#shivershipper

[lymskr]

stats: Declan Grímnir Thorirsson McAuliffe, 29 (b. October 9th, 1990.) he/his (cis.) species: human occupation: musician working the nearby ski lodges & hotels / hunter

alignment: somewhere between lawful evil and chaotic neutral.

+ charming. observant. driven. adept. loyal. – ruthless. deceptive. reticent. calculating. macabre.

lymskr old Norse – ‘cunning’, ‘wily’. intelligent malevolence. an underlying sense of ill intent. danger lurking in the undertow. eyes unseen in the woods somewhere.

aesthetic

taller than god. speaking of; 'heathen devil’. monochrome tattoos. a circle of nine spears for odin on his arm. the grim mask of death. a sacred quest. a hollow future. choice as an act of vengeance. choice as an act of love. to hear the choir of gods as you creep through ancient woods. to follow the old ways, the old law. singing in tongues, lucid. dreaming awake, lost.

history

( tw physical/verbal child abuse, patricide, cult mentions, murder, mentions of arranged marriage. tl;dr at the end )

1.

He watches as the floating pyre burns, firelight dancing across the surface of the water. His mother is crying; his siblings, too. It’s the funeral of a king, he knows, to be set aflame like this, caught between sea and fire, earth and sky. It’s also a way to ensure the dead cannot walk again. That nothing might return from where it shouldn’t – and as he stands there, amidst the misery and smoke-black grief of his family and kindred, he finds himself daring his father to come back.

I’d do it again. I’d make you fucking suffer, second time around.

The proverbial throne is his, the kingdom and crown, the sword and the sceptre. He doesn’t want it.

When the time comes for the sjaund, the grave-ale at the end of a week he’s spent pretending to mourn a man who doesn’t deserve the effort – at the end of a week where they all expect him to become the new head of the family – Declan does what no one thought him capable of:

He spits in the face of his legacy, his bloodline, and tells them he’s leaving.

2.

They spent that August looking for signs. Freyja might reveal herself in the flight of falcons; Freyr in a good harvest. Rán and Ægir if the waves sweeping the shore grew heavy. A fall of white petals standing in for snow in the late-summer heat as a sign of Skadi. In truth, Aidan Thorir McAuliffe hoped his firstborn might be born to thunder and sheaves of lightning, making them – himself – twice-blessed by Thor. But none came. No one revealed themselves. Not until their son was born with a caul on the ninth day of October did they know who had chosen their child; why the rest had not made themselves apparent.

It was an omen of Odin’s favor.

They named him Grímnir, for an old facet of Odin – Grímnir, masked one, fitting for a boy born in the caul. The first in three generations to be chosen by the One-Eyed himself, Declan’s birth was an auspicious sign for the McAuliffes. By all accounts, it was the highest of honors, to have a child born beneath the watchful eye of the Allfather.

And yet it earned him his father’s ire. He has spent a lifetime wondering if it was jealousy or fear that left those scars on his back, that drove his father’s knuckles into a fist, into a hand clenched around whichever weapon would hurt – but not kill – his son. Did you think you were driving me towards greatness, or were you hoping you could break me?

3.

For as long as there have been beasts in the woods, there have been hunters to kill them. It is an old story – an old law. For centuries, his family has followed an Seanreacht, lines stretching from Massachusetts back to Ireland all the way to the ancient Norse. The old law encompasses the modern remnants of the Ulfheðnar: the ‘wolf coats’. What word survived of them among outsiders is that that they were berserkers, dressed in nothing but wolf pelts as they went into battle – all to honor Odin, the One-Eyed, the Allfather, the leader of the Wild Hunt.

The truth is that they slew werewolves. The grey pelts adorning their shoulders had once been people.

4.

Among those following an Seanreacht in the States, the McAuliffes are admired and feared in equal turn for their single-minded obsession, for the way they raise their children and keep the old ways. Their life is devotion: to the gods, to the hunt, to the songs and the stories. As the firstborn of the main house, Declan’s fate had been carefully laid out – he would devote himself to the cause or break before it; he would marry appropriately, and when the time came, he would take over. Not once did he struggle against it – for years, he did everything he could think of to live up to weight of his future. He let himself be hammered and bent into form; bore the brunt of his father’s expectations and cruelty without complaint. He was his father’s son in name, and at convenience; in theory and in blood – but he was not his father’s son, he was his father’s tool, blunt or sharp depending on the need.

Talent is innate, but skill is forged. It was his father’s favorite saying, and Declan wishes it didn’t come with the memory of his back bleeding, stinging as though he’d been set on fire. Punishment was a lesson he learned early – but that didn’t stop the lessons from coming, again and again.

Not until Brighid Nolan was taken in by his family did Declan so much as stop to pause at the way he’d been raised – and even then, it was not so much a pause as a moment’s stutter, because all he had known was life under his father’s thumb. What scraps they got of a childhood were spent on a petty rivalry that turned to bloodied, bruised understanding – and then Brighid left.

Funny, that. An omen all her own.

5.

It is winter, and it is dark, and he is a blade.

(No, that’s not right.)

It is winter, and it is dark, and he is pointing his rifle at his father, because a wolf has bit him, and his father takes it with grace, as an Seanreacht dictates. It’s a kind death, one befitting his foremost teacher–

(… No. That’s not right, either.)

It is winter, and it is dark, and his father is begging for his life. Slobbering, cursing, as he tells Declan of a cure, as he tells Declan that he cannot kill him, that he must listen to his father, and not the old ways, do as you’re fucking told, I won’t die here, boy–

It is winter, and it is dark, and his father begins to run, like he thinks the Allfather might stop the bite from taking. Like he thinks Declan didn’t learn a damn thing, all those years spent being broken into whatever shape suited his father best. Like he thinks Declan doesn’t remember the lessons.

He exhales.

He shoots.

(In the hands of his maker, he became a formidable weapon.)

6.

The wolf escaped his father’s aim, but Declan drags a corpse back to the compound all the same. The rites are due to begin any day when Brighid calls.

(She’s crying. It’s an unfamiliar sound.)

He cannot tell you why he did it. He likes to think of himself as a logical man, and, by all accounts, wrecking his future was not logical. With logic gone, what remained? Grief. Resentment, maybe; a shining, hateful moment of spite. Loyalty, wretched and wrong, for someone who left, no less. Love, unspeakable.

He comes home with a traitor, brandishing scars that match; comes home bound in blood to a woman who is not his fiancée, and all that stops them from burning the mark of the blood oath off his skin is that he is his father’s son.

Funny, that. How things work out.

7.

They leave, and they do not look back. His family and his bride to be think it’s the work of grief – are prepared to forgive him for his transgressions, are prepared to let him have this for the next few weeks. But weeks turn to months turn to a year, and then another, and another. He fields calls. Tells them that he won’t invoke odelsrett; that he has no intention of taking over.

They keep calling.

8.

They left, and they didn’t look back. But faith is a complicated thing, and it’s been ingrained in him since birth. There are things he has seen he doesn’t have an answer for. He knows the world well enough to have reached the conclusion that if there’s such a thing as werewolves, it wouldn’t be so strange for there to be gods and other creatures out there. And so he still sings the songs, carves the effigies, finds comfort in the habit of it all, even if he cannot decide if the echo sounds hollow or not.

9.

He remains bound to her by blood, by choice, by the things they do not speak. They’ve come to Blackrock for their quarry, for the one that stole from her – but winter’s stalking closer, and with it, wolves. So they bide their time, as the cold creeps closer. He sings the songs, and carves the effigies, and remains a hunter true.

tl;dr

– raised as a Norse-flavoured cultist in an abusive home – killed his own father – was the firstborn heir; abandoned the calling for Brighid – a traitor to their cult – also, blood oath. bound to Brighid 4 life – now they travel the States killing werewolves, and Santí is at the top of their list

wanted connections

(john mulaney voice) he’s NEW IN TOWN

Declan’s looking for information, as winter nears – to that end, he’s relatively friendly, even charming, in how he approaches people. (He wants to suss out hunters and wolves alike.) He’s 6′5″, otherwise known as ‘so tall it’s terrible’, but has a way about him that makes you forget how intimidating that can be – until he wants you to remember. 

As he is indeed NEW IN TOWN, i’m simply looking to Vibe–– some quick ideas:

– MUSE B hears him playing at a nearby ski lodge; thinks that’s real neat – ....... i swear i’ll come up with more ideas but i mean honestly let’s just vibe, babey

#gorse. #shipper #shivershipper #about #biography

[herwildwhisper]

stats: Mar Sandoval, 31 (b. September 19th, 1988.) she/hers (cis.) species: human occupation: mountain guide

alignment: chaotic good veering on chaotic neutral.

+ resilient. loyal. affectionate. capable. perceptive. – aloof. destructive. willful. bitter. blunt.

personality

a half-dry, charming-ish sensibility. “take no shit. do harm if they push you far enough.” values honesty, even if it hurts – this does not mean she’s capable of following through personally (looking at you, Sam.) kind, but not sweet. guarded. could use a friend or five, even if she’s convinced herself she’s better off alone.

aesthetic

widow, née [REDACTED.] whiskey aunt, not wine mom. indeterminate drawl. two dozen bad coping mechanisms in a trench coat, struggling to become a person. kinder than she lets on. angrier than you think she is. looking for answers without knowing the questions. inheriting a mystery; continuing the sketchbooks. a wedding ring on a simple chain. learning to count down from a hundred when all you want is to plant your fist in someone’s face. surviving out of spite. living with loss.

history

( tw physical/verbal domestic / child abuse, self-destructive behaviour, self-harm, death of a spouse, mentions of suicide. tl;dr at the end )

BLACKROCK, MT. EARLY MARCH 2011.

For a few years, the Sandoval house has stood empty. Mrs. Sandoval passed away in 2008, and no one managed to track down her son. He left town back in ‘03, a couple years after his father died in an accident, and since then, no one in town has seen hide nor hair of him – not even his pack.

And then, eight years after Dante Sandoval left his family and home behind, his widow shows up in town.

She’s young, too young; only 22. Dark-eyed and dark-haired and dark-minded. She smiles too much, and then she smiles too little. Is the kind of woman who shows up alone at the bar. The kind of woman who tells you to fuck off if she thinks you’re getting too close, too handsy, even if you don’t agree – and very few like that. She gets a job as a mountain guide, and then they don’t see much of her. The house she inherits is left behind like a carcass, just another unpleasant memory as summer stretches on. Then snow shuts down the mountain, and she returns, much to their disappointment. She’s remained a stranger ever since.

(Towns like Blackrock don’t like strangers. Towns like Blackrock don’t like women like Mar Sandoval.)

THE PAST, NOT AS DISTANT AS SHE’D LIKE.

Her parents tried, she thinks. Tried to love her, to love each other, but the bottle won out and the damage was done, their home broken into jagged pieces. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking; maybe they were bickering tyrants from the start, and she just didn’t want it to be true. It didn’t matter where they moved, Texas to Louisiana to Florida – same shit, different scenery. She grew up amidst screaming matches and plates shattered against the wall. Under the constant pressure, Mar fractured, too. She sharpened her edges to survive. Came home with bloody knuckles, and left for school with fresh bruises. She learned the tenets of life from people who had no business teaching it to her: to use leverage, to find meaning in whatever meagre thing you could control, to find fear as natural as breathing. To read a room the moment you walk in. To always look three moves ahead. To take the blame. Even when everything in you was screaming that it wasn’t your fault. To hate yourself for both. That if you excused it all as love, it was okay.

At school, she could be the one giving out beatings, whether they were earned or not. It wasn’t that she always started the fights, though she did that too – but she’d finish them, schoolyard scraps turning into brawling matches when Mar got involved. She was never loud, but she was always angry, rage simmering beneath her skin, a buzzcut saw waiting for an accident, looking for release. A bruise was a bruise was a bruise; it didn’t matter if she left it herself, so long as she could control how it got there, whether through someone else’s fist or her own. Her mind stirred into a constant, exhausting frenzy by thoughts she didn’t have the words for, yet: if you love me, if you love each other, why is it like this?

She left home at 19, slamming the door behind her on her way out, and she never looked back. No plan, no route. She’d never been further north than Atlanta, so it seemed like a good place to start. Got a job as a waitress, saved up every little bit she could, before she left Georgia to continue her trek north. Turned 20 in Tennessee, still no plan in sight – and then, right as she was considering her options, she met Dante.

He wasn’t her first, but he was the first one that mattered. A couple years older, from a small town in Montana, with kind eyes and a nice smile and hands that were firm but gentle. He always had a sketchbook on him; studies of the mountain trail, birds and flowers. No sudden movements. Never raised his voice. He didn’t mind her sharp edges, but before she knew it, they’d been sanded down – still present, but softer than they’d ever been, and better for it. She fell faster than she should have. So did he.

They spent the next few years working as guides on the Appalachian Trail, getting their certificates, and along the way, they got married. Began to plan their future, with a whole life ahead of them that they would share. It was Dante that taught her to be patient, that taught her love had never been – should never be – about leverage, that fear was a cruel thing to cause in someone else. And maybe she was a work in progress, but hey, Mar, so am I.

In retrospect, they both had their secrets. He would tell her about Blackrock with a fondness in his voice, and she would curb her tongue – if you love it so much, why did you leave? She shared what she could with him. Let him reassure her when she faltered, when the things she’d buried came crawling to the surface, when it felt like all the love in the world couldn’t stop her from becoming a black hole that would tear itself apart. They made it work. They were happy. Hopeful.

And then Dante died. Disappeared, technically. But they found his body a week later. Gunshot wound, weapon nearby. Coroner ruled it a suicide, despite Mar’s protests; Dante wouldn’t leave me– there was nothing wrong– why would he–

The pieces they'd mended were broken, and she was left alone with the wreckage, sharp and heavy. Dante would never have done that to her. He wouldn’t have. Couldn’t have.

She traveled west in their beat-up car, his ashes and their hiking gear secured in the back. Got her stupid, grief-ridden kicks out of asking obnoxious truckers if her husband could watch, only to let them face the urn. Laughed until she cried when they ran from the ‘crazy bitch’. Came to Blackrock with no intention of staying, only to find herself the recipient of a rickety old house full of family pictures she had no context for, heirlooms and trinkets; memories that weren’t her own, that had nothing to do with her.

And, of course, the collection of sketchbooks depicting wolves. All different sorts, snouts and pelt colours and scars, signed D. Sandoval. The torn old henley at the bottom of a chest down in the basement. The shredded remains of an old journal, the scratch marks by the kitchen door.

BLACKROCK, MT. 2019.

Lonesome, but not lonely. It’s how she likes it, she’s decided. It’s easier, that way. She’s used to it. Isn’t sure if it’s always been her nature, or if it’s just a force of habit, but she hasn’t stopped to ask herself. Mar keeps company when she feels like it, when winter gets too quiet for her taste, and as soon as the snow’s thawed, she’s gone. Just another ghost, until winter calls her back to Blackrock. She knows what it looks like – she arrives, and so do all the other strange things that haunt the town. (But she’s the only strange thing that’s been spotted near the deputy, and she knows the optics of that, too.) She hasn’t done much to improve the wide-spread impression of her. She’s pleasant enough if you haven’t tested her patience, but she remains distant; keeps most everyone at an arm’s length. It’s easier to not get attached, to not get disappointed, that way. To settle for that long life of lonesome, but not lonely.

There are answers to be found in Blackrock, if only she can find the right questions. She’s sure of it. Someone has to know what happened – why he left, why he died, why someone would kill her husband. But until she can find those questions, she observes. She adds her own sketchbooks to the pile. She takes meticulous notes of all the odd, out-of-place things she sees. And she bides her time.

So Mar Sandoval remains a stranger. Drinks her cocoa with a dash of peppermint liqueur, brings a book to the bar, doesn’t give a shit about small town nosying disguised as small town kindness. Takes up odd jobs at nearby ski centres if the money’s tight, and by summer, she is gone. None of them truly know her. None of them ever will.

tl;dr

grew up in an abusive home; has Issues as a result

certified brawler and troublemaker – currently on the mend, but not before she got a Reputation in Blackrock

met her now-departed husband after leaving home. they got married young AF 

said husband...... was from Blackrock. said husband....... was a werewolf, but Mar is (so far) unaware 

her husband disappeared and was found dead a week later. police ruled it a suicide, Mar did Not Agree

she came to Blackrock in 2011 with a car full of hiking gear and an urn strapped in, a widow at 22. inherited a house full of Weird Things, including sketchbooks filled with drawings of wolves

she had 0 intentions of staying for as long as she has, but she’s convinced the answer to her husband’s death can be found in Blackrock

knows SOMETHING’S up, but not quite what

specific pitches

(aka cherrypick what works for you from my ramblings!)

Redcedar / Teddy

I like to think that Teddy’s parents took care of Mar when she got to town, back in 2011 – maybe they took care of the Sandoval house, or knew the Sandovals?She liked them a good deal, felt grateful for their kindness and indebted to them for it, and with them gone, she sees Teddy as a young woman in a strange town that could maybe need some kindness, too. Mar’s just too awkward to fully commit to it, yet.

Basswood / Sam

It wasn’t necessarily the first reason, and it definitely isn’t the only reason, but a big part of her connection to Sam is that she hopes he could help her piece together the Dante puzzle. It’s not fair, she knows. It’s probably fucked up, asking him to help her figure out what happened to her dead husband, on account of.. whatever it is that they are. She tells herself that’s why she’s yet to really ask him for help with it. This thing between them was never meant to go this far, because now she likes Sam – and that makes her feel guilty, in more ways than one.

Blackthorn / Carson

She sees herself in Carson, sees the woman she used to be, the woman she’s done her best to bury – all fists and venom-veins, ready to set the world on fire. She doesn’t know the cause of Carson’s anger, doesn’t necessarily know Carson all that well in general, but like calls to like. Mar might be trying to reign herself in, these days, but she knows the anger she thinks she sees in Carson, the need for destruction. Pulling them out of that bar was an emotional impulse, one she doesn’t really want to acknowledge: she got cold feet right after. She’s got more on her own plate than she can handle; why did she try to take on someone else’s? That’s why she avoids them now. She has no intention of calling on whatever debt they think they owe her; in her eyes, it was almost selfish to not let nature run its course that night. Almost.

Oak / Diego & older wolves

Dante was 100% a werewolf, and I’d love to potentially plot out the older wolves of the Blackrock pack having known him, if you all are game! They wouldn’t know how much Mar knows about the pack, if she even knows anything, which I think could be a great source of ~drama – especially now that there’s a dead wolf. Diego in particular is someone I think could be cool for this, as he’d be the right age range and would have been there for long enough to have known Dante.

Ash / Romeo

Ash / Romeo is a new face, and Mar knows all-too-well what that’s like. I don’t think she’d be looking for any meaningful friendship, to start with, but I could see her potentially reaching out, just to see who they are, and maybe to let them know that there’s other out-of-towners around.

Sycamore / Eric

Much like herself, Eric doesn’t have a good reputation, though his is probably worse. Depending on his disposition, I could see them being acquaintances, even friends, united by their shared less-than-nice natures, with some drama added in thanks to their respective relations to Sam / Basswood. I also wouldn’t rule out the potential for future hunter plots, depending on where it goes!

wanted connections 

( consider these starting points! if something could work if we tweaked it a little to suit your character more, hit me up 💖 also, in the event that something is filled but you’re interested.... hit me up for that too! we can Work It Out )

witness ( Sam – multiple )

Men who won’t take no for an answer isn’t something Mar puts up with. By now, most of the culprits in town have learned their lesson, and leave her alone. In turn, Mar’s gotten better at using her words.. but back when she first came to town, there’s a good chance her anger got the best of her, resulting in someone walking away with a shiner and a split lip. (Hell, push her far enough, and it might happen now.) She’s good at brawls. MUSE B witnessed one such occasion – did they step in, or leave her to it? How do they feel about it?

ghost ( 0/2 )

MUSE B met Mar before she came to Blackrock: maybe it was years ago, down south, while she was a walking carnage, or maybe MUSE B met the two of them, Mar and Dante, leaving them to reconcile the vastly happier past Mar with the current version.

bruiser ( Raine – 1/? )

Mar and MUSE B traded literal blows a couple years back, and the fist-fight ended with no certain victor and both parties bloodied and bruised. Is there a grudging respect – or is it just a grudge?

reflection ( Lola – 1/2 )

Mar isn’t.. sweet the way some folks are, but there’s a kindness there, one that’s easy to forget what with her reputation and penchant for self-isolation. She helped MUSE B out, and asked nothing in return – maybe she let them sleep on the couch one night when things were rough, or maybe she offered company on an evening it was needed. Maybe it happened a while ago, and there’s a tentative friendship, or maybe it’s fresh!

ex-fwb ( 0/2? )

Mar arrived in 2011, self-destructive and reeling after her husband’s death. mistakes were made. good ones, but still mistakes. MUSE B and Mar had an unspoken thing for a while, before she broke it off. Are they still friends, or are things icy? How serious was it? How does MUSE B feel about the rumoured fling Mar has with the deputy?

#hornbeam. #shipper #shivershipper #about #biography