here! She's safe!"

Kagome brought a hand to her chest, letting out a small sigh. "That's a relief. I'm glad."

"Me too." Miroku smiled. "We were getting a bit stressed out waiting for you. We feared the worst might have happened."

Inuyasha scoffed, crossing his arms. "I told 'em not to worry. You can be pretty useless most of the time, but you always pull through in the end. Still…" His ear twitched and he glanced uncomfortably at the doorway. I wondered if he could smell the demons I was travelling with. I sincerely hoped he was not the brother I thought he was. Could he smell Sesshōmaru?

I was never able to ask, for Sango pulled me back into another hug. "I'm so sorry. I wanted to go after you when I saw Kirara was alone, but more and more corpses were gathering and it would be too dangerous if we were all together. We figured you'd be safer by yourself than with us."

"N-No! No, it's okay. I mean, there was a whole horde of them on like several levels that tried to kill me, but…"

Sango moved back a step, leaning away so she could brush the bangs out of my face. I was sweating badly, covered in dirt and blood- both dry and fresh. I must look like a mess to them. Sango was smiling so warmly it got rid of all the words I was going to say.

Shippō spoke up from his spot on Miroku's arm. "How come you had such trouble getting here?" He asked, confused. "We didn't encounter any demons or undead on our way up here."

"They smell vitality," Miroku said, his eyebrows knitting together, "By all means they should have went after those of us that were in groups of two. How come they all went after you? Did Naraku somehow order them to-"

"Uh, actually I think it was…" I hesitated, catching everyone's attention. Inuyasha scowled, his ears twitching as his eyes once again flicked to the doorway behind me. He was really unnerved by their scents, wasn't he? I suppose I should tell them. "I think it was because there were three of us? I mean, a larger group to track and all that…"

Kagome looked dumbfounded. "Three of you? You mean you weren't alone? We were all up here, so how could you have-"

As if deciding now was the time to reveal himself, the silver-haired man known as Sesshōmaru entered the room. Kirara's fur stood on end when she saw him walk up behind me, the demon far too close for her liking, and she began to hiss. Sango's eyes widened immediately and she wasted no time in hoisting me up onto her shoulder, causing me to yelp as she suddenly jumped back closer to the rest of the group in an attempt to get away from him. The cat demon leaped down to the floor and transformed, snarling at the man.

Everyone else readied their weapons, Inuyasha pushing Kagome behind him as he unsheathed tetsusaiga. "Sesshōmaru!" The half-demon growled. "What are you doing here!?"

Were they seriously going to attack him? This is not okay. Nope. I wiggled my legs and struggled in Sango's grasp, the woman loosening her hold in surprise. She wasn't used to me resisting her protection. I ripped the mask off my face- leaving it to dangle around my neck- and I stumbled over to the full-blooded demon, alarmed and very much panicking. "W-Wait! Don't… Don't attack him! Please!? H-He was really nice and helped me get here!"

Sesshōmaru's golden eyes followed me as I made my way in front of him, watching as I held my hands out defensively as if to protect him. Which, admittedly, was a little ridiculous because he needed no one to shield him. I was just scared and, even now, I was struggling for oxygen.

"Nice?" Sango echoed, stunned. "You can't be serious."

Inuyasha scoffed at my words, unable to believe what he was seeing. "Get away from him, Irene! Sesshōmaru doesn't have the heart to be nice. All he has is a hollow where a heart should be! I bet he was gonna kill you once he got what he wanted."

"What?" I've seen Inuyasha angry before, but this was pure bitterness that was in his voice. He almost sounded afraid. "B-But… he protected me! The zombies were about to kill me when Sesshōmaru showed up! He… He saved me from several demons and dozens of undead! He isn't the bad guy, I promise!"

Sesshōmaru actually scoffed when he saw the way Inuyasha was looking at him. "So, little brother, this human woman is indeed your friend? I suspected as much."

My eyes went wide and I looked up at him. He knew all along? Was my hinting that obvious? How come he let me live? If he truly was related to Inuyasha and was the villain everyone painted him out to be, by all means I should not be alive right now. He seemed so tolerable of me, a human, so did he really hate him for being a half-demon? I didn't understand.

"What of it?" Inuyasha demanded, snapping at Sesshōmaru. He gripped the handle of tetsusaiga anxiously, ready to fight if need be yet clearly scared of this opponent. It was a completely different side to him. "You gonna kill her now? I don't know why, but you seem to have her brainwashed into thinking you're some kind of compassionate demon! How about you show her your true colors, huh?"

"T-True colors? What?" I'm so lost. Sesshōmaru stepped forward, pushing me back with his hand and out of his way. His hand reached for the other sword, the one I had yet to see him use. "So you are his older brother?"

Kagome nodded fervently. "Yes! He's the one we told you about- and he's ruthless! Get away from him while you can!"

"I…" I really didn't want to. I trusted Sesshōmaru. He scared me a little at first, but he's been so kind. He protected me, honoring the deal we made, and while there was nothing to be gained from freeing the souls of the dead he did it anyway. "I don't…"

I don't think he's a bad person.

"Irene." I snapped my head up, staring at Sesshomaru with wide eyes. It was the first time he called me by name. I hadn't even thought he remembered it. The demon wasn't looking at me, instead focusing his attention on Inuyasha and the others, watching them closely. The demon removed his hand from his sword, standing upright and narrowing his eyes. "You've completed your side of the bargain. You are no longer under my protection."

"Uh, o-okay?" That came out of nowhere. "D-Does that mean I should back away from you now or…?"

He glanced at me from the corner of his eyes before turning away. Sesshōmaru no longer appeared as if he were going to battle the others, sliding a foot forward to walk away. "Do what you will." He told me, moving ahead and stepping past the others. Inuyasha called out to him, demanding he turn back and fight him, but Sesshōmaru paid him no heed. "Jaken, let's go."

The imp yelped and hurried forward, not wanting to be left behind. "Y-Yes, Lord Sesshōmaru!"

#inuyasha #sesshomaru #kagome higurashi #inukag #miroku #sango #shippo #kirara #blood #inuyasha fanfic #inuyasha comic #anti sessrin #anti rinsess #sesshomaru x oc #irene #inuyasha secret of the cursed mask

[ghostdummieideas]

A Grave Mistake 1/?

I wanted to write a comedic series involving a graveyard worker and Mary Goore. I don’t know how long this will be, but enjoy. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In a desperate need to pick up a job before your last semester, you committed to any PM shift available on the posting. Your previous supervisor refused to adjust your shift to your school schedule. Thus, you had to part ways to prioritize your education. The only problem was the fact that you require money to survive, and out of the ten work postings you applied for, one replied: A position in maintaining and watching over the local cemetery. 

Your first impression of your boss isn’t outstanding, either. An unwelcoming, scowling man with a cue ball head and stained uniform. He didn’t even look up at you from his security monitors, just jabbed his thumb over this shoulder.

“Even out the gravel, kid,” he grunted. Your eyes followed his gesture to locate a rusty rake and a headlamp hanging from one of the many hooks. You shuffled over to the corner and snagged the headband, then grasped the rough handle of the appliance and took the tool off the hook. 

“Wear the jacket before you go.” 

You turned back towards your new boss to see him now pointing to the coat hanger next to the office door, bearing a crusty-looking trench coat. Without another word, you grabbed the article of clothing and ventured out into the chilly outdoors.

The extra layer of the trench coat provided little to no aid into blocking the frigid winds swirling around you. You stuffed your free hand into the pocket, pausing when your hand met with plastic. You grasped the unknown item in your hand and brought it in front of you. A plastic bag with draw strings attached to the lip of the liner. “That’s nice of him,” you mumbled to yourself. ‘This will make the disposal process easier.’

Buzzing from the ancient lamps that flanked the gravel walkway illuminated with a pale glow. Rustles of dead leaves created a lullaby people could only find during this time of year. A sigh escaped your lips as you contemplated your options.

‘I’ll start around the outer perimeter, then work my way in towards the mausoleums,’ you thought.

You took your time to walk to the entryway of the burial ground, pushing aside piles of wilted leaves from the main path. The buzz of electricity and faint noise of the city beyond the iron gates provided the perfect white noise. Another gust of wind swept past you.

‘There are worse jobs out there, right?’ became your mantra, and you repeated it in your head whenever you felt a little spooked.

  Your efforts in clearing the property quickly become visible. The once-obscured trail was now in sight after just a few hours’ worth of work. Without warning, a crash interrupted your work to push through the decaying fauna. You stopped your labor to find the source of the mysterious noise.

Shing

Pssh

Fump

With a glance around the area, you searched for any source of the ruckus. With no luck, you cautiously moved forward through the cemetery, trying to find whatever’s making that weird noise. There’s no mistake, you weren’t the only one in the gravesite. No way would a possum or a racoon cause that much of a disturbance.

‘What the hell is that?’ you wonder, anxiety spiking your pulse. You raise the rake from the crumbling earth to follow the commotion, deviating from the path and proceeding into the dark. The closer you stepped into the graveyard, the louder the sound of metal scraping mud became. You stopped for a moment to shut off your head lamp. The light would only alert the source of the noise to your location. Your steps eclipsed by the shadows, you steal deeper into the cemetery. The moonlight assisted your journey to the mystery that lies ahead. 

‘Am I in a cliché horror movie? Ha, good one, me. I’ll run into some kind of murder and scream myself to death!’

The self-deprecating humor failed to extinguish the knot that had formed in your gut. As you looked up from your path, a moving shape caught your attention. In the near darkness, you can barely make out the silhouette of a male with fitted clothes hugging his outline, the handle of a shovel in his grasp. The cadence of the shovel’s blade meeting the moist terrain echoed with his motions.

With grace, you noiselessly crouch behind a gravestone without alerting the stranger of your presence. You gently put the equipment right next to you so it won’t appear in his view. 

With a better vantage point, you can make the stranger’s features in the moonlight. Leather cuffs adorned his lean arms. A grime-covered shirt and torn jeans hugged his frame. Raven black hair draped to the front of his face. 

‘I-is that blood??’ you asked yourself as you spy the specs of maroon painted on the side of the unknown figure’s skin.

‘Why is he digging at a gravesite in this hour? Is he graverobbing? Fuck, boss never gave me a protocol for this problem.’ Your mind filled with the plausible solution to this problem. Should you dash to the office and tell that prune what’s happening? Wouldn’t he have seen this guy trespassing on the security feed?

With your knees aching from crouching to remain hidden, you went to adjust your footing to find a comfortable position. 

CrACK

‘Oh, fuck’ you internally screamed at yourself as your foot breaks a rogue stick. 

The man halted his movement. Lifting himself upright from his excavation, he patrolled his surroundings. As he scanned the cemetery, you ducked to get out of his sight. In a state of frenzy, you didn’t know what the best choice was. Run? Wait for him to dig again so he’s too distracted to witness you scurrying away?

The sound of crunching leaves was getting closer and pulled you out of your thoughts. You pressed yourself against the icy marble and prayed that he doesn't catch you stumbling onto his grim activity. His footsteps stopped and you couldn't breathe. 'Please turn back, please turn back, please turn back,' you pleaded over and over again in your mind. From the corner of your eye, you saw a scrawny hand reach over the block of stone that hid your body.

The silhouette of the unwanted guest’s shadow loomed over you. Glancing to your right, you could see mud-caked boots. You scanned up to see the enigmatic man glowering down at your petrified figure. His devilish grin complemented the crimson fluid flowing from his forehead. The moonlight cast a haunting look on his sunken cheeks and hollow eyes. He looks like a walking corpse. The living dead. His manic looking face came closer to yours. 

“Boo.”

Using whatever strength you have, your nails dug into the pile of leaves and threw the concoction of dirt, pebbles, and sticks at the man. A distressed grunt and the sound of shuffling let you know you had your chance. You scrambled to your feet and made a mad dash from the walking corpse, your shrieks of distress echoing through the silent field. One hand held down the first layer of coating while the other dug  to find the lanyard containing your assortment of keys.

With a goal in mind, you ran past the iron gates, rushing out of the cemetery and into the parking lot. With your beat up Toyota in view, you slowed your dash to a jog. You did a double take to figure if they followed you. You couldn't see him, but you could hear the crunching of leaves from the direction you came. Yanking your lanyard out of the pocket of your coat, you arrived at the driver’s side of the vehicle. Pressing the unlock button, the sound of your door unlocking never sounded so sweet until this moment. Ripping open the door, you slide in and close it right behind you. You scanned the entrance to see any signs of the chaser. On cue, the man collided with the cemetery gate, gripping the bars as he tried to catch his breath.

When the key aligned with the slot, you revved the engine to life. Without looking back, you threw the car in reverse and sped towards the parking entrance. You drove until you found the first public parking space. You maneuver into the spot closest to the illuminated building. Setting the gear to park, you allowed your body to release the tension in your shoulders. The adrenaline started to wear off, and the dam broke. A whimper grew into a sob. Your palms covered your eyes as you crashed from the anxiety-inducing event.

‘Who was that guy?’

#there will be no romance #just wholesome weird beginnings to tolerable friendship #mary goore #thank you birdy and Madge for beta reading this

[daisymyplace]

Evaluation 1/2

There are three pieces of work from other artists that have inspired the work that i have created myself. These artworks were by Gris Grimly, Sophia Rapata and Michele Lynch.

G͟r͟i͟s͟ G͟r͟i͟m͟l͟ ͟y

I saw Gris Grimly’s artwork quite a while ago and it had really stuck with me, and i had subconsciously developed my artstyle and it became similar to his.

The style is very Tim Burton esc and i have always been inspired by Tim Burtons movie style, the dark, gothic, dingy, crooked and abnormal style has always resonated with me.

S͟o͟ ͟ph͟i͟a͟ R͟a͟ ͟pa͟t͟a͟

Sophia Rapata’s art is also something i discovered a while back and i am in love with it all. However this one illustration has always felt a bit different and that’s what i love about it!

It’s extremely eerie compared to her other artworks and it’s unsettling to look at.. so much so to the point where i almost feel panicked looking at it. I absolutely love it.

Her artworks are very gritty and almost like old photos and i incorporated that into my style as it adds to the old, creepy feel.

M͟i͟c͟h͟e͟l͟e͟ L͟ ͟yn͟c͟h͟

Michele Lynch’s artwork above is so beautiful. I discovered it recently while i was scrolling through social media and there was an advertisement of her work and i loved it right off the bat.

Her characters in her style are so beautiful and almost doll-like, which resonates with my unsettling, creepy aesthetic. They usually have very thin and long limbs and neck, a disproportionately large head with extremely detailed facial features, particularly the eyes, which is very similar to one of my characters, Valak, the demon, who has been featured in many of my own artworks.

The painting shown above gives me a sense of loneliness and almost panic. The dark, stormy sea and her face, which looks almost cracked and broken, while she’s holding a heart in her hands, makes me think of heartbreak or loss.

The concepts and ideas behind my project are based on the paranormal and witchcraft. The reason i chose to base my project off of these themes are solely because are what i enjoy.

I find the idea of an non-physical afterlife absolutely fascinating and almost beautiful, and the same goes for witchcraft. The two are kind of linked too as you can use different kinds of witchcraft to contact spirits and the paranormal in general.

These also fit my theme of ‘belonging: my place’ as the paranormal and witchcraft communities are things that i’m a part of, and feel comfortable in. I have made multiple friends and we all learn together!

I have experimented with different materials, processes and techniques, such as different inks, layering and adding water to acrylic paint and ink.

I diluted india ink with water and layered it, making each layer darker and allowing for a kind of gradient. I actually enjoy this technique as it’s very simple and fits my style nicely as it’s very dark and monotones, but can allow for some beautiful outcomes!

Due to the Thursday drawing sessions, i have learnt that in order to create strong, detailed, illustrations, you don’t have to spend hours on them. I learnt that you can just have fun with it and not overthink the process and just draw! Most of the time you will get a strong, unique outcome.

One piece of artwork that i have created during this project that has been the most impactful, successful and valuable to my learning is my character, Valak.

I have drawn him in most of my projects such as drypoint, intaglio, screen printing etc.

I first created this character when i was struggling for ideas for my screen print, which was when i decided to base it off of one of my personal drawings, and remembered this one;

They both have long thin limbs and a bloodcurdling grin. i just decided to to make the new character more skeletal.

This character has helped me develop my own art style when it comes to character design and iconic features, such as long, thin limbs, vicious smiles etc.

The journey from initial ideas to the final outcome has been very developmental. I have broadened my ideas and made links to different ideas so much since the start up to now.

I have learnt that i can be much more free when it comes to my artworks and i don’t have to overthink. i also learnt about myself a bit too, thinking about what made me happy and what i enjoyed etc.

Overall i am extremely pleased with my outcomes and i realised that i don’t have to stick to one media, that i am good at using other materials and techniques like ink and printing! If i’m honest i’m very proud of how much i have improved in just 8 weeks !

If i could display my work anywhere in the world at any time, it would be on the streets in the Victorian era. I know that street art wasn’t really a thing back then, but the idea of combining a modern thing such as street art and the Victorian era would be so cool !

The victorian era was a very unsettling, dangerous era, same thing goes for the style, what with Jack the Ripper and books like Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. This makes me think that my art style would fit nicely on the dark, dimly lit streets where Jack the Ripper would be lurking.

Ten words that describe my final outcome;

colourful, unique, contrasting, varied, personal, simple, detailed, brave, conscious, loud.

If i needed a soundtrack to go with my outcome from this project, it would be the soundtrack from one of my favourite movies of all time, Tim Burton’s Corpse Bride. This is because my style is very Tim Burton inspired and using my favourite movie of all time which happens to be a Tim Burton movie, it just makes sense.

I spent roughly 13 hours a week on developing my project independently, while working in my bedroom, listening to music or watching a movie/show.

[canid-slashclaw]

The Outliers - A Guild Wars Love Story

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9,  Chapters 10 and 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16 , Chapter 17, Chapter 18, Chapter 19, Chapter 20,  Chapter 21, Chapter 22, Chapter 23,  Chapter 24, Chapter 25, Chapter 26 Chapter 27

The weekend had come and Kaleb was getting ready to see many of his comrades-in-arms once more. As he was helping Ulfgar with some of the preparations for the upcoming party, he remembered asking his old friend if he had taken Amalthia's ring size measurement.

"Hey Ulf. Have you, by any chance, had time to find out how big a ring will Amalthia need?"

The old norn stopped his work, smiled at his friend then waved for him to come forward. "Come, lad. I've something to show you."

The massive norn took Kaleb to the upstairs room he resided in during his off hours. When he saw the decorations in Ulfgar's sleeping quarters, he was amazed at the number of sculptures and paintings.

Ulfgar opened an ornate wooden chest then pulled out a small wooden box and handed it to Kaleb.

"Open it, lad."

When Kaleb did, he could hardly believe what he saw. Tucked inside the mahogany box was a large diamond ring with a solitaire, brilliant-cut gem.

"My gods, where did you get this? It's…" Kaleb was at a loss for words.

"Beautiful, yes? It was crafted from dwarven gold filigree and the stone was set by one of the finest jewelers in Lion's Arch. Take it, lad. It's yours to give to your love."

"I... I don't know what to say, Ulf. All I wanted was a measurement. I would have eventually found a ring."

"No, lad. The both of yas are like me own adopted kids. I want you to have it, and I won't take no for an answer." The old norn handed him the box.

Kaleb examined the diamond and marveled at its brilliance. "Where did you get this rock?"

Ulfgar walked over to his late wife's dresser and pulled out the tiara. Kaleb could clearly see that the largest stone was missing.

"Ulf. No. I can't accept this."

"Like I said, lad. It's yours. My dear Glorina would be smiling from the Mists right now if she saw a part of her go to you and your mate."

Kaleb bowed in respect to his long time friend then pulled out a bag of gold coins and handed them over. The old norn refused the offer.

"This is a gift, friend. Use the gold elsewhere, perhaps to buy Amalthia a fancy wedding gown," Ulfgar said with a warm smile.

"This is such an honor, Ulf. I'll never forget this. Thank you!"

"No, boy. The honor is all mine."

***

Evening came and several of Kaleb's Seraph army buddies arrived at the Jotun's Corpse to reunite with their comrades-in-arms once more. He had not seen his two closest friends in several months and having them visit their old haunt felt like old times.

"So you're a Lieutenant in the army now, right?" Kaleb asked his friend Cynthia.

"Yes, indeed. Made rank just a couple of weeks ago. So where's the misses?"

Kaleb looked at the front door and pondered. "She went on a few errands. She should be back at any moment."

Brad walked through the door as he held it open for someone else who was entering. It was Amalthia.

"Look who followed me in," Brad said as he turned to help her with some items she was carrying.

Kaleb and Cynthia immediately leapt off their barstools to help her out. Almost immediately, Amalthia was greeted by hugs from both Brad and Cynthia. Kaleb gave her a kiss then carried the items she had bought to their upstairs room.

"It's so good to see you, Ama. How've you been?" Cynthia asked.

Amalthia twitched her ears and smiled. "Just great! Kal and I have been crazy busy with expanding our little business venture."

"Yeah, I heard. Our folks heard about the way the two of you cleaned out that pack of undead over in Seaside Village. Nice piece of work there." Brad complimented her.

"Thanks. He and I work so well together. The coin we earn is just a nice perk."

Ulfgar walked up and boldly gave both Cynthia and Brad a big hug. "So good to see the two of yas again. No worries, all drinks are on the house."

"Ulfgar!" Both of them said in unison as they returned his hug.

"So you're Kaleb's new landlord? I knew that slob could never afford a place on his own," Brad said in jest.

"I heard that, bro. And who says I can't afford it... huh?" Kaleb returned the jab and laughed.

Ulfgar passed out the drinks as Kaleb and Amalthia snuggled close together and Brad and Cynthia did the same.

"I heard you guys have been knee-deep fighting the undead up in Sparkfly. Making any headway?" Kaleb asked.

Brad took a draught and shook his head. "It's a stalemate right now. Those Orrians are endless. It seems like every time we de-animate a bunch, at least two dozen more crop up."

A small, skinny, shaggy-haired young man came running into the bar shouting to the top of his lungs in a panic.

"A bunch of charr are heading this way. They've got weapons galore."

Amalthia looked up and cheered. "It's my warband!"

Kaleb looked at the young man. "It's okay, Flipper. They're Ama's friends... I least I hope they are."

She pointed towards the door and nodded with a smile as she waved to them once they entered. "Hey guys, over here!"

One by one, members of the Blade warband stepped though as humans in the tavern backed away in fear. The leader of the group, Krenesh, seemed to relish in their fear and made every effort to accentuate his menacing facial expression. Navina followed, acting indifferent to the people around her. Bogo and Tovu, on the other hand, made it a point to wave at everyone in the establishment.

"Greetings members of the mighty Blade warband. As owner and proprietor of the Jotun's Corpse, I bid you a warm welcome," Ulfgar said as he waved them over and offered them a selection of drinks.

Amalthia leaped off her seat and gave each member of her warband a traditional charr style handshake by grasping at the base of the forearm. She started with her leader; Krenesh then did the same for each one until she worked her way to Tovu.

"Hey. How did you make it into our warband?"

Tovu said sheepishly. "Nice to see you Amalthia. All of my bandmates were killed in a separatist attack. I was the only survivor. Thus, I became a gladium. If it weren't for Bogo, here, I would still be one too."

Kaleb, meanwhile, reached out his hand to Krenesh. "It's good to see you again, sir. I hope all is well with the Blades."

Remembering their last odd encounter, Krenesh only returned a half-hearted handshake. "Yeah. Couldn't be better. Is the beer around here any good?"

Navina shook her head. "Is that always the first thing you've gotta ask whenever you go someplace new?"

"Oh. Good to see you too, Navina." Kaleb saluted her as well.

She held up her stein returning the gesture. "Same goes for you, loverboy."

"Navi, I missed you!" Amalthia said as she gave her warband sister another hug and clanked her stein in toast.

"Missed you too, cub. So now you and this human are a permanent pair, right?"

"For as long as the other draws breath. Yup!"

As Krenesh began drinking from his mug, Brad approached him from the side.

"So you're the leader of Ama's warband? Name's Brad Pendragon - second in command and best friend to that joker over there," he said as he pointed in Kaleb's direction.

"Damn straight. Mine's Krenesh Howlingblade, but everyone calls me Kren. I heard you're pretty mean with a shortbow. Ranger, I take it?"

Brad smiled as he pointed to himself with pride. "Yup! Mid ranged is my specialty. In fact, I've got a whole team under me who covers that element of the battlefield. Most attackers are caught completely off guard by our strong midline defense."

"Don't listen to this guy. If given the chance, he will brag you ear off all day," Cynthia said as she reached out to the warband leader for a handshake. "Lieutenant Cynthia Waterstone, Thirty First Platoon - I'm in command of this loser here."

Brad looked at her in surprise. "Loser? Wasn't I your fiancé just a few days ago?"

"Like I said, loser." She had to rub it in further.

Kaleb overheard the conversation. "Woah. So you finally worked up the nerve and proposed to her?"

Cynthia laughed.

"Forget it. It was I who proposed to him!"

Brad tilted up his mug and swallowed. "That's what I like, a woman who is aggressive."

"She's your mate, then?" Krenesh asked.

Brad laughed. "I guess you could call her that. She's more like my boss."

Krenesh looked at him straight in the eyes and said in a much more serious tone. "Never let her out of your sight when in battle. I can tell you this from experience, there's nothing worse then... seeing something bad happen to someone you care about."

The charr staggered off with the mug in his hand. Amalthia noticed then walked up to Brad to fill him in on the details.

"Kren lost his closest mate in battle. He still gets worked up anytime subjects like this come up."

Brad bowed his head. "I'm so sorry, Ama. I didn't know. Please give him my condolences."

"It's okay. Navi just told me that Mia was expecting cubs when she was killed."

Navina rapidly gulped down a tall mug of ale while sitting alone at the edge of the bar. As she did so, a scrawny unkempt human approached her from the left side and asked in a leering voice; "um, what kind of drink do ya have there?"

The big female charr took another swig then glanced down at the strange looking little man.

"Alcohol."

"Um. What kind, exactly?" He asked in a sheepish voice.

Her gazed pierced his beady little eyes. "Who wants to know?"

"Lager?"

She shook her head.

"Mead?"

She growled.

"Um... Ale! That must be it!"

"You guessed right after your third try. That must make you pretty smart... for a human."

Flipper smiled upon hearing those words. "May I buy you a drink?"

Her gaze turned to a scowl. "Are you trying to hit on me?"

"Well, I uhh..."

"Cause if you were, I would claw your damn eyes out. Just because my warband sister is into your kind doesn't mean the rest of us are," Navina snarled as she took another draught of ale.

Kaleb saw what was transpiring and rushed in to intervene. "Flipper! What's up, my man!"

"Ohh. Hi, Kal. I was just offering this lovely lady a round of ale," the scrawny kid said nervously.

Kaleb put his hand on the boy's back and laughed. "Look, Flip. She's really not your type. Trust me on this. How about you run to the back and fetch us some fresh casks. Okay?"

"Wait, I was just..."

He was interrupted. "No buts... just go. After all, a thirsty charr is a cranky charr. Now run along."

Reluctantly, Flipper yielded to Kaleb's demands and headed towards the cellar.

Navina looked at Kaleb and commented. "You just saved that meat's life. Any longer and I would have had to wipe his remains off from under my boot."

"Flipper's not a bad kid. He just wants to screw anything that's got a hole somewhere between the legs. I've had to chase him out of the sheep pen on more than one occasion." Kaleb chuckled.

"What's with you male humans and sheep?" Navina shook her head in utter revulsion.

The two male charrs, Bogo and Tovu, noticed a large rectangular object hanging above the bar. Realizing what it was, Tovu asked in an enthusiastic tone, "I wonder what time it is?"

Bogo looked at a nearby cogwheel clock. "Oooo. It's almost time!"

"Hey. Bartender - anyway you can turn that thing on? Project Transmog is about to come on."

Ulfgar shook his head.

Why in the Great Bear Spirit's name did I allow that asuran to talk me into purchasing one of these things?

"Hold on. Let me find the control."

The two charrs looked at each other and grinned ear-to-ear.

Ulfgar found the remote and flipped on the device. Within seconds, the once blank rectangle was now filled with an image of a female sylvari preparing various vegetarian cuisines.

A human patron shouted out loud. "Put it on the Arena Channel. There's supposed to be a tar pit death match between the Twin Sons of Destruction and the Annihilators."

Ulfgar grumbled as he started flipping through the channels.

"Hello ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the Bernie Lomax show. I am your host, Bernie Lomax. Today's topic - gods, do they or don't they actually exist?"

He flipped through to another channel.

This channel depicted a large male charr holding a blowtorch as he began welding together a part to a massive war tank. "Today on Heavy Thunder, we are gonna soup this baby up with five turrets and twenty..."

Ulfgar flipped the channel once more. Krenesh called out. "Hey! Leave it there! I wanted to watch that!"

Bogo and Tovu said in unison. "We called it first!"

Flipping the channel once more to a garden show then to a travel program, Ulfgar finally commented. "Y'know. It is this thing that will truly be the doom of Tyria."

The revelries continued into the early morning hours as Kaleb's and Amalthia's friends had become more acquainted with each other. By this time, Krenesh discovered that he had much in common with Brad and the two of them shared war stories until both were passed out from too much drink. Likewise, Cynthia and Navina found common ground in discussions involving the male species. Bogo and Tovu were beside themselves when Amalthia showed them the outfits that Ariyana had designed. Each of them gave their opinion on the style and composition of the garments as well as which one looked the best on whom.

Once the festivities had ended, both Amalthia and Kaleb were exhausted - not to mention, quite inebriated. Kaleb found enough strength in his body to hoist his passed out mate into his arms and lay her out onto their bed. As she lay prostrate across the sheets, snoring with drool dripping from the side of her muzzle, Kaleb couldn't help but smile. His mind, however, was clear enough to plan what he wanted to do the following day. He clutched the boxed ring in his hands for a moment then carefully slid it beneath the bed, safely out of her sight.

Tomorrow was going to be the big day.

(All chapters have been posted to AO3. Chapter 27 is posted here.)

#gw2 fanfic #guildwars fanfiction #tyrias-library #the outliers #kaleb and amalthia #charr #gw2 human

[pax-2735]

Got Fanfic: Come Into My Parlor (2/3)

Notes: Part 2 of this little Halloween story is up - if you haven’t read it yet, here’s part 1

Summary: When Sansa goes to the Targaryen’s annual Halloween bash, the last thing she expected was to come face to face with her demons.

Come into my parlor

She was making her way towards the bar, since her drink was long gone and she might as well take advantage of the expensive booze, when someone grabbed her arm. Feeling giddy and carefree – because she was not going to let that prick Joffrey ruin her spirits - she had spun around with a smile on her lips. And then she froze.

Drumroll please, as we welcome into our midst asshole number two.

She had met Harry Hardyng during her second year of college. He was sweet and polite, bumbling his way around campus with a map on his hand and a confused look on his face. Her manners had kicked in and she had offered to help him and he had dazzled her with a brilliant smile.

The fumbling ways of their first encounter had given way to a charming, confident man by their second meeting and that had been it. Harry was everything Joffrey wasn’t - he was kind and funny and had a way of listening to her as though he really cared about her opinions. In a word, he was nice.

She hadn’t loved him, no. She had never said the words to him nor had she tried to pretend as though she felt something she didn’t, but Harry had never pushed her. He never lost his patience and he never asked for more than what she was willing to give.

She had berated herself for it at times. There were days when she told herself she should just put an end to it if they weren’t going anywhere, and not lead him on. There were days she convinced herself there must be something wrong with her for how could she not love a man who was as perfect as Harry?

As it turns out, he wasn’t.

Three days into their second year together, she had run into him on campus by accident. He had a map in his hand and a confused look on his face and a pretty girl talking to him and Sansa’s world came crashing down. All of the sudden, every night spent studying, every late night phone call that went unanswered, his understanding nature and accepting demeanor, all of it reeked of lies.

He hadn’t even denied it, the smug bastard. If anything, he was completely unapologetic about the number of times he had cheated on her and if Sansa wasn’t as much of a lady she would have punched that brilliant smile right out of his face.

It was the same smile he was wearing now as he stood in front of her and Sansa took a deep breath, trying to dispel the urge to smash his teeth in.

“Sansa! It’s so good to see you,” he said. “How have you been?”

“You mean after you broke my heart? Pretty good actually.”

There was a skeptical look on his face as he answered. “Come on now. You know there were never any hearts involved.”

Alright, so that hurt. He was right, yeah, but it still stung to hear it spelt out quite like that. “How about honesty? Apparently there was none of that either.”

He at least had the good grace to look slightly embarrassed. “That was a failure in communication. I honestly thought we were on the same page.”

“Is that why you were so secretive about all your affairs?”

A group of super heroes clearly intent on saving the world one drink at a time knocked into her side as they passed them on the way to the bar and Sansa stumbled forward. Harry’s hands flew to her arms to steady her. “Are you ok?”

“Fine,” she answered with pursed lips. This close, seeing his eyes and his smile, it was easy to remember why she had been so eager to lose herself with him. She felt goosebumps prickling her arms as the temperature seemed to drop suddenly, and she shivered.

Harry was smirking – no doubt believing she was shivering because of him – when his gaze flickered over her shoulder and she watched as his whole posture changed abruptly, his shoulders squaring and his back straightening as his eyes widened at whatever he was seeing. She turned around to see it too.

The blonde was stunning, she had to give him that. Even her zombie makeup wasn’t enough to take away from the fact that her face was perfectly proportional, her blood red lips and dark eyes incredibly enticing.

She turned back to Harry with a raised brow. “Seriously?”

That seemed to break him from his spell. “Sorry,” he muttered, his gaze still flickering between the blonde and Sansa, “I thought I knew her but that’s not…” He shook his head, as if trying to clear the cobwebs.

“What? There were so many you can’t remember all our faces?” His head snapped back towards her, a troubled look on his face. Yeah, she was being a little bit of a bitch but he was a sorry excuse of a man so… she figured she had earned it.

“Sorry,” he said again, this time with a grimace. “That can’t be her. She’s… I mean, well… she’s dead.”

“Zombies usually are.”

He looked back towards the blonde, her voluptuous form now surrounded by a small entourage of corpse-looking guys salivating around her, and he visibly froze. His face grew pale and he looked quite literally as though he had seen a ghost.

“Sansa.”

“What?”

“Do you see them?”

“The dead guys? Yeah,” she snorted. “They’re kinda hard to miss.”

“So you do see them?”

She turned back to him, eyebrow raised and an incredulous smile. “How much did you have to drink?”

There was no answer to her quip but his grip on her am grew painfully tighter and she could feel her heart start to hammer inside her chest as she tried to loosen his grip.

“Harry you’re hurting me.”

A shadow moved on the corner of her eye and suddenly Jon was there, his own hand tightening around Harry’s wrist. “Let her go Hardyng.” Harry didn’t seem to be listening, his eyes still fixed ahead of him and Jon’s voice drew lower as his grip grew harder. “I won’t tell you again,” he hissed. “Let. Her. Go.”

Harry moved as though in slow motion, his eyes landing on Jon before widening like saucers, as though he was just now seeing him there. He stumbled backwards, finally letting go of her before mumbling out some apology or what-not and hightailing it out of there like a bat out of hell.

And then it was just her and Jon.

Goddammit.

She and Jon had known each other since she was literally in diapers. Robb’s constant companion, the two were more like brothers than anything else really. To her though, he was… more like a cousin or some shit like that. A sweet, handsomely hot cousin.

But really, with his soft curls, dark eyes, pouty mouth and sinfully delicious body, well… who could blame her really?

Yeah, she had a crush. One she’d been sporting for a while now – ever since her teens really, but in her mind she was still closer to that than to the dreaded 3-0 she was about to turn in a couple of hours. But the point was, they were friends. Close ones at that.

Jon was still looking at Harry’s retreating form with a dark look. “What the fuck’s wrong with him?” she heard him mutter. When he turned to her though, he visibly softened. “Are you alright?”

She gave him a shaky smile. “I’m fine. Thanks for stepping in.”

“Anytime.”

“I don’t know what happened. One minute he was fine and the next he was going all I-see-dead-people on me.”

Jon gave her a sardonic smile. “I can see half a dozen of them without even blinking.”

“I know right?” She looked back towards the corpses who seemed to have frightened the shit out of Harry, not that she minded, but they were nowhere in sight. Her eyes did a quick sweep around the room, but even with their garishly decadent clothing and incredibly real face paint, she couldn’t spot them. They seemed to have vanished into thin air.

Shrugging, she returned her attention back to Jon. “Whatever booze you’re serving here tonight, it packs a mean punch.” She dropped her eyes to where his hand was holding her wrist, his fingers smoothly drawing circles on her reddening skin.

His eyes followed hers and suddenly his fingers stopped their soothing motion. He didn’t let go though. “I don’t know what they’re serving. Rhaenis took care of that.”

His eyes were boring into hers again and she gulped. “Where is she anyway? I haven’t seen her in ages, I’d like to say hello.”

“She’s not here. Her mother isn’t well, she had to fly down to Dorne to be with her.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Did Aegon go with her?”

“No, Aegon’s around here somewhere,” he said with a wolfish smile. His eyes swept over her briefly before changing gears. “Your costume is nice.” He waved his hand around, indicating her bodice. “I like the spider bit.”

“Thanks. I’d return the compliment but…” she let her eyes very pointedly roam over his black pullover, down his black jeans all the way to the tip of his black boots before letting them journey back north. And if she lingered a little bit over certain parts of his anatomy, well – let it never be said Jon Snow didn’t know exactly how to pick a pair of fitted jeans.

So sue her for indulging.

He chuckled before giving her a mock hurtful look. “You don’t like my costume? You wound me Stark.” At her questioning look he took a small step back before giving her a little bow. “I’m a brother of the Night’s Watch.”

“Aren’t they supposed to have capes and swords and stuff?”

“Well I had a sword.” He took a quick scan of the room. “But your brother took it. Said he needed to save a fairy from some brain eating zombies.”

Her eyes mimicked his earlier move, scanning the ever growing crowd. “Where is Robb anyway? I haven’t seen him ever since we got here.”

“Probably huddled in a corner somewhere, seeing what kind of magic that fairy can do.” He waggled his brows suggestively and then laughed when she frowned at him. “Wanna go find him?”

“Thanks for that mental picture,” she mock shuddered. “And no, I don’t. If it’s brain eating zombies he’s up against then I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Well hello my lovelies.” Margaery Tyrell sidled up to them, wrapping them both in a hug and keeping her arms casually over their shoulders as she gave Sansa an appraising look. “Darling you look beautiful. Doesn’t she look beautiful Jon?”

Fuck. Sansa could feel the blush creeping up on her cheeks as she risked a look at Jon, relieved to see he was looking a little flustered himself. Good.

“Yeah, I was just telling her that.” His voice took on a deeper, dare she say it, huskier tone as his eyes once again roved over her costume. Better.

She cocked a brow daringly at him. “No, you weren’t.”

“Aye,” he raised a brow of his own, “I’m pretty sure I was.”

Her face was pensive as she pretended to concentrate to remember exactly what he had said. “I believe the word being thrown around was ‘nice’.”

“Nice?” Margaery’s tone was dripping with sarcasm. “Oh my sweet summer child,” she tutted at him.

Jon flushed even harder, the tips of his ears turning red and a healthy blush spreading down his neck, and Sansa wondered exactly how far down it went and how much she’d like to find out. Preferably with her tongue, but she was open to suggestions.

“Although that works in my favor as it makes me feel much less guilty about stealing her away,” Margaery was still saying. “Darling, I’m in desperate need of your assistance.” She batted her eyelashes prettily and Sansa laughed.

“What, the corpse bride needs a wingwoman?”

Margaery scoffed. “It’s a much more mundane affair I’m afraid.” She waved Sansa closer and dropped her voice in a conspiratorial manner. “I need to go the bathroom and I need you to help me lift up my skirts.”

Jon was openly chuckling as Sansa turned to him with an exaggerated sigh. “Sorry. Duty calls.” Margaery was already pulling her along when Sansa turned back, shooting him an over the shoulder look paired with a wink. “See you around Snow.” He narrowed his eyes and she could swear the look in its stormy grey depths was ravenous. Perfect.

Helping Margaery with her skirts turned out to be much more complicated than she had anticipated, the layers upon layers of skillfully torn fabric easily catching on the embroidery of Sansa’s own dress. Not that it mattered, Margaery was saying, along with thousands of other crap ranging from the cute quarterback from hell with whom she hoped to have a nightmarish evening to how Jon was looking at Sansa like she was the Little Red Riding Hood to his wolf. Thankfully her voice was mostly muffled underneath her skirts, so Sansa only caught every few words.

“Thanks doll. You’re a lifesaver,” Margaery said as she washed her hands.

“What are friends for right?”

Margaery was looking at her through the mirror. “Sorry I interrupted your little chat with clueless guy wonder.”

Sansa gave her a little frown. “He’s not clueless. He’s not interested either. At least, not like that. See the difference?”

Margaery shook her head. “I swear to the gods, one day I’m gonna lose my patience with the two of you.” She finished drying her hands before extending one to Sansa. “Come, let’s get back to the party.”

“Go ahead. I think I’m gonna go too. Since I’m already here and all.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

“No,” Sansa said, waving her hands at Margaery in a shooing motion, “go get your quarterback. I’ll be right out.”

“You sure love?” Sansa gave her a stern look and Margaery laughed. “Alright sweetie. See you in a bit.”

The hallway leading back to the main floor of the party was only partially lighted by the time Sansa started back, the soft glow of the lamps mingling with the retreating shadows to create an eerie atmosphere. Perfect for Halloween.

Not so perfect when she heard a familiar voice calling her name.

Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for the star of our show, asshole number three.

Although asshole was hardly the right word to describe Ramsay Bolton. Harry was an asshole, and a downright great one at that. Joffrey was a prick and creep. But Ramsay, well… Ramsay was a monster.

When Sansa was a child she loved playing monsters and maidens with her siblings. Those were the kind of stories she used to beg Old Nan to tell them, the ones where the beautiful princess was captured by a horrible monster until a fair and handsome prince came to rescue her.

It’s funny how the stories never warn you that the worst kind of monsters are the ones wearing a human mask.

And there are no princes coming to the rescue.

She had met Ramsay during her first job. He was a quiet, unassuming guy, the sort you wouldn’t look at twice if you happened to notice him the first time around. Most people didn’t. He seemed to have mastered the art of disappearing into the background until he was needed and then he was suddenly there, ready to help before blending back into the shadows.

After Joffrey’s and Harry’s over exceeding confidence, she had liked how quiet Ramsay was. There was a quality about it that almost reminded her of Jon. He seemed safe. They had a world wind romance and before long they were living together.

It was only when the key had turned on that lock for the first time that she had realized she was trapped.

And in spite of how far she’d come after putting an end to that relationship, after leaving all traces of Ramsay Bolton behind – not forgetting, no, never forgetting, the marks he had left on her skin and on her soul a constant reminder, a never ending lesson – in spite of it all, that’s exactly how she felt as soon as she heard his voice. Trapped.

“Hello Sansa.”

His voice was sickeningly sweet, coating her form like a spider web thinly veiled with drops of honey. His blue eyes were what gave him away, its icy sparkle shining from amidst the shadows, long before he stepped forward so she could see him.

“I’ve missed you.” His smile was something akin to a snarl, a pulling of lips over teeth as he stopped just a few steps short of reaching her.

“Ramsay. You do remember the restraining order don’t you?” Sansa was proud of how even and strong her voice came out even as she felt the airs on her arms prickling and her hands curling into fists at her sides.

“I had no idea you’d be here. You haven’t exactly kept in touch.” He shook his head slowly at her. “But you’ve always been a naughty girl haven’t you Sansa?”

Another step towards her and Sansa stiffened. She stood her ground though, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of backing away. Instead, she gave him a disbelieving look. “My brother’s best friend’s family is hosting the party.”

“Is he your friend though? Or perhaps something more?” There was a hint of something dangerous lurking underneath his casual tone, something that Sansa recognized immediately. Something Sansa chose to ignore.

“You knew I’d be here,” she accused him.

“Are you calling me a liar?” He moved forward again and this time Sansa did step back. The shadows flickered over the walls as her back collided with the lamp, almost sending it tumbling to the floor. Ramsay smiled. “Alright, maybe I did have some idea. What can I say? I’m a hopeful romantic.”

“If Robb and Jon find you here –“

He cut her off abruptly. “They’ll do what? I was invited here, just like everyone else.”

“You can’t be here.”

“Sansa, Sansa,” he said, shaking his head in disapproval, “don’t be difficult. This house is big enough for the two of us, I’m sure we can manage something.”

He seemed to be pondering something before he stepped back, putting some space between them, and Sansa breathed again. “I’m gonna take a tour of the gardens now. I hear they used to have some lovely kennels here. That should put the necessary space between us,” he turned his head, giving her one last glance over his shoulder, “until we meet again.”

It was only after his footsteps faded, the sound of a door closing in the distance, that Sansa forced her own feet to start moving. Not towards the now dim sounds of the party, no. The last thing she wanted at the moment was to go back in there and risk another chance encounter. It was hard to imagine this night getting any shittier but the way the universe was treating her lately… she wasn’t about to take any chances.

Turning around, she went in the opposite direction.

#jonsa #jonsa fanfiction #jon snow x sansa stark #works-by-pax #game of thrones #fanfic #spooktober #halloween

[voicesofchaos]

VOC’s Review of the art of Magic The Gathering Core 2021

I an no art expert. Never studied art professionally. But I do consider myself a Vorthros (someone who appreciates the art, story, and flavor of Magic The Gathering). So I have been wanting to this for a while so let’s try it. If this is liked then maybe I will do it again for Zendikar Raising. I’m not going through every card in the set. Just a handful that really stood out to me and I just want to talk about.

Indulging Patrician by Miranda Meeks

Normally I like to save the best for last but this one is so obviously the best art in the set that I need to lead with it. When I first saw this card revealed my jaw dropped. It is purely captivating! It embodies what vampire artwork wants to be. From the powerful dominant vampire woman in the center, to her poor powerless victim, to the beautiful blood moon behind her, to the swarm of ominous bats, all highlighted with blood. Of course the traditional gender role reversal feels so perfect and not forced here. It is a beautiful artwork and you should want to play Magic just to look at this card. 

Liliana's Scorn by Josh Hass

We are not moving away from the gothic horror yet though. This is sadly a card that most players will never see as it isn’t in the Core 2021 booster packs but is in the Liliana planeswalker deck. Making this art very easy to overlook but quite impressive when examined. You really feel the struggle of the victim as he fights a losing battle against a horde of zombies. Being in the center you might think he is the protagonist that we cheer on to escape but Liliana even in the backgrounds steals the scene and you know she wins this fight. This is just a great group piece where each individual zombie displays a surprisingly amount of depth which truly makes this piece feel even more hopeless for the poor victim and even more empowering for Liliana.

Basri's Solidarity by Paul Scott Canavan

Basri Ket is a new planeswalker in the set but instead of looking at him directly let’s check out his magic instead. This is a piece that perfectly embodies cooperation and teamwork, Each figure looks quite a bit different, has a different background, and a different specialization. Yet they are all subtlety bonded together through the sand that basri controls. The way it wraps around and protects them all it a cool and powerful effect.

Obsessive Stitcher by  Joe Slucher

And we are back to dark and creepy. But I can’t ignore in crazy details in this artwork. On Innistrad, the doctor Frankenstein-like scientists that create ‘zombies’ though alchemy and science rather than straight-up necromancy are called “Stichers”. And this one piece explains all that without any words (except for the 1000 words a picture is worth). The corpses all have different faces showing that this is not simply a construct made from a generic stock but instead were actual living human beings at one point. The ominous green vat behind her is hooked up to them pumping them full of something that can’t be good. Plus we also have ominous test tubes in the background to really hammer in the point of “evil mad scientist”.But then her actual clothes has lots of handy tools to show a devoted craftsman. As she literally stitches thread through not only her diabolic experiment but also her passionate artwork. And finally I did not even notice until seeing the enlarged art but she is missing her right hand! I assume this counts as positive disabled representation right?

Village Rites by Bud Cook

I promise this is the last dark and creepy card (maybe) on the list but I have to give this one a shout-out. It is a throwback and homage to the card Village Cannibals from Innistrad. Even the same artist. Definitely one of my all-time favorite MTG arts so I am very happy to see a remake of that art! It is nice when Magic throws in the little nostalgia winks randomly.

Tolarian Kraken by Svetlin Velinov

Magic will often use what they call “Scale Birds” to show how big something is. These are tiny birds near a creature to show how much bigger the creature is than the birds and give a size comparison. Sometimes birds are too small and they use something like “”Scale Deer” or other mammals. Well then those are still too small we now have a “Scale Castle”! What is more terrifying than a Kraken this big! As if that isn’t bad enough it’s brain is actually visible and has like lightning coming from it or something. This feels like a very epic piece where you can feel the motion and terror from it.

Daybreak Charger by Forrest Imel

The next several arts are going to be under the category of “Things MTG does all the time but needs to make it new each time.” I feel it is most appropriate to start with this unicorn. You see unicorns take occupy a very unique position in both general fantasy genre and pop culture itself. Unicorns are very recognizable so they are very much a great fantasy trope to include. But they also have a reputation of being aimed at “young girls” and in the process made to seem very soft and non-threatening. MTG is a game about combat! You don’t want to summon a gentle non-threatening creature to fight for you but it wants to have unicorn cards. Meaning it wants “badass unicorns!”. Well they absolutely succeed here! But the beautiful thing is they need to over-correct. It wasn’t necessary to paint it all black and cover it in blood. We don’t need to put it on a heavy metal album cover to show its fierce side. Instead bright light is used in a way that makes it seem comforting but also powerful and not to be messed with. This is a unicorn that you are relieved to be on your side and terrified of seeing on your opponent’s side. That takes serious talent to bring it all together! 

Chandra's Incinerator by  Craig J Spearing

First I apologize that this art is a little cropped from the original. What is another thing that shows up all the time in fantasy art? FIRE! It gets hard to draw fire so often and make it feel different. This is a fire elemental so that is a bit different but still something we have seen a lot. The card Fire Elemental was in the very first Magic set. That card has had 4 different artworks and 3 other cards have some for of Fire Elemental in their name (Deepfire Elemental, Firefiend Elemental, and Wildfire Elemental). This one is clearly meant to be a nostalgic nod to the original art and it works so well! The fire is so detailed and intimidating but the creature is very expressive. It is very refreshing to see yet another Fire Elemental in such a new fashion and perspective.

Terror of the Peaks by Andrey Kuzinskiy

How many times have we seen a dragon in MTG? Over 200 times!! This set alone has 3 dragons! We have seen zombie dragons, skeleton dragons, dragons who breath lightning, dragons that breath frost, dragons covered in metal, and all kinds of other dragons. But sometimes you just need to go back to basics. But basics do not need to be boring. As we see here this is an awesome basic dragon that embodies everything you think of when you think of dragons yet still blows you away with how awesome it is! This is quality dragon art

Shacklegeist by Igor Kieryluk

Ghosts and spirits are again a common trope that gets redone a lot. I really like how this piece can just take a mundane object with some symbolism behind it and just make an entirely new creature from it. This is basically a giant lock with ominous chains attached being held by a specter and it all works so well together! This art style being more watercolors is a nice final touch to give this piece a spooky feeling but also a really cool feeling too.

Rousing Read by Campbell White

I am going to end this with a bit of a weird piece but I didn’t want to leave it out. This is apparently a follow-up to the card Hard Cover from the core set before. This guy has magical wings made from the pages of a book! Like I don’t have anything else to add. That is cool enough by itself.

Special Mentions

Alchemist's Gift, Chandra Heart Of Fire, Garruk’s Uprising, Peer Into The Abyss, and Sanguine Indulgence. All cards with awesome art but I don’t want this post to go on forever (and some of them I couldn’t find good clean versions of just the art). Please tell me what art from Core 2021 I missed that you really liked!

#MagicTheGathering #MTG #Core Set 2021 #Art Review #Vorthros

[marvelling-you]

rather be dead, rather be fine

Rating: Mature Pairing: James “Bucky” Barnes/Steve Rogers Word Count: 2210 Tags: Sick Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Catholicism but only slightly, First Kiss, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Love Confessions, Slight Internalized Homophobia, rated for language Summary: Steve has a high fever. Both his mother and Bucky are afraid that this will be his last night. Everywhere you look, Everywhere you turn, Illness is watching, Waiting its turn AO3 Link: xx

When Steve didn’t show up to their painting class for the third day in a row, Bucky knew something was wrong. Steve was a natural when it came to the arts, and Steve never looked more alive when he had a palette and brush in his hands. Bucky would have swung by the apartment, but they needed more hands at the docks. By the time he left work, it was as if someone had filled his shoes with cement. Every step he took home got heavier and heavier, and his eyelids were no different. As soon as he got home, Bucky would collapse on the couch, falling into an uninterrupted sleep.

But he was going to make time today. He took long strides until he reached home, only wanting to drop off his books.

“Oh, James!” His mother, Winnie called from the kitchen. “Come here. I need you to do something.”

“What is it ma?” Bucky asked, following his mother’s voice. “Can you make it quick? I’m headin’ over to see Steve.”

Winnie stood at the stove, ladle in hand. With care, she poured some soup into a thermos. “This is for that poor boy. Sarah called and told me he’s runnin’ another fever.”

Bucky bit his lower lip, upset that he was right to worry.

“Is it really bad?”

Winnie sighed, screwing the top of the thermos tight. “Sarah sounded frantic. Just… take this to them, and this.” She handed Bucky the thermos, then pulled out her wallet. “Just in case he needs medicine.”

“Alright, ma.” Bucky shoved the money in his jacket pocket. “If I’m not back by dinner, I’m stayin’ over there.”

“I know.” Winnie gave Bucky a quick hug. “I know he means a lot to you.”

With a small nod, Bucky headed back out. As far as he could remember, Steve was always sick. Bad eyes, bad hearing in one ear, bad back, bad lungs. And his heart. Oh, his heart. The list went on and on, and Bucky could only feel angry at the world and the heavens. Steve was… wonderful, courageous, kind. Someone like him didn’t deserve so much pain. If it was at all possible, Bucky would share the burden, or fuck, take all of it. But that’s just a dream.

He arrived at the Rogers’ home, picked up the spare key and let himself in. No one was in the living room, and as far as Bucky could tell, no one was home. His heart pounded and his breathing hitched. They were here, right? Otherwise, they’d be at the hospital. Steve couldn’t be that sick, right? It couldn’t be that bad, right? It couldn’t be—

“Hello?” He called out. “Steve? You here?”

A door creaked open. A priest dressed in black clutched his bible, his face solemn. Sarah followed behind him with red eyes and her tear stained face. The priest only nodded at Bucky before leaving.

“James, I’m glad you’re here.” Sarah wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. Bucky gulped, his mind racing.

“Where’s Steve?” His voice was shaking. “Is he—”

“—he’s in bed,” Sarah said softly. “The priest just came by to give him his last rites. He’s not… he’s not doing good. His fever won’t go down, and he isn’t eating. My baby…”

Bucky set down the thermos in the kitchen, then rushed to Sarah’s side, pulling her in for a hug. Sarah was another mother to him. For as long as he’d known Steve, Sarah welcomed Bucky into her home many a time, treating him just as she treated Steve, like a son. Though it was only for a moment, Sarah allowed herself to sob, letting out the grief and fear she held for her son. Bucky let out a sound—something he couldn’t quite place. A whimper? His heart was crashing to the floor, shattering into a million pieces and he didn’t know if he was capable of putting it back together.

Sarah managed to pull away from Bucky, her gaze low in shame. “I, uhm, need to run to the hospital,” she said. “To prepare things, just in case. Please—”

“—I’ll stay with him.” Bucky smiled softly, though his eyes stung. “If somethin’... happens … I’ll call the hospital.”

“Thank you.” Sarah grabbed her coat and rushed out the door. Bucky locked the door behind her, watching as she raced down the street.

His mouth was dry as he walked over to Steve’s room, peering through the cracked door. As he entered, Bucky did his damndest to not let any tears stream down his face. Steve’s complexion was as pale as a sheet of paper, and he had dark circles under his eyes. The blonde smiled weakly.

“I was wonderin’ when I’d see see your ugly mug, ya jerk.”

“Punk.” Bucky rolled his eyes. Of course Steve would still joke around. He made his way over towards the bedside and sat on a chair—presumably the one Sarah prayed for her son. Upon closer inspection, Steve’s eyes were red.

“Bucky.” Steve’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Can you do somethin’ for me?”

“Of course.” Bucky placed his hand on Steve’s shoulder. Did he get thinner? “Whatcha need?”

“My drawings… my paintings… sell all of ‘em. Knowing my ma, she’ll want to go all out for the funeral. I don’t wanna burden her like that.” Steve sighed as Bucky’s eyes widened.

“I’m not doing that, Stevie.”

“Why the fuck not?”

Bucky winced at Steve’s resignation to death. He wanted to say it was the fever making his best friend delirious. If not, where was fighter Bucky knew?

“‘Cause you ain’t dying.”

“I already look like a damn corpse.” He raised his shaking hand, spreading out his fingers as if he was reaching for the ceiling, as if he was reaching out for the Lord to take him. Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. “Maybe I wasn’t meant to live this long.”

“Don’t say things like that,” Bucky begged quietly. “Yeah, you got dealt a shit hand, but that doesn’t mean it won’t turn around one day. Maybe—”

“I’m fuckin’ tired, Buck!” Steve half-shouted, half-cried. He grabbed fistfuls of his blanket. “I’m so fucking tired . I… even if I get better, I don’t want this anymore. I want Him to take me. It’ll be a mercy.”

“A mercy,” Bucky echoed. “Dyin’s a mercy instead of, oh, I don’t know, lettin’ you live?”

“Yeah.”

Bucky slammed his fist against the nightstand, nearly knocking over the lamp.

“Well maybe your ma still wants you around!” Bucky crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not givin’ up on you, and I sure as hell ain’t givin’ you to anyone. Not even God.”

“But I ain’t yours to give.”

And Bucky knew that. Steve didn’t belong to him, even though he wished it every night. All he wanted was to hold Steve close and never let go. Bucky knew he was greedy He wanted to plant kisses on his forehead and hold hands when they walked to class. But those were unattainable desires. He didn’t even know how Steve felt towards him, though Bucky believed it was something along the lines of a familial love. He’d seen the way Steve stared as girls clung onto his arm.

Bucky stood up and inched closer to the bed. “Steve, move your ass over.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause I said so, punk.” He bit his lower lip. “I already told your ma I was stayin’ here. So scooch.”

Steve grumbled as he made room for Bucky. “I don’t know how the hell we’re gonna fit.”

Bucky kicked off his shoes and climbed into the bed. “Yeah, like that ever stopped us before.”

They both laid on their backs, Bucky’s large frame nearly overtaking the small bed. This wasn’t going to work, Bucky knew that. Instead, he shifted around so that he was on his side, facing Steve, who for all his complaining didn’t look upset as their eyes met. In all the years they’d known each other, Bucky couldn’t recall a time where Steve looked so haunted . He wanted to say something, do anything, but Bucky just didn’t know what would be best.

“You know you’re gonna be okay, right?” Steve asked, earning a puzzled look from Bucky. “After I’m six feet under, you’ll find a nice dame, get married, have a few kids. You’re gonna go out into the world and live . You’re gonna retire and all of this, right now… you’ll have so many good memories that you won’t even think about me.”

Bucky bit his tongue. He knew what Steve was doing, and he didn’t mean anything cruel by it. But that didn’t lessen the pain. His eyes were stinging with tears. He didn’t care to hide how he felt. Bucky wasn’t sure how he looked, but whatever expression he made was enough for Steve’s eyes to go from hollow to horrified.

“Buck, I—”

“—you’re a real fuckin’ piece of work, Rogers.” Bucky’s tears flowed freely as his voice hitched “You’re a fucking idiot. Like hell I’d never think ‘bout you. I swear… if you fucking leave me and go where I can’t follow… you really think I could forget you?”

“No,” Steve said quietly, his eyes watering. “But you should.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do.” Bucky wiped his eyes with the palms of his hands. “If I want to think about you, I’ll think about you. I already think about you every damn day.” He wrapped his arms around Steve and pulled him close, making the smaller man yelp in surprise. Bucky pressed the back of Steve’s head towards his chest. He could feel the heat of Steve’s breath through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“Let it out, Stevie,” Bucky said quietly as he ran his hand through Steve’s hair. “I know you’ve been keepin’ it all in.”

Steve was shaking, so Bucky just held him tighter. And that was enough for the dam to break. Steve choked out a sob, only for it to escalate to a full blown cry, laced with anger, bitterness and grief.

“S’not fair!” He shouted into Bucky’s chest. “I don’t wanna die!”

“I know, Steve.” Bucky’s voice wavered. “I don’t want you to go.”

Against his better judgement, Bucky pressed his lips on the top of Steve’s head. He hadn’t done that since they were kids. Whenever Steve scraped his knee, or got a black eye, Bucky kissed his wounds.

“My ma does that for me,” he explained. “It makes the pain go away.” But when they got too old for such childish things, he stopped giving Steve his kisses.

Steve tensed up, and Bucky realized what he had done. The blonde looked up at him, his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes wide and questioning. Although he was apprehensive, Bucky brought his hand to Steve’s chin, tilting his head upwards. He brought his own face closer, and kissed near the corners of those beautiful blue eyes, where all Steve’s tears were pooling.

“I don’t want your pity, Buck,” Steve said as he pulled away. “M’not a kid anymore.”

Bucky’s stomach twisted. “How could I ever pity you?” He swallowed thickly before allowing the words to float up and out. “I… I love you, Stevie. So damn much. I know it’s queer and wrong, but I can’t help it. Outta everyone in Brooklyn, New York, fuck even the world… you’re it for me.”

He didn’t expect anything, except for maybe a look of disgust. Instead, Steve buried his face back into Bucky’s chest.

“... is this a fever dream?” he asked. “Am I dreaming this?”

Bucky gulped. “O-Only if you want it to be.” He felt Steve shaking his head.

“No.” Steve looked back up at Bucky, then kissed his cheek. “I don’t want it to be just a dream.”

Before they knew it, they were giving each other small, lingering kisses against each other’s cheeks, each other’s foreheads. They gazed at each other for what felt like an eternity, as if to make up for the time lost due to fear of rejection and hatred. Bucky cupped Steve’s face, stroking his thumb against his cheek.

“Stevie,” he whispered. “Is this okay? Can I… Can I kiss you?”

Steve nodded and closed his eyes. As their lips touched, shivers crawled up Bucky’s spine. He’d kiss many a dame, but those kisses didn’t even come close to this.

“Let’s get some sleep.” Bucky said, pulling away, much to Steve’s disappointment. “I’ll be right here when you wake up, okay?”

Steve open his mouth in protest, but Bucky wouldn’t have it. “You’re gonna wake up in the mornin’ okay? We’re gonna have breakfast with your ma and I’m gonna run down to the store and get ya more charcoal. I’ll even model for you if you want.”

“As if your handsomeness could be captured on paper,” Steve said with a small chuckle.

Bucky snorted. “Sap.”

“But I’m your sap… aren’t I?”

“Yeah.” Bucky smiled as his eyes fluttered close. “You are.”

Both of them drifted off the sleep, limbs tangled together. Bucky never felt such joy as the next morning, seeing Steve sitting up in bed, eyes focused on him, with sketchbook in his lap.

#stucky #steve rogers #bucky barnes #pre serum steve rogers #stevebucky #bucky x steve #steve x bucky #fanfic

[hanabbott-blog1]

have you met HANNAH ABBOTT yet? SHE is aTWENTY year old CIS FEMALE HALF-BLOOD. they live in HOGSMEADE VILLAGE, but they’re originally from BALLYCASTLE, NORTHERN IRELAND. they are best known for being a BARMAID AT THE THREE BROOMSTICKS, and i hear they’re pretty CHARMING yet also SELF DEPRECATING at times.

hello everyone , my name is ri . i’ll be playing miss hannah abbott , i use she / her pronouns. i’m twenty one plus and an absolute sucker for aesthetics, so there’s that. feel free to message me with any questions you may have about hannah. under the cut you’ll find bits and pieces of her character  ! 

   name : hannah sophia abbott

   age :  twenty , born october 3rd.

   former house : hufflepuff

   current occupation : barmaid at the three broomsticks

   affiliation / loyalty : order of the phoenix / dumbledore’s army 

   romantic / sexual orientation : bisexual / biromantic

   patrounus : the hummingbird ––– THE HUMMINGBIRD IS A VERY CAREFREE PATRONUS, AND SHOWS A FREE SPIRIT. THESE ARE THOSE WHO WANT TO ENJOY EVERY ASPECT OF LIFE AND EMRACE IT TO IT’S FULL POTENTIAL. THEY ARE SOCIAL, BUT THEY ALSO NEED AN AMOUNT OF TIME ALONE TO TRY AND FIND THEIR OWN PATH. THEY ARE SENSITIVE AND INFLUENCED EASILY BY WHAT OTHERS SAY ABOUT THEM. THEY TRY TO ACT AS THOUGH THEY ARE INDEPENDENT, BUT THEY TAKE EVERY COMPLIMENT AND INSULT THEY RECIEVE WITH EXTREME CONSIDERATION. THEY WANT TO PLEASE EVERYONE. THE MOST COMMON HOUSE FOR A HUMMINGBIRD PATRONUS IS HUFFLEPUFF. THE MOST COMMON SIGNS ARE LIBRA AND CANCER. (x)

    moral alignment : lawful good

BIOGRAPHY : 

you are born into a soft world, there’s nothing but beauty for you to admire, for you to bloom beneath. your mother brings you up to be nothing short of whimsical, of someone who finds things to admire within the simplest of things. the winds, the flowers, the trees that surround you, they all carry something within them that draws you towards them. you’re a magical being, a bright young witch who finds herself comfortable within the confides of the hufflepuff common room. within the house known for loyalty, you find yourself thriving. there, you find, you’ve found a sense of belonging. 

it isn’t long before you are followed by the shadows, before you give in to your darkest thoughts. a girl so beautiful, so kind. how could she ever think of herself worthy of anything more than the simplest of things? it’s because of this, because you were led to believe that there was nothing ethereal about the way you’d stumble your words in an anxious rage, or the way you’d crumble beneath the pressure of looming deadlines. you were bright, there’s no denying that. but the ghost of laughter as you struggled to articulate your words, as you sat at an empty table on the weekends your classmates wandered around hogsmeade struggling to find the words. 

hannah suffers from anxiety. she’s never truly been comfortable in her skin and so she found being in hogwarts made it worse in the sense that she’d never really considered herself intelligent. she’s a very soft girl, someone who was easily influenced in her early years. so, when others began to laugh, began to shun her for her insecurities, she began to believe them. she wasn’t worthy of anything good, anything decent. she, a fragile girl who crumbled beneath the pressure that exams, essays, and classes caused her. she distanced herself from anything academic in her spare time if only to free her mind of its turmoil. it seemed foolish to some. 

it generally causes her to fall into a spiral of self - loathing. while she may be appearing to be perfectly poised on the outside, sunshine spilling from her skin  on even the darkest of days. inside, hannah finds her own thoughts about herself eating away at her flesh, heart decaying and left to rot in a pit of self deprecation. 

she often says things that are taken in a joking manner. because, as people would point out, she was a blonde. an airhead. a girl who was pretty enough to get by in life. that’s what they told her, and so she began to believe it.

by the time you’re in your fourth year , hufflepuff finally receives the recognition it deserves. you support cedric, you surround yourself with him if only to soak in any confidence that he may exude. to you, he’s the perfect champion. to you, he’s being robbed of any glory no thanks to harry potter. you can’t blame him, as much as the rumours say he’d done it himself, and as much as you turn up your nose at the boy. it isn’t his fault, but the pressure of your peers eats away at you and in turn, your image suffers. you’re seen condoning a bullying in which you’ve only ever endured before. it pains you, yet you continue. it’s cedric’s death that shakes you all the most. he was your light, your hope, he represented everything that was worth being in the world. yet, he’d fallen as easily as anyone else. 

voldemort returns, and your depression hits a high point. you find yourself yearning for any sort of power, anything that doesn’t make you feel so god damn fragile. you find it in dumbledore’s army. you stand behind harry, for he’s felt pain more than you could ever imagine. you fight and you listen and you learn. you find that there’s something worth value in being good at herbology, at being able to brew a potion better than half your class. yet, you keep these things to yourself. you’ve got a role to play, the insecure girl who finds comfort in hearing that she’s kind, who finds glory in knowing that she’s seen as beautiful. your blonde hair grows longer, it’s loose curls against your slightly freckled porcelain skin and when you cast your first patronus, locks of light blonde fly through the room and you swear you’ve never felt more powerful. 

sixth year is a blur. you board the train, you go to the feast, but your only real memory of that year is the loss of your mother. the news that she’s been murdered, found dead alone within your home in ireland. it was a cruel twist of fate. and your usual calm and composed self finds a breaking point. screaming into the void, ripping sheets and drapes and ruining the dormitory that took you away from the one person in the world you loved most. you leave, tell yourself you’ll never return to the place that had never learned how to appreciate you anyways. you’re alone, orphaned, living in a small coastal home. you spend your nights curled up, a sorrow filled song bird, humming aimlessly into the night as your mothers room remains untouched. professor sprout offers her condolences, offers you a place to stay within your old dorm for holidays, asks you if you’d like to return. you decline, you ignore. your life is filled with silence, it’s filled with darkness. the world loses its beauty, and you in turn lose your hope. 

you return, and to no surprise, you have to retake your sixth year. people snicker. and you hold your head high because your mother had never taught you to be a coward. you face the world with a new outlook. something stronger brews beneath you. when neville approaches you about dumbledore’s army, you’re quick to swear fealty to whatever it is he’d concocting. you spend your nights comforting the children who meet the carrows in darkened halls and over crowded classrooms. 

hannah was heavily involved with dumbledore’s army throughout her (second) sixth year. she found herself spending more time in the room of requirement than in her own dormitory, hiding out and acting as nothing short of a maternal figure towards cowering children. the beauty faded, but her soft exterior remained. in place of her insides is now something likened to steel. 

she stands by neville, stands behind harry, and takes part in the battle of hogwarts. walks away with nothing but scrapes and bruises

your heart breaks, and you cannot help but recoil into a silent solitude. your seventh year goes by in a blur, and the castle still smells of death to you. it’s that year that you find yourself becoming closer with madame rosmerta, and she sparks something inside you. perhaps it was like bringing a corpse back to life, to see hannah smile. so it doesn’t come to any surprise that after you graduate, a year later than you’d hoped to, you begin working for her at the three broomsticks. she finds you a nice flat in hogsmeade and helps you pack up the childhood home in which you shared with your mother. there’s a photo, particularly beautiful in its nature, of her on your vanity. she walks with you everyday, you swear she’s by your side. perhaps you never got to mourn properly. 

there’s nothing more comfortable than the three broomsticks. hogsmeade is out of the way of london enough that you don’t come into contact with many from your school years. it’s sad, but you like it that way. they’d see nothing in you now that they didn’t back then. perhaps even say that this life was a life they’d always envisioned for you. for, you’ve wasted your talents, but you don’t need them to tell you that. loyalty first, happiness second. it’s what you tell yourself when rosmerta tells you she needs you more oft than not. you’re happy to be alone, it’s safer this way. you see susan as much as you need to, and daphne pops in to make sure you’re alright. goes out of her way to cook you meals to make sure you’re eating. it’s something you’re not used to anymore. someone putting your needs ahead of theirs. 

hannah lives a quiet life. she’s slightly ashamed of her lost potential. given in to the idea that she herself failed. it’s this that drives her to become a healer later on in life, that drives her to take night courses and begin her studies when she garners enough confidence to be okay with being studious once more. 

she paints. sunflowers, oceans, anything that brings a splash of colour into her life. she doodles on her skin, on napkins, on parchment. always artistic. 

she believes in the good in people. it’s this reason alone that hannah doesn’t believe in the persecution of any of her fellow students. that they should be on the end of a wicked witch hunt so to speak. she believes in second chances, and that people are only as good as their circumstances.

hannah’s mother was a pureblood who fell in love with a muggleborn man who’d left her upon finding out she was pregnant. it’s the reason hannah carries the abbott name. her father’s identity has never been important to her. 

her mother was her hero, a renowned cursebreaker and a wonderfully brave woman. hannah was in constant awe of the artifacts her mother would bring home, and the plethora of stories she’d provided her with. 

her boggart is failure. lmao it’s ironic because she feels it everyday.

she’s got an orange tabby cat named des ; short for desdemona. 

she’s gifted in herbology and potions, always has been. once again, hannah is very self deprecating and it was this trait that people found easy to pick at. the more they’d told her she was daft, the more she began to believe it. it’s a big trigger to her anxiety. 

she’s a soft and i love her to death and i’ll fight anyone for her. facts are facts.

she’s scarred from the war, depressed and anxious. but she smiles through it because she’s got no other choice. other people lost brothers, sisters, mothers and fathers. her happiness has always come second. she doesn’t believe she’s got the right to grieve, to properly mourn. and so she bottles it inside and helps others. 

#ferula.intro #i. here you are making gold out of it –– intro.

[lotrobsession]

Letter to Brigit By Viggo Mortensen I could not bring myself to take pictures of any of it, to take anything, although I did for a moment consider grabbing my camera to ensure that later on I’d have an image, some tangible visual record of the process of losing you. Maybe that momentary impulse came from fear that the emotional weight of participating in your last days as flesh-and-blood would eventually outweigh or alter the straight facts that photographs might hold. Fear that visuals so fresh right then, as I sat on one of the two plush green leather couches of the crematorium waiting room, would reshuffle themselves and gently blend together as merely tolerable sentimental recollection. It wouldn’t have been right, though, to shoot what only you and I should know. The camera stayed in the truck. ---- The kind man in charge of the ovens had just gone out into the noon blast of July in the San Fernando Valley to check on the progress of your burning. I’d followed but stopped thirty feet back as he’d asked me to. “You don’t really want to see—it’s something you probably wouldn’t want to see… The. … uh …,” he’d mumbled, faltering in a way that had won me over instantly. “You mean if she isn’t done yet?” I’d said, completing the thought for him. “Yes, exactly. The, uh… sometimes they’re not completely …” He’d paused, looking as pained as if he’d known you the way I had. “Her insides?” “Yes,” he’d blurted out with a slight squeak in his voice. “It isn’t pretty.” “No. I can imagine it wouldn’t be,” I’d said. “Not at all pretty.” He had stood there, putting on his fire-retardant gloves and his sunglasses, still looking at me as if needing to say something more. And I had waited. It’d already been a hell of a long morning, so I hadn’t been in any big hurry at that point. “I do this all the time, but I couldn’t personally, you know, do this.” I’d thought I understood more or less what he meant. “My uncle’s dog,” he’d continued, “I had to do that one, and it was very difficult. I could never do it again.” “I understand,” I’d said. “Very difficult.” “Yes, I’m sure.” He’d started backing sideways toward the oven. It was one of the three on the back lot that seemed to be in operation, as evidenced by the grey smoke rising from their steel-pipe smokestacks into the smoggy haze above us. As inappropriate as the thought might have been, I somehow couldn’t help but think of the much larger indoor ones I’d once seen in the Dachau concentration camp memorial. I’d felt a momentary urge to ask if these ovens had been manufactured in Europe, but it had passed. “Please stay back here while I check and see how she’s doing,” he’d then said. “OK,” I’d said. “And how do you check?” He’d stopped side stepping toward the oven. “I open the door and look.” “Oh. Yeah.” “She might not be done. She might not be ready.” “Yeah. OK. I’ll wait… ” “Plus, it’s real hot. About 1,500 degrees.” “I’ll wait here then.” “I’m so sorry,” he’d said, tugging down the bill of his navy-blue ball cap and turning toward the oven. He’d said “sorry” several times since I’d arrived, and he seemed to mean it. “Sorry for your loss. I am truly sorry.” After a minute spent carefully peeking through the slightly opened oven door, he’d closed it and walked back to me. “I’m sorry. She’s not done yet. Another ten or fifteen minutes.” “Should I go back inside to the waiting room, then?” “Yes. If you don’t mind. Sorry. I’ll let you know just before I get her so you can come and watch me do everything. Check, you know, to see if… see that… ” “Yeah, good. OK, thanks.” ---- A tall, well-groomed black poodle named Paris, as I’d overheard her being called when I’d first arrived at the crematorium office, had been staring at me for a while. From her position under a sort of anaemic-looking potted ficus by the doorway to the office, she was able to monitor all comings and goings. Suddenly, she rose and bolted straight for me, jumping up on the couch right next to me, barking excitedly. Her breath smelled like boiled carrots. Sort of sweet and not altogether unpleasant, but not something I craved at that moment. The receptionist called Paris, no doubt trying to keep the dog from further upsetting me, the grieving customer. Paris was not bothering me at all. I understood that she had been barking for attention, not out of aggression—probably bored out of her mind in this place where all other dogs were dead and burning or about to be. She hadn’t even barked that loudly, really, and her company was comforting in a life-goes-on-and-there-are-lots-of-nice-dogs-in-the-world-sort of way. Paris gave me one more quieter bark right in my left ear, licked my face and left me to see what the receptionist wanted. “I’m very sorry,” the receptionist said, as she led Paris into the back of the office area. “That’s OK,” I said. “She wasn’t bothering me. Female, right?” “Yes, she certainly is. I am sorry for your loss.” I know she meant it as well. Expressions of sympathy for the customer would to some degree have probably been obligatory for the crematorium personnel, but everyone did seem to be personally and genuinely concerned. People doing their utmost to run a decent family-owned business with kindness and compassion. The compulsion to record all of this got the better of me, finally, and I went out to the truck to look for my notebook. After a quick scramble through the papers, books, cameras and other assorted commuter debris on the back seat, I found the notebook. Although I had not had the time to take many pictures or to sit down and write much of anything lately, a camera and something to write in are always in the car, or in whatever bag I carry, just in case a moment special to me presents itself to be stolen. Resisting once more the temptation to take the camera, I grabbed the notebook and a pen and returned to the waiting room to begin writing this. Kind strangers have given me a few handsomely bound journals and notebooks over the years. Some, like this one, are bound in beautifully tanned and tooled leather. This one’s cover has a giant oak tree cut into it, with other old oaks on a distant ridge beyond it. The big pewter button used for tying the notebook closed with a leather thong is cast with an oak leaf and acorn detail. I am not much good at keeping a diary, or diligent about any sort of regular journal entries. My way to remember has usually been to write stories, poems or more often than not, to make photographs or drawings. I felt a little rusty and awkward writing in the waiting room under the quietly watchful eyes of the receptionist and Paris. Maybe it didn’t seem at all odd to them, my scribbling away. Probably what bothered me was my own sense of guilt over being inclined to record the events surrounding the processing of your body. Just a short time earlier I had been openly weeping while crossing the city in morning rush-hour traffic. I suppose we humans can be resilient—nearly as resilient as you were, Brigit—and as accepting of life’s unpredictably rough patches as most animals seem to be. Whatever the reason, I found I could not write fast enough in my attempt to describe the events of the day. “Do you want to come out while I clean this out?” the kind voice of the oven-minder asked softly, interrupting me in mid-sentence. I looked up and nodded. “Yes, please. I’ll … let me … let me just finish this sentence—this paragraph. I’ll be right there.” “Sure …” ---- “Do you write a lot?” he asked, as I followed him outside. “Used to.” “Nice-looking book you got there.” “Thanks. Yes, it is.” I closed it, marking my place with the pen, just as he stopped and turned to me. I was standing on the same spot I had been asked to watch from earlier. “Please stay right here. I’ll shut her down and get everything. You’ll be able to see everything happening, but it is very hot now, and also …” “Yes, ok I’ll wait here.” As I stood still in the by-now withering heat and watched him switch off the oven and open it, I suddenly realised that there had been no muzak, no music of any kind playing in the waiting room. That was a pleasant surprise and seemed remarkable to me. The tact involved in such a choice on their part told me that they really must care. The ovens were out behind the small, one-story building that holds the tidy crematorium office, some oversize freezers and the very pleasant air-conditioned waiting room. The property was surrounded by twenty-foot-high stacks of automobile carcasses, entire auto bodies and an enormous variety of neatly sorted bits and pieces—fenders, doors, hoods, seats, side mirrors, steering mechanisms, engine parts, dashboards, roofs, etc., arranged in row after row—apparently according to year, make and model. The sprawling salvage yard dwarfed the crematorium and its modest parking lot. Although there was no vegetation in sight, the colourful, encroaching heaps and rows of rendered vehicles almost looked like exotic organic growth, a sort of postmortem environment that seemed to me to perfectly complement the pet-burning business. The thick, lightly buzzing strands of heavy-duty power lines drooping as they crossed some thirty feet above us from one massive steel support to another only added to this entirely man-made, and remade, end-of-nature garden. Its perfume was a blend of acrid and oily-sweet, of melting rubber and asphalt, of taffy-thick black engine grease, of yellowing plastic and peeling paint sluggishly wafting upward and blending with the constant dead-fish reek of Los Angeles smog. ---- I had risen very early—or, rather, got out of bed early, as I hadn’t slept at all. Knowing it was today that I was scheduled to pick up your refrigerated corpse at our trustworthy local veterinary hospital and drive it out to this industrial hinterland for cremating had kept me from being able to rest. Probably I am able to write about this with a degree of detachment because your brother Henry and I have already gone through the worst of your final decay and death process together. We took you, our fifteen-year-old, completely lame and largely incontinent pal, to be “put down” three days ago. In the intervening time we had to wait for a slot at the crematorium to open up. I have been able to largely digest and assimilate the stronger surface emotions of your final morning. As much as I am and will continue to be haunted by your sweet, departing gaze when the brain-stopping serum was administered, time and the responsibilities resulting from your passing have more or less carried me away from that heartbreaking scene. I will always see your eyes slowly lose their gleam as I gently lay your head down. Will always remember your final generous gesture of rolling halfway over to let us rub your belly one last time before the doctor gave you the sedative. I’d arrived at the back door of the vet’s office feeling like I was complicit in some sort of underworld transaction. As had been the case all week, the morning sky was overcast, and the clammy grey marine layer had only added to the death business I was now part of. Two men in overalls had come out with what looked enough like a curled-up “you” shape inside a light-blue trash bag. As I had taken the thawing bundle and carefully laid it on the towel-covered passenger seat of the pickup truck, I had looked at the older of the two men. He’d nodded, seeming a bit uncomfortable, and then had turned and followed his colleague back inside the building without a backward glance or farewell. I had been very tired, a bit teary-eyed, and had not said a word myself. Probably not the most pleasant person for them to be around. I had gotten in the car and begun making my way to the 405 freeway. Moving slowly, stuck in the usual massive commuter caravan headed north toward the Sepulveda Pass, it had occurred to me that tomorrow would mark the 60th anniversary of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki atomic bomb drops. Then I had thought, not for the first time when passing the Sunset Boulevard exit, about O.J. Simpson’s bizarre televised journey in the famous white Ford Bronco. I had continued in that vein for a while, my mind becoming cluttered with a dizzying assortment of images involving unforgivable murders and other perversions of justice. The ideals of compassion had seemed distant, insignificant. I’d felt resigned, passively understanding that life moves forward just as traffic eventually does. Suddenly, the cars in front of me had slowed abruptly and I had braked hard, glad to see cars in my rear-view mirror doing the same. The bagged corpse had slid off the seat and onto the floor, and I’d tried to pull it back up with my right hand. It had been quite heavy, and I’d realised it would be a difficult and dangerous task to accomplish while driving, so I had made my way across two lanes of traffic and off onto the side of the freeway. As I had come round the front of the truck and opened the passenger-side door, I had decided I’d have a look at you to see if you were intact. I had straightened out the towel on the seat and lifted the bundle back onto it, then poked a hole in the plastic bag, now wet with condensation, where I could feel one of your frozen paws. Long black hair, long black nails. Not much like any of your paws. I had quickly felt for the body’s head, finding a stiff tongue projecting beyond clenched teeth, and then a collar around the neck. We had taken your collar off when you’d expired at the vet’s, and I knew that Henry was wearing it wrapped twice around his wrist as a bracelet today. This dog was not you. The absurdity of it all had hit me immediately as I had stood up and stared at the mass of moving cars through the poisonous-looking heat waves. The sadness of it had been suddenly overwhelming, as was the smell of initial decomposition, which I had not been aware of until that moment, like that of a dead deer that’s been hanging for a few hours from a tree. I had never really wanted to live in Los Angeles. Here I was, on yet another ridiculous errand, feeling vaguely like I was being punished for some past transgression, marking time and forced to make sense of an oddly evolving riddle. I had secured the corpse and made sure the towel was placed so as to keep the dead stranger from touching the seat or any part of the truck’s interior. Eventually, I’d got myself turned around and headed back to the vet’s, feeling sorry for this poor dog I did not know, and for its unwitting owner. En route, I had called the crematorium and informed them that I would be late for our oven appointment because I’d been given the wrong dog. They’d been very kind, had said I should get there when I could, and that they were very sorry. ---- Now the crematorium is about two miles behind me as I sit listlessly sipping coffee at a Mexican restaurant. This is as far as I have got, with my new cedar box containing your remaining bone fragments and ashes. I had asked the oven-minder to please not crush your bones if that was what he’d planned on doing. “Yes, normally we do very gently break down the bone matter so that it fits comfortably in the box or urn as the case might be. If you prefer, though … ” “Yes.” “…we can also not do it and just try and place her, the bone matter—the bag, that is—in the cedar box for you. If they’ll fit—if it will fit—that is.” “That’s ok, I can do it.” Earlier, out by the ovens, I had been allowed to scoop up all your burnt bits from the metal tray that the man had scraped the cooling, fragile ghost-shape of your skeleton onto. I had stopped several times to carefully examine some of your more distinguishable pieces. Vertebrae, hip parts and most beautiful of all, the rounded piece of bone that I instantly recognized as the top of your skull. We have petted that part of you so often. I can feel its shape even now, in memory, feel the bone through your smooth fur, feel your warmth and your happiness. All of it had gone into the plastic bag he now held. “Ok, sir. As you prefer.” I proceeded to gently rearrange the bag and its contents inside the box, and then placed your crematorium nametag and the receipt for services provided on top of your remains before closing the lid with its little brass clasp. “We would like you to consider the cedar box a gift from us due to the unfortunate mistake that was made this morning. We are very sorry about that.” “Oh. Well … thank you …” A woman who seemed to be the oven-minder’s boss, and perhaps the owner of the establishment, stood up and came around her desk to address me. “We are very sorry that … Brigit?… that Brigit got confused this morning.” I almost pointed out that you had not been confused at all, being quite dead, but I resisted the temptation, knowing what she meant. “It is very unusual that something unheard of like that would happen,” she continued. “Very unusual, and we are extremely sorry. If you prefer a larger box or don’t like cedar as a wood type… maybe an urn would be more to your liking?” I was truly moved by her words and the generous offer. “Is it Western red cedar?” I asked, for some reason unknown to me now—perhaps being at a loss for anything better to say by way of response. “You know, I am not real sure about that,” she replied, a bit thrown off by my question. “I certainly can try and find out for you, if you like?” “No, thanks. I was just wondering. Just curious, I guess.” “Would you like to replace the cedar?” “Replace? No. I like cedar. Smells good, looks good. Thank you.” I now felt like a complete idiot. “You don’t have to give me the box, though. Don’t have to give it… I’m happy to pay for it.” “We insist. It’s something we want to do for you.” “Thank you very much. Very kind of you.” “If Brigit doesn’t fit comfortably, not being completely dust and all… ” (“Comfortably?” Never mind… ) “No, that’s fine. She fits. I got her in there ok. And it’s a beautiful box. Thank you.” ---- “Me podría traer un poco de arroz con frijoles, por favor?” “Would you like anything else with that?” the waitress replied, in heavily Spanish-accented English. “Gracias, pero la verdad es que no tengo mucho hambre.” She looked at me calmly, and said “I’ll bring it right out. Warm up your coffee for you?” “Fijese: ahora que lo pienso creo que sí me gustaría una pequeña ensalada de lechuga y tomate… y cebolla, si hay.” “Ok,” she continued in English, “and will you like some dressing—vinaigrette, ranch, French, blue cheese, or oil and vinegar—for that?” Doesn’t happen often, but once in a while my gringo looks or perhaps my Argentine accent seem to be held against me like that. She glances at the cedar box resting on the table to the right of my place setting. I wonder if she has seen this sort of box before. The crematorium isn’t far, and maybe other people stop here now and then as I have, unable or unwilling to drive any further. Maybe they sometimes come here and get a little drunk, become indiscreet and open their boxes to look at what’s left of their animal friends. Maybe they cry and have to be consoled. I do not look at my box, just hold the waitress’ gaze when it returns to me. I’ve taken an initial dislike to her because she seems to refuse to speak Spanish with me, so I’m certainly not going to give her any more clues now. “Will that be all, sir?” she asks dryly. “Sí… y si me puede traer la cuenta con la comida—y un poco más de café—se lo agradecería.” She looks at me for a moment longer, then reluctantly mutters “Por supuesto, señor,” as she turns to go place my order.

#viggo mortensen #brigit #letter to brigit #national dog day #dogs

[selenelavellan]

That Ultra-Kind Of Love

(Technically a Continuation)

Dirthamen is @feynites

Selene is half-asleep and fumbling with the coffee maker when Des wakes, coming up from behind to wrap his arms around her waist.

“This is very complicated.”

“Have you even had coffee before?” he mumbles into her cheek.

“Haleir used to bring me some back from his trips,” She admits, feeling her stomach twist just at the mention of his name. “But maybe I should've given him more credit for doing so.”

Des scoffs. “I guarantee he never brewed it himself. Here, let me help you...”

Selene watches as Des rifles through the kitchen cabinets, easily navigating past tools and devices she couldn't even guess at the purpose of right now, until he flips the switch at the base of the coffee machine and it begins to whir and steam quietly.

“See? Easy.” He grins, pulling her back against him.

Selene gives him a half-hearted smile in return. “Thanks. I'll...get the hang of things. Eventually.”

“There's no rush. You only arrived last night, it's not as though I expect you to get it immediately. That's what I'm here for,” he promises, fingers gliding over the small of her back reassuringly.

Selene nods, leans her forehead against his, and lets out a long breath while the room fills with the smell of the hazelnut coffee.

It's barely been 8 hours since she showed up at his door. Out of breath and still wearing the ceremonial robes for the bonding ceremony, hair braided back and strewn with flowers, face covered in paints. The blood of her intended still caked onto her toes.

There had been a moment of silence when it happened.

No gunshot rang through the air. One moment she was walking down the path towards him, and then suddenly she wasn't. There was just a hole in the center of his head and the life drained out of his eyes until his body crumpled to the floor. The blood pooled at her feet while she stared down at his corpse beside her.

She had to resist the urge to laugh with the relief of it.

A gift from the gods, she had thought.

It was terrible, of course. A terrible, tragic attack on their clan. The hunters had dispersed immediately in search of whomever had shot Haleir. To take their vengeance, to punish the person who had interrupted their ceremony, to whoever had thought to ruin what was supposed to be a day of celebration.

But Selene hadn't felt a loss when it happened. Had only felt the burden of her fathers final wish fall from her shoulders, could only see her freedom and possibilities stretched out before her.

She had dropped the bundle of flowers in her hand, and run to the city as quickly as she could, the note Des had left her with his address still tucked safely away in her pocket.

To her credit, she had only gotten lost twice on the way here.

A door clicks open behind her, snapping her out of her memories as she turns her head to greet Des's roommate and employer.

“Good morning,” She greets, bowing her head respectfully. “Thank you so much for letting me stay here last night.”

The man blinks slowly, the look of someone who would rather still be asleep falling away from his face as he seems to take a moment to recall who she is and let her words wash over him.

“It was no problem,” he assures her. “Is...that my shirt?”

“Ah, yeah,” Des admits. “Her clothes still had blood and gunk on them, so I borrowed one from you. I'll take her shopping for some new things today so it won't happen again.”

“...It is no problem,” Dirthamen repeats, clearing his throat slightly. “We do, however, have work to do today.”

“Booooo,” Des pouts, propping his head up on Selenes shoulder to look at Dirthamen directly. “You have work everyday. Miss one; the world won't end.”

“While that is true, there are meetings today that other people would be inconvenienced to reschedule.”

“So inconvenience them! You're the big, powerful, important guy. Put yourself first for once; blow them off and go shopping instead.”

Dirthamen tilts his head “That sounds less like putting myself first, and more like putting you first.”

“Ah, but Selene needs an entirely new wardrobe. Shirts, pants, dresses. Frilly Underthings,” Des says in a tone that she knows means his eyebrows are wiggling. “I know you like frilly underthings.”

That, at least, seems to give Dirthamen pause.

“Seleeene,” Des drawls. “Would you mind trying on frilly underthings and expensive dresses for our patron today to say thank you for letting you stay here?”

“If that's...what he wants,” She agrees tentatively. “Wouldn't it be better if you tried them on though?”

Des grins the grin he uses when he knows something he doesn't want to share. “I wouldn't worry about it so much.”

The two of them glance over to where Dirthamen is still standing, deliberating with himself.

“Well...” He finally decides. “It seems I have been outvoted.”

–

“This seems like a lot,” Selene muses, looking at the bags of clothes lining each of her arms. “Are you sure this is ok?”

“He can afford it,” Des assures her with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Carrying all of it through the mall may be another issue,” Dirthamen notes, his own arms equally laden with garments. “I feel as though you should also be carrying these things,”

“I have to keep my hands free,” Des argues. “I'm your body guard; I can't be bogged down by bras if your brother pops out of a dark alley or something.”

“Your brother pops out of dark alleys?” Selene asks.

“Not usually. He's much more likely to simply let himself into my apartment, or office.”

“Which is why I have to spend my days watchful, and very, very close to Dirthamen,” Des gloats. “It's an awful burden of course, spending all day and night with a gorgeous elf like him, but I'm willing to make the sacrifice.”

“And the salary,” Dirthamen adds.

“Well, I do still need to make a living.”

Selene ponders over their conversation, flexing her toes carefully inside her new sandals.

She should probably get a job, right?

That's what people do in cities?

And find somewhere to live, too. Dirthamen is being kind for now, but she'll need to have a plan for when his kindness runs out. She can't just run out into the night every time she needs to uproot things.

Well...

Technically, she supposes, she could.

But she doesn't think she'd like to leave Des behind without a way to find her.

“I should get a job,” She muses aloud, causing Des and Dirthamen to stop both their conversation and stride.

“What are you qualified for?” Dirthamen asks.

“Well, I was a healer back in the clan. Never got my vallaslin though...”

“You never got your vallaslin because your father was an ass who would never admit you were better than he was,” Des scoffs. “Do you want to be a healer?”

“I don't know,” She admits. “I never really considered doing anything else. What are my other options?”

“You could do what I do,” Des offers with a grin. “We could double team Dirthamen all day long. And nights too, of course.”

Selene watches as Dirthamen's face turns a pale pink and he draws one hand up to cover his mouth, nearly stumbling over his own steps.

“I don't think I'd be very good at fighting,” She admits. “Do you have any health concerns I could help with?”

“Not at the moment,” Dirthamen manages.

“There's no rush to get a job anyways,” Des assures her. “You can stay with us as long as you need. Dirthamen's a great sugar daddy.”

“I am your employer,” he asserts. “There is nothing untoward about our relationship. Please do not tell her that I am paying you for sexual favors.”

“Worried what she might think if you were?” Des teases. “Don't worry, Selene already knows what I'm like in bed. No money required.”

Dirthamen seems to stumble over his own tongue for a few moments, while Selene drifts off, still trying to decide on a possible way to spend her upcoming days.

At the very least, it's comforting to know that they're willing to share their home with her.

–

Selene sets out the next morning, wearing one of her new sun-dresses and a pair of lace-up leather sandals, to explore the city.

Des had handed her a cellular telephone, in case she might get lost or simply wish to speak to him. It is very nice, and she keeps it safe and sound inside of a small purse they had convinced her to get the day before. Eventually it will also hold her identification and other things people are apparently required to carry with them once Dirthamen has completed some sort of paperwork, but for now it's just holding her phone, a smaller pouch of money in case she gets hungry or would like to buy something, and a small tube of a sweet smelling substance that goes on her lips.

Before long, her stomach is growling and with the smell of fresh bread in the air, her feet pull her through a nearby door. A bell jingles softly overhead, drawing the attention of the woman behind the counter.

“Welcome,” She calls out, magazine still open on the counter before her.

“I was hoping for bread...?” Selene tries, walking towards the counter and opening up her coin purse. “How much of this do I give you?”

“Well, that depends on which type of bread you would like,” The woman replies, walking over to a glass display case. “We've got loaves of white, herb and cheese, sourdough, rye, marble rye, baguettes, bagels, donuts, all sorts of different pastries...”

She trails off as Selene bends down to look closely at the offered items. They all look appetizing, and her stomach is growling again and the woman, at least, is being very patient while she tries to make up her mind.

“That one,” Selene finally settles on, pointing to a small sweet looking item with some sort of filling and a strawberry on top.

“A wonderful choice,” The woman smiles, carefully sliding the pastry out of the display and onto a paper plate. Selene reaches for her coin purse again, and the woman shakes her head. “My treat.”

Selene thanks her, and sits down at one of the small tables in the back corner. The pastry is sweet but light, flakes falling onto her robes with each bite. After a minute, a large grey man with horns steps through a small door, whisking the elven woman that had helped her up into his arms.

“Anyu!” He declares joyfully “I discovered the secret to the filled pretzels! Add it to the menu! We'll have people here in droves!”

“Just as soon as I test one,” She assures him. “We have a customer, dear.”

The man turns, horns knocking a few brown packages off of the tops of the cabinets with the movements and Selene wonders for a moment how someone of his stature even fits in a room with ceilings this low.

“Oh, you're eating the strawberry Canelé! Those are Anyu's favorites too, did she talk you into it?” he laughs, striding through the small shop and swinging an extra chair around to her table, sitting down comfortably across from her. “She's always selling them as fast as she can this time of day so that I'll make a new batch that'll still be warm for her to bring home with us. You'd think she would just ask, but old habits die hard I guess. That's alright though, I love her anyways. She's wonderful you know.”

Selene nods in agreement, mouth full of the pastry in question and just a little out of sorts at the sudden intrusion.

“So what brings you to our neighbor hood? Shouldn't you be farther uptown, dressed like that?” He continues, gesturing to her outfit. “What brings you to our little corner of the slums?”

She swallows her mouthful quickly, managing a polite “I'm looking for a job, actually.”

“D'you bake?” The man (Kaze, he introduces himself as) asks eagerly. “I could really use a prep chef.”

Selene thinks back to her own attempts at making breads and sweets back with the clan; over-risen dough from her body temperature, burnt rations,  dried fruits that hadn't sunk to the bottom of her creations so much as tried to burrow an escape tunnel to freedom.

“No. No, I do not,” she decides. “Sorry.”

Kaze frowns, briefly, before perking back up. “That's alright, no harm done. What sort of job are you looking for then?”

“Mm...an apothecary, maybe? I was a healer, back when I was with my clan.”

“Oh, you're Dalish?” Asks the other elven woman.

Selene hums in affirmation.

“Incredible,” She muses. “We didn't have many of those in Val Royeaux. Somehow I thought it would be even less likely to run into one here.”

“Not many Tal Vashoth in Val Royeaux either,” her husband points out “But there's the clinic nearby, right?”

“Ah, yes!” Anyu declares. “The free clinic is always looking for more help. The poor dears are always overworked. You could check there, certainly.”

Selene nods in agreement as she finishes her food, and Anyu helpfully supplies her with written directions to the local clinic.

Selene thanks them for their help and happily strolls through the streets with the paper until she comes upon a rather run-down looking installment in the line of buildings bordering the street. The address matches the ones she was given, and when she steps inside she's greeted with the familiar scents of healing salves and disinfectants.

“Excuse me,” She says to the dwarven man seated at the front desk. “I'm looking for a job?”

“Are you certified?” He asks in a bored tone. “We don't pay certification rates here.”

“Oh, uh...”Selene blinks. “I don't think so? I used to be a healer back with my clan. I was told you were looking for people to help out...”

“Wait one moment please,” he sighs, picking up a large, bulky looking phone and having a quiet conversation before hanging it back up. “Room four.”

Selene blinks again, confused by how quickly this seems to have gone, but nods and heads dutifully down the hallway until she spots the corresponding number.

Inside is a worn out looking horned woman sitting in a chair and drinking coffee that looks as though it still has grounds floating in it.

“You must be the new girl,” She smiles. “Could you cover my shift for an hour or two while I nap in the back? I've been up for nearly 40 hours straight, and I don't want to endanger the patients.”

“Of course!” Selene says. “Is there anything I should know about?”

“Well, we're a free clinic, so we don't charge for services, but we do keep a log so make sure to get the patients name and date of birth for filing purposes. Most of the supplies are in the cabinets on the walls around you, aspirin and sedatives are behind lock on the mirror. If you need to write a prescription, send them up front; Vegor handles all of that, he's got the license and lawyers for it. Past that, if you have any issues, knock on door two, Saarah should be available if you need an extra pair of hands. Let's see, anything I'm missing....” She muses. “Oh! I never got your name, dearie.”

“I'm Selene,” She says, holding out her hand.

“Taasha,” She introduces back, shaking the offered hand. “Thanks again for your help. There's some coffee and water in the break room if you need it.”

Selene nods in understanding, and Taasha takes her leave for some well deserved rest.

Selene haphazardly rifles through the cabinets, trying to figure out where precisely everything is, and reading labels on medications and tools with words she's never even heard of.

It's not quite the same as she's used to, she realizes too late as she hears Vegor calling out “Room Four!” and the doorknob next to her turns.

“Hello there!” She greets quickly, standing from where she had been knelt down “What brings you in today?”

The elven mans eyes rove over her; a bright blue beneath golden locks as he lays back in the patients bed and holds up a heavily tattooed arm laden with still-smoking burns.

“I got attacked by an asshole, and my arm still feels like its on fire. You got any painkillers?”

She offers him two aspirin and fiddles with the lock on the mirror before handing them to him along with a paper cup of water (which he takes with a look of disgust and “are you fucking kidding me with this”) and takes a closer look at his arm. Poking and prodding, and gently testing for responsiveness. When he recoils at a light push, she lets out a breath of relief; no major nerve damage, then.

“It's your lucky day,” she hums, touch drifting down to lift his hand, which is heavy with thick rings and old scars “Burns are practically my specialty.”

“It would've been my lucky day if I hadn't been set on fucking fire.” he shoots back. Selene laughs, taking it as a joke. “Well, yeah, I guess that's true.”

She looks over his burns carefully, pouring a slow healing spell into a familiar salve as she rubs it into his skin, and watching as the redness begins to decrease. The pattern on his arms begins to make sense again; there are wings going down each one, and she's careful to make sure not to disrupt the artwork as she goes.

“Shit,” The guy croons as he watches. “Usually they just toss me a bottle of lotion and kick me out.”

“It's no trouble,” she hums. “Wouldn't want you walking around with broken wings, right?”

“I dunno, it's kind of metal,” He muses.

Selene blinks.

“Your tattoos are made of metal...?”

His eyes narrow. “Is that a joke?”

“If it is, I think it's on me.”

He sticks his nose up in the air, regarding her once again. “Of course. I'm particularly gifted with observation and people, after all. I'm sure you could tell.”

Selene nods in agreement, but thinks that if he were really so talented with people, its unlikely someone might've purposely set him on fire. Still, he's her patient, and it's good to keep things pleasant and civil in this sort of environment. “All done,” She announces as the final threads of ink rejoin along his forearm.

“Thanks,” He mumbles, rubbing and poking at his arm, as though making sure it isn't some sort of trick. “You got a name? Think I'll request you next time I come by too. You do good work.”

“I'm Selene,” She smiles, making a note of the procedure and materials used on the nearby notepad. “Oh! I'll need yours too, come to think of it.”

He grins down, hand accidentally landing on top of hers. 

“It's Falon'din.”

--

Falon’din is also @feynites

#an au with no name #deselene #dirthalene #selene lavellan #'hmm yes this is mine now' he seems to say #awkward #(to...put it lightly) #idk i just thought it'd be interesting to have them meet on terms that don't involve the usual person #anyways this is FINALLY written jfc it took forever and far too many drafts to be satisfied with #(yes i stole the title from a FOB song its middle school again i guess whatever) #(Last Of The Real Ones fits Des's vibe to a Tee and you can pry it off his playlist over my cold dead corpse <_<) #roommate au

[ofvividcolor]

Bonding With Brother

He shook the plastic bag loudly swinging it back in forth. "I brought goodies."

"I picked up two reds, two yellows and two blues. One of each in a cool tone and the other in a warm tone." her expression seemed impressed. "See I listen sometimes. That and I asked the women at the store." he confessed. The room filled with their joined laughter.

"Who knew paint could be so expensive! I had to sell an arm and a leg for these."

"Ha, too bad you didnt sell your tongue."

"You'd die of boredom without me." he promised

Our Last Moments

She woke up her dreams were clear. The images in her head were beautiful. Today she wanted to draw one of them.

She closed her eyes and visualized the picture in her mind so clearly. Then she opened her eyes and everything was a blur. Still she placed her first stroke on the canvas.

He watched as she stare outside their window her eyes looking out into the blur of the world she could see. He set down a cup of tea in front of her. "Aria." He said softly as her eyes traveled back into the room. "What did the doctor say?"

She made eye contact with him then gave a sad smile. "It's getting much worse." Her fingers wrapped around the cup before her. "You shouldn't worry so much Cain." She lifted the cup to her lips.

He couldn't help but laugh. "What kind of brother would I be, if I didn't worry?"

"I told you before. I want you to stop." She snapped back setting the cup down with a light thud.

"And I want my sister to see the beauty of this world. Too bad only one of us is going to get what we want." His Face was teasing but to rub it in even more he leaned closer. "I can be pretty stubborn too."

"Please.."

"Calm down. I already have more than enough money for the surgery. The issue is the best doctors are outside of [town name]. Which means we'll need a even larger sum of money to get you out."

"How large?"

"Ten thousand."

"What!? How do you plan to get Ten Thousand dollars!?"

"Don't worry about is Sis." He ruffled her hair. "Just let me handle it." She brushed his hand away and began to fix the mess he had made. He chuckled softly  feeling the irritation steaming off of her. "Don’t worry, it still looks cute." he ruffled it again.

"Cain!" she protested loudly.

Again the room filled with his laughter. "I'm going out for a bit. I'll be home late so eat without me." he ruffled her hair once more. "I'll see you soon."

"See you soon." She replied with her wild hair.

To Never Meet Again

In the morning she was awoken to loud bangs on the front door. It made her heart race as she peaked out through the small hole on the door. It appeared to be a handsome young man in a suit. "Ma'am Open up. We need to speak with you." She pulled open the door slowly.

"Yes?"

"My name is Cody Balfour, I'm with the Ergastulum Police Department." He fumbled as he pulled out his badge. "May I come in?"

She looked out at the object in his hand for a moment. He seemed harmless enough. So she stepped aside. "What's this about?"

"Would you like to have a seat?" He gestured as if somehow he owned the place. "I'm afraid I have some bad news."

She didn't hear anything else he said. He showed her pictures and asked for her to ID her brothers body. It might of been a blessing she couldn't see she his mangled corpse.

It would seem in order to make more money her brother had started to associate with the wrong crowd. Because of her, he was dead. Now there was only one thing left for her to do.

Lower To Revenge 

Aria found herself sending outside a rather popular establishment. As she stepped in her nose filled with various perfumes. Music was playing but the sounds of heels dancing across the floor was still apparent. Not so subtle flirting and giggles of women could also be heard. Finally a women in heels and red lingerie approached her.

“I take it you’re not a customer.” She gave her a comforting smiled. “Is there something I can assist you with today?”

“Can I...” The words hardly left her lips.

“Hmm? You’ll need to speak a little louder.”

“May I speak to Big Mama?”

“Oh? You want to start working here?” The prostitute looked her over but felt there was no competition. “You’re not very curvy, but you’ve got a nice face.”

“That’s not it, exactly…” Aria was taken up to a room upstairs already filled with smoke. She waited until the women joined her. 

“So what’s this about? I am a busy women.” Georgina said with a slight smirk on her painted lips.  After taking a small puff her her spoke she spoke again. “Is this about your brother? You’ve always been to good to work for me.” She said in a sour tone. “Why should I hire you now that he's gone and you need money? Knocked off your high horse.” The smirk returned.

“You are harsh as always, Big Mama.” Aria’s eyes filled with tears. Georgina blew smoke into her face. “I want revenge.” The anger in her words fought back the tears. “I need your help. I want to make contact with Mr. Corsica.”

At these words Georgina let out a mocking laugh. “Oh. Please child, you are wasting my time. Get. Out.”

“Can you at least hear what I propose?”

“OUT!”

Bullets and Barrels

Aria found herself standing outside another popular establishment. It was more of a hole in the wall. Still everyone knew of the little Gun Shop. It had a faded red awning and green door trim. There was a couple scattered bullet holes in the white paneling. One window seemed to be shattered. Maybe now was not a good time to visit. Then there was movement from inside the store.

“Are you coming in or not?” A friendly female voice teased.

It was the invitation that gave her the courage to enter. "I need a handgun and a box of bullets." She stated clearly with no hesitation in her request. The short haired women at the counter only stared at her quietly. "This is the gun shop isn't it?"

"It is but..."

"Look, I have cash." She set down a decent roll of money. "Five hundred."

Connie took the money and began to count it. "Is this for protection?" She asked looking up and making eye contact.

"Yes..." Aria lied.

"If protection is really what need then, I'd suggest hiring the handyman to eliminate the problem." She set the money back down on the counter.

"Do you sell guns or not?" Aria snapped in annoyance. Since when has buying a gun in Ergastulum become this complicated?

Connie let out a small sign and disappeared into the back room.  When she returned she placed a small handgun and a box of bullets on the counter. "Are you sure you want to do this?" She asked picking up the money, already knowing the answer.

"Does this interrogation cost extra?"

Connie frowned at that remark. "You're just not my everyday customer base. You can't blame me for being a little worri-... curious. I don’t want to see a girl like you make any rash decisions.”

There was an awkward silence while Aria processed Connie’s words. Worried? Rash decisions? Oh god. She let out a small laugh. “Oh I don’t plan to off myself or anything like that.” Her words were genuine and that seemed to reassure the seller.  “You see, my roommate... departed from Ergastulum recently. So I've been feeling a little unsafe at home."

“Well that’s a relief, you had me worried there for a moment.” Connie smiled widely. “Then that means you’re Aria Dwight, aren't you?”

“Oh.” Aria was a little surprised. It seems word spreads across the city faster then she expected. Then again she shouldn’t of been too surprised. Knowing the latest gossip was half the entertainment of living in this shit town.

“I’m Constance Raveau, but you can call me Connie.” She held out her hand. “Let’s be friends, okay?” They shook hands. “Let me know if there is anything else you need help with.”

Aria picked up the gun and held it awkwardly in her hand. “Wanna teach me how to use this thing?” This got a hysterical laugh to escape Connie’s lips.

“Sure!”

“And, there’s one other thing.”

Place into practice. 

“Is your house always this dark?” Connie asked as she nearly tripped over something on the floor. “Is the person you want to kill me?” She laughed. “Because this just might work.”

“It’s not like I can see much anyway.” Aria teased.

Connie crossed her arms and frowned. “Well, you can’t see anything with the lights off!” She insisted. “Where’s the light switch?” She reached out aimlessly.

“Alright, alright. Stop nagging mom.” Aria said flicking on a light switch.

A light blush crossed Connies face. “I- I’m still too young to be a mom.”