#Stifling the Howling Wolves

[ivyues]

Animal Fears: Stray Kids' reactions to their S/O's SKZOO phobia

Bang Chan (Wolf Chan – Wolfs)

You're watching a nature documentary together when a wolf howls on screen, and you instinctively flinch. Chris notices immediately.

“Wait… you’re scared of wolves?” he asks, suppressing a grin. 

You nod sheepishly, and he bursts out laughing. “Ya! Wolves eat sheep, you know,” you huff defensively, crossing your arms. “Brutally killing the lambs. Should I start worrying about how much meat you’re eating?”

Still laughing, he shakes his head. “I promise I’m not dangerous,” he says, flashing you an exaggerated innocent smile and wraps an arm around you. “Don’t worry, I’m only a pretend wolf. You’re safe with me.”

Lee Know (Leebit – Rabbits)

At the petting zoo, you freeze as a rabbit hops closer, its nose twitching curiously in your direction.

“Wait, you’re scared of rabbits?” Minho asks, slowly blinking in disbelief.

“They’re so… jumpy,” you admit nervously.

“But I am a rabbit!” he exclaims, gesturing to himself dramatically. “You’re scared of the fluffiest animal ever?”

You cross your arms defensively, trying to keep your composure. “By the way, rabbits can bite, you know,” you counter with a huff.

“Oh no,” he mocks with a dramatic gasp “But don't worry. I’m no wild rabbit - I don’t bite.”

Before you can respond, mischief flashes in his eyes. He leans in and pretends to nibble on your shoulder. You can’t help but burst into laughter, doubling over at his antics. 

Then, in a low whisper, he teases, “Unless you want me to.”

Changbin (Dwaekki – Pigs)

When Changbin finds out you’re scared of pigs, he’s initially confused.

“Wait, are you serious? Pigs? They’re so smart and cute!”

You explain nervously, “They eat anything, and sometimes… they can even be cannibals!”

Changbin stifles a laugh, trying not to make you feel bad. “Should I start oinking every time I walk into a room?” he teases, making you roll your eyes.

Later, he casually starts showing you pictures of his SKZOO, saying, “See? Dwaekki isn’t scary!” he insists, “Anyway,” he adds with a smirk, “Dwaekki is only 1% pig. The other 99% is pure cuteness and rabbit energy.

Hyunjin (Jiniret – Ferrets)

When Hyunjin learns you’re scared of ferrets, he gasps as if you’ve just revealed a deep betrayal.

“Ferrets are adorable! How could you be scared of them?” he exclaims, eyes wide with mock disbelief.

“They’re so squirmy and unpredictable,” you explain, shuddering at the thought.

Hyunjin immediately mimics a ferret’s movements, wriggling and twisting dramatically around you like some overzealous noodle.“Am I squirmy and unpredictable, too?” he asks, laughing when you swat at him.

 “They can also bite you!” you add defensively, pointing an accusatory finger.

Hyunjin gasps again, clutching his chest like he’s been mortally wounded. “I see how it is,” he says, his voice dripping with exaggerated sorrow. “My own girlfriend, terrified of my representative animal! Maybe… we’re not meant to be after all.”

You playfully slap him on the chest while laughing.

Han (HanQuokka – Squirrel) (I couldn't think of anything to fear about quokkas.)

As you’re walking through the park, you suddenly freeze at the sight of squirrels hopping around, your eyes widening. Han looks at you confused.

"Are you scared of the squirrels?" he asks, looking genuinely shocked.

You nod awkwardly, explaining, "They’re so aggressive here. They come up too close, and I’m just not a fan of how bold they are."

Han blinks at you, trying to process. "But… I’m sometimes compared to a squirrel." he exclaims, clearly surprised. "What about quokkas, then? Are you scared of them too?"

You smile, shaking your head. "No, quokkas are cute! No fear there."

He grins. "Good. I’m definitely more quokka than squirrel anyways."

Felix (Bbokkari – Chicks)

When Felix hears you’re scared of chicks, he’s in disbelief.

“Baby chickens? They’re tiny!” he says, looking at you like you’re joking.

You shiver a bit and explain, “They have beaks… they could poke you!”

Felix laughs, clearly amused. “Poke you? They’re so small, you could probably hold one in your hand!”

But then, with a playful smirk, he forms a beak with his hands, pressing them together in front of his face like a little chick.

While laughing, he taps you lightly with his hands, pretending to peck at you. You giggle and try to escape, but Felix keeps “pecking” at you with his hands, making soft, comical “peck-peck” sounds. 

Both of you laughing, you finally manage to dodge him, your heart racing from the mix of playfulness and laughter.

Seungmin (PuppyM – Dogs)

When you tense up upon seeing a dog at the park, Seungmin notices immediately. “Wait, you’re scared of dogs?” he asks, his eyes widening in surprise.

You shake your head and explain calmly, “Not exactly. It’s just… not all dog owners are responsible. I had a bad experience as a kid.”

Seungmin listens intently, nodding before offering a small, reassuring smile. “Well, you don’t have to worry about PuppyM. He’s very well-behaved,” he jokes lightly, trying to ease the tension.

The two of you continue walking, Seungmin subtly guiding you away from the dog’s path without making a big deal out of it. After a moment of quiet, he speaks again.

“Hey, you know… you’re not wrong. Some people shouldn’t have dogs if they can’t take care of them properly. But not every dog is like that.”

“I know. Thank you tho,” you smile, glancing at him.

He holds your gaze for a moment, his expression soft and comforting. Then, with a gentle nudge to your shoulder, he teases, “If you’re thanking me, does that mean I’m your emotional support human now?”

You tilt your head, a small grin tugging at your lips. “...or emotional support dog.”

I.N (FoxI.NY – Foxes)

When you admit you’re scared of foxes, Jeongin gasps dramatically.

“But foxes are like… fluffy and magical!” he says, eyes wide.

“They’re sneaky, and their laugh is creepy!” you reply, crossing your arms.

Jeongin stops and looks at you seriously. “Wait, does that mean my laugh is creepy? But I’m FoxI.Ny, I’m supposed to be cute!”

You raise an eyebrow and give him a playful smirk. "Well, your laugh is a bit sneaky. You do have that mischievous vibe, you know?"

Jeongin gasps again, clutching his chest dramatically. “Sneaky? I’m not sneaky! I’m just... mysteriously charming!”

You chuckle, shaking your head. "Yeah, always up to something."

masterlist

[gatheringbones]

[“On the Tuesday before Candlemas Day (January 28, 1393), four days after Coucy had left Paris, the Queen gave a masquerade to celebrate the wedding of a favorite lady-in-waiting who, twice widowed, was now being married for the third time.

A woman’s re-marriage, according to certain traditions, was considered an occasion for mockery and often celebrated by a charivari for the newlyweds with all sorts of license, disguises, disorders, and loud blaring of discordant music and clanging of cymbals outside the bridal chamber. Although this was a usage “contrary to all decency,” says the censorious Monk of St. Denis, King Charles had let himself be persuaded by dissolute friends to join in such a charade.

Six young men including the King and Yvain, bastard son of the Count of Foix, disguised themselves as “wood savages,” in costumes of linen cloth sewn onto their bodies and soaked in resinous wax or pitch to hold a covering of frazzled hemp, “so that they appeared shaggy and hairy from head to foot.” Face masks entirely concealed their identity. Aware of the risk they ran in torch-filled halls, they forbade anyone carrying a torch to enter during the dance. Plainly, an element of Russian roulette was involved, the tempting of death that has repeatedly been the excitement of highborn and decadent youth. Certain ways of behavior vary little across the centuries. Plainly, too, there was an element of cruelty in involving as one of the actors a man thinly separated from madness.

The deviser of the affair, “cruelest and most insolent of men,” was one Huguet de Guisay, favored in the royal circle for his outrageous schemes. He was a man of “wicked life” who “corrupted and schooled youth in debaucheries,” and held commoners and the poor in hatred and contempt. He called them dogs, and with blows of sword and whip took pleasure in forcing them to imitate barking. If a servant displeased him, he would force the man to lie on the ground and, standing on his back, would kick him with spurs, crying, “Bark, dog!” in response to his cries of pain.

In their Dance of the Savages, the masqueraders capered before the revelers, imitating the howls of wolves and making obscene gestures while the guests tried to discover their identity. Charles was teasing and gesticulating before the fifteen-year-old Duchesse de Berry when Louis d’Orléans and Philippe de Bar, arriving from dissipations elsewhere, entered the hall accompanied by torches despite the ban. Whether to discover who the dancers were, or deliberately courting danger—accounts of the episode differ—Louis held up a torch over the capering monsters. A spark fell, a flame flickered up a leg, first one dancer was afire, then another. The Queen, who alone knew that Charles was among the group, shrieked and fainted. The Duchesse de Berry, who had recognized the King, threw her skirt over him to protect him from the sparks, thus saving his life. The room filled with the guests’ sobs and cries of horror and the tortured screams of the burning men. Guests who tried to stifle the flames and tear the costumes from the writhing victims were badly burned. Except for the King, only the Sire de Nantouillet, who flung himself into a large wine-cooler filled with water, escaped. The Count de Joigny was burned to death on the spot, Yvain de Foix and Aimery Poitiers died after two days of painful suffering. Huguet de Guisay lived for three days in agony, cursing and insulting his fellow dancers, the dead and the living, until his last hour. When his coffin was carried through the streets, the common people greeted it with cries of “Bark, dog!”]

barbara w. tuchman, from a distant mirror: the calamitous 14th century, 1987

[fizzigigsimmer]

The King Unbroken: Part II

I continue to be in a moody place. So sorry to all, you get more of this. For @adelacreations and @dragonflylady77

Steve left his heat den just after sunset, two days earlier than he should. His body feels as if it has been over stretched, the muscle achy and sore as if he’d been through battle even though the only fight he’d had recently is with himself. His jaw hurt the most he thinks, from all the clenching. The broken off section of tree bark that he used to stifle his cries during the worst of it, is riddled with teeth marks but unbroken, so it goes back into a pocket of his tactical pants. Fighting men and scavengers alike know a muffler often comes in handy. 

Before the grey-dogs there were drugs and toys to replace alphas and help ease omega’s heats. Mild heats with minimal side effects had liberated omegas, and Steve’s youth as a twentieth century omega had been defined by independence. Of a degree. It was still expected that he should want to settle down with a nice alpha someday and have pups, but not even his alpha could legally forbid him from having a life and a job outside of that if he wanted it. 

But that was before. Now without heat aids, the days of omegas being chained up and owned like animals are back. They depend more on the pack than anyone for balance, and on alphas in particular to keep from becoming a danger to themselves during their heat. 

Steve’s loath to admit it, but when the need takes hold and his world narrows to pain and fear he actually is little better than an animal. He’s not silly or superstitious enough to believe all the folklore about people turning into wolves – because if they ever did, it’s been hundreds of years since anyone witnessed a true transformation. But the arrival of the grey-dogs has brought out the animal in all of them, changed Steve so much, that he can understand where all those old legends came from.   

He doesn’t go belly down and back arched anymore, because there’s no more soft bed and no one he can trust not to take advantage in order to find relief, even if they offered it. Steve doesn’t purr for anyone who scratches his scalp, like he did for high school friends and girlfriends once upon a time. When the heat takes his mind, it leaves nothing but his ferocious need to keep safe, to survive, until he’s like a werewolf on the full moon, howling and scratching at the walls. He’d attack anyone who was stupid enough to try and offer him comfort at such a time.  Outside of the compound they all make a habit of sleeping in their tactical gear, but Steve’s ruined too many good clothes during heat not to know better by now. 

He’s claggy with sweat and unsteady on his feet like a newborn colt but he pushes through it, assessing the shredded state of his tank and cotton drawers before accepting the underwear is a lost cause. He thinks he can salvage half of the tank top.   

He finished dressing quickly, not wanting to prolong his time bare and vulnerable for a second longer than necessity demands, fetching the big knife from his pack to make strips out of the drawers. It would be better if he could wash them first, but he wasn’t going to waste precious time or water out in the open on something trivial. Slipping the knife into the ready pocket on his combat trousers, Steve check that the velcro straps fastening his nail-bat to his pack weren’t coming undone before hoisting the pack carefully upon his shoulders and setting off.  

He walked a few paces into the woods, away from the opening in the tree and left an old roadside flare glowing on the ground for the others to find, before turning and heading south west as planned. His team is patrolling the perimeter as close as Steve’s heat allowed them to comfortably get, laying low because this is foreign territory. Hargrove’s territory technically, although Steve doubted the alpha had very many people watching this area.  

It’s too far north of his lair for one thing, and it’s too wooded for another which provides ample cover for grey-dogs. If their intel is correct, Hargroves's camp lies north of San Diego somewhere around Kelso, or what used to be. There’s a few hundred miles still between there and here and no good reason for Steve to be so on edge. Nothing besides the paranoia that smelling the sea on the air seems to cause him now.   

The west had fared better than most during the first wave of the grey-dogs. Terrifyingly quick, with rows of curved teeth, tough skin and thick claws, their sole weakness seemed to be their aversion to extreme heat. The casualties in warmer climates had been fewer, and when people had realized that the grey-dogs wouldn’t follow them far into the desert, major colonies had formed there. The usual bullshit had divided them, people fighting over crucial water reserves and other resources, until eventually only a few major populations controlled everything. 

There had been five colonies spread between southern California and the states formerly known as Arizona, Nevada, New Mexico and Colorado of note. Just like everywhere else there were smaller scavenger populations of people scattered throughout the west, but it was those five who drew the territory lines and with whom Steve’s colony had traded essential medicines for citrus, stone, and the crucial mechanical parts that Hawkins needed to keep their facilities running.  

No one had expected that things would change, and that the SoCal colony could fall to a band of raiders – the enemy finding their way somehow around the colony walls and wreaking havoc before the colony could pull itself together to mount a proper defense. The alpha and the pack’s strongest fighters had all been slaughtered before morning, and those people who had not already been killed or fled into the desert had knelt before a new king. Hargrove had declared himself alpha and no one who’d lived to tell about it had argued.  

Taking over such a large compound had provided Hargrove with ample resources to control, but it required a firm hand to keep the conquered in line and prevent a mutiny. It was not surprising that Hargrove spent the majority of his time at SoCal Colony but their spies had reported rumors that not all of Hargrove’s pack had moved into the new compound, that some of them had stayed behind at their old camp in Kelso. Most likely it was to maintain it as an option for retreat if it ever became necessary, but there was talk that Hargrove was keeping something important there. 

Whatever the truth, Kelso was Steve’s destination. Robin, Jonathan and the others had been brave enough to follow him on this suicide mission so he wasn’t about to lead them to certain death by trying to kill Hargrove when he had dozens of fighters at his disposal. They had to draw Billy out, and the obvious answer to that was whatever was so important in Kelso that Billy couldn’t leave behind unguarded. 

He tried to stay alert as he walked, having gotten good at keeping a constant awareness of his surroundings running somewhere in the background of his mind. The last time he’d been caught in a moment of inattention it had nearly cost him an ear, and had ended with dozens of stitches and weeks of painful recovery. The hair on that side of his head no longer grew as thick on account of the scars so he kept the sides around his ears shaved now. Robin said he let the rest of it grow twice as long because he was overcompensating. She was probably right, so sue him, the floof-hawk was one of the few joys Steve had left. 

He wasn’t far from the road when he heard it – the familiar sound of low growls and feet rushing over the dry forest floor. He reached behind himself for the handle of his bat, pulling it free and swinging at the first grey blur that lunged at him from the shadows. Steve had a brief glimpse of tiny rows of glistening teeth as its face began to open up before the blow connected with a wet crunch, batting the squealing creature off to the side. There was no time to check if it was down for good before the next one was coming at him. Steve barely had time to get his bat up, this time only just catching the side of the grey-dog as he danced out of reach, backing up toward the road as his gaze frantically swept around the trees to try and count them all.  

He counted three, including the one he’d already hit. Not so bad. Especially since one had gone straight to cannibalizing the injured. No honor amongst monsters. But that left one still standing, ghoulish grey skin oozing blood from where the nails had torn holes in its side. It reared back on its hind legs and let out an other worldly shriek of rage, enough to chill the blood – but Steve was unphased.  

He tightened his grip on the bat and took a purposeful step forward, boot thudding down hard into the earth as he drew the air into his lungs – and roared. 

“Arrrrrrrrrhhhh!” 

The grey-dog lunged, but he was ready ducking low – they had a tendency to go for the chest and throat – and twisting his torso as he brought the bat up hard. He had only a split second to enjoy the thrill of victory before something struck his side, the last grey-dog colliding so hard against his side that it sent him toppling to the ground. The bat fell from his hand as he fell, and if Steve would have tried to reach for it the fight would have been over. Heart pounding in his chest as the grey face above him opened up into four sections of razor-sharp teeth, Steve reached for the knife in his pocket instead and brought it up into the creatures' throat as its mouth descended.   

When Steve reached the edge of the road splitting the wood, he was grateful to hear the rare sound of a running engine. A dangerous sound, unless you happened to be expecting it.  

The jeep was crawling down the middle of the road ahead of him when Steve stumbled out onto it, Jonathan at the wheel, front beams slicing through the semi-dark that had fallen.  

“A-hoy!” Steve cupped hands over his mouth and called, grimacing as some of the sticky blood coating them smeared on his face. Gross. The jeep came to a stop and Robin’s slender white arm (he could tell by the striped sleeves) jutted out of one of the back windows and waved him forward with an urgency that spoke for itself. Noise and blood were all good ways to attract grey-dogs, and even with an armored jeep there was only so much they could do if a swarm was nearby.  

Steve jogged to catch up, on high alert for more grey-dogs. He didn’t let down his guard even when Jonathan had reached across the seat to open the passenger side door. It wasn’t until he’d closed the heavy door and he heard it lock behind him that Steve finally let himself slump back into the seat with a shuddered breath, closing his eyes in relief. 

“Steve! What happened?” Robin bellowed in his good ear, leaning forward to squeeze her torso between the two front seats.  

“You look like shit, Dude!” Dustin chimed in from where he was squeezed in next to Robin in the prized middle seat. If something got through the window, he wouldn’t die first.  

“Smell like it too.” Lucas grumbled from the window, pinching his nose. From the very back row Gabe, Eleven and Jonathan’s younger brother Will stared ahead with uncertain gazes. 

“Got ambushed by a pack of grey-dogs,” Steve explained nudging Robin’s concerned face out of his with his elbow. “But I handled it. Relax, would you.” She rolled her eyes but sat back with a sigh as Jonathan started up the jeep again.  

“Excuse me for worrying Your Highness, when you left the den two days earlier than scheduled. What gives?” 

“We don’t know how much longer Hargrove will be in SoCal, that’s what gives.” Jonathan guessed, his eyes straying from the road just long enough to meet Steve’s.  

Steve nodded in affirmation and Jonathan’s lips tightened in something close to disapproval but he said nothing. Regardless of what he thought of Steve’s choices – he got it. But after what had happened to his mom Steve had no doubt he would. 

“We can’t afford to lose any more time than we already have.” he said, ignoring the worry clinging to all of their scents. The air was thick with it. 

“And you’re sure the heat’s broken?” Robin pressed, “You’re not going to have a flare up an hour from now an get yourself killed?” 

“You know what my heats are like. I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you if it hadn’t.” he reassured her, but even still she continued to glare at him for what felt like forever, until she finally relented with a small nod.  

“Fine. But can we at least crack open a window? You really do reek.” 

“Not till we’re out of the woods.” She groaned when Jonathan shot her down. The jeep was military grade and the windows bullet resistant, but that didn’t mean they were impenetrable and trees could hide more than just grey-dogs.   

“This is the perfect spot for a raid.” Will mused from the back and Jonathan raised his head to catch his eye in the rearview. 

“Says the raider.” 

Steve’s mouth twitched into a smile, thinking that it took one to know one. 

[Link to Part One]

[discordiansamba]

Ba Sing Se is stifling.

The lower ring of the city is packed full of more humans than either Zuko or Toph has ever seen. The array of scents- both human and animal- is dizzying. Toph jerks her feet off the carriage floor so that she can't sense anything, the input is so overwhelming. Zuko wishes he could the same. He shuts his eyes and buries his head into his sister's hair.

Most of the time, they find themselves chafing at their human shape's limited senses. Now they're just grateful for it.

The upper ring is less crowded, less chaotic- but no less stifling. They can feel people watching them all the time, and it puts them on edge. Their human friends are frustrated too- Aang just wants to search for Appa, but the city officials won't let him do it the way he wants. Sokka is getting stonewalled every time he attempts to see the Earth King.

Everything here feels... artificial. Manicured. There's no natural greenery. This is no place for a pair of wolves. Katara tries unsuccessfully to cheer them up by buying houseplants. It doesn't work, but they appreciate the effort. Zuko pats her head- she's been around him long enough to read this as the attempt at praise it's meant as.

Their friends attempt to see the Earth King and fail. A woman who calls herself Joo Dee but does not smell like Joo Dee escorts them back to the house they've been given. The Dai Li control the king. He doesn't even know about the war. Zuko huffs. That's absurd. Even he knew about the war before he left the pack. It's why mother has so many children now.

The day of the full moon arrives, and they can feel the change brimming under their skin. Usually it's like an anxious hum that follows them all throughout the day, but now its like nails under their skin. They can't wait to shed their human forms. This place is awful. The wrong-smelling Joo Dee arrives and informs their friends cheerfully that Long Feng requests they keep the werewolves inside tonight.

They don't even try. They wouldn't let them if they did.

The moment the moon peeks over the horizon, they shed their human forms and return to their true skins. They each let out a loud howl- and then they're gone. They race through the streets of the upper ring, heedless of anyone and anything. Some of the Dai Li try and catch them, but they shake them off easily enough.

(Some tiny part of their brain will file it away for later, to tell the others.)

Hours in, Zuko picks up a familiar scent.

Toph looks at him. She smells it too. It's the scent of the old man with sad eyes and warm hands. He would know it anywhere. He must be close. He and Toph follow it, wandering through the open door of a shop that should long be closed. The old man is sitting at one of the tables with a cup of tea in his hands, as if he has been waiting for them.

"Oh," he says, "-I did not expect you would bring your friend too."

[reine-du-sourire]

Undisonant

Dahlia Cove is what it's called on the map, but Wolf Cove is what it's called by all of Her Majesty's Navy. Not that there are any dahlias there- or wolves, as far as anyone knows. Those haunting calls and howls could be coming from any number of undesirable creatures. But who's going to get near enough to check?

Able Seaman Midford, that's who. Newest recruit on the HMS Lionheart. Tenacious. Hard worker. Eager to please, stickler for perfection. Possibly insane.

"We're supposed to monitor every inch of these waters! Why has no one been patrolling that cove?"

"You can, if you're so inclined," Heinz says with a shrug and a snicker. "And we'll give your goodbyes to your family next we see 'em."

Schulz adds that no one ever goes to Wolf Cove and everyone's the better for it.

"Unthinkable! A member of Her Majesty's Navy does not shirk his duty, no matter how great the danger!"

Elbow jabs and eye rolls are exchanged. Midford's young; he'll learn in time.

To the great surprise of the crew, Captain Greenhill gives his begrudging permission.

On the condition, he says, that Midford take a fully loaded pistol and several extra rounds of ammunition.

The crew watches the rowboat bob off into the gathering dusk.

Able Seaman Midford has exactly one thing to say when he returns, wide-eyed, the following morning. "Sirens!"

"That's what's been making that awful racket?" Schulz asks dubiously. "Sirens? Those don't exist, Midford. Did you take a decent lantern with you?"

"I saw them! There were several of them! With purple tails, and- yes, Franke, they are the source of the howling, although I covered my ears before I got too close and- no, Captain Greenhill, I didn’t fire on them, they didn't see me- I only got near enough to-"

It's several minutes before Midford is able to properly give over his report.

In the spirit of inquiry, or perhaps increased insanity, Able Seaman Midford announces his intention to go back to the cove again.

In a fleeting moment of sense, he brings wax along to block his ears.

"I met them! I spoke to them!"

"I didn't know sirens could talk."

"They don't, as far as I know, and yet we were able to communicate! We-"

Captain Greenhill's eyes narrow. "You took the wax from your ears?"

"Well, no- but- I've named the chap who appears to be the leader ‘Violet’, because of the color of his eyes, and I managed to communicate my intentions enough to... ah... well, they stopped throwing stones eventually."

Able Seaman Brandt snickers. 

But the joke’s on him, because Midford keeps going back. 

The howling must have driven him completely mad, is Vogel’s opinion, wax or no wax, and Schulz agrees. 

And yet Midford returns each time to the HMS Lionheart with earnest reports and the occasional hurriedly-stifled tune beneath his breath. He claims it’s important. He claims he’s making excellent progress with the creatures of the cove, and that all denizens of Her Majesty’s empire should be understood, and numerous other such pronouncements made with the same odd, hungry look on his face. 

He speaks of the sirens themselves; their habits, their food, their leader “Violet”, and “Sh'esss-lo’k”, the apparent second-in-command and the only one of the sirens to communicate vocally with him. He describes their bodies, their mannerisms, the way their howling really does sound quite nice when you get close enough to appreciate it, their sharp-fanged grins. 

He stays longer and longer with each visit until Captain Greenhill is forced to take him aside and get an explanation. 

They set out together for the cove, next time. 

Captain Greenhill claims he's always had that (fishbone-made) tattoo.

Able Seaman Midford sports a black pebble knotted onto a thin cord around his neck.

The others drift along eventually. Schulz develops a taste for certain tunes.

Neither sailors nor captain ever find out why the cove is called Dahlia, but all begin referring to the inhabitants as Violet’s Wolves.

[dreadfutures]

100 Serault Prompts

Inspired by the atmospheric and enigmatic game, Dragon Age: The Last Court, here are some prompts for art or writing. Don't forget to send the prompt along with the number to help your creator out!

Utterly indebted to the #SaveSerault preservation project, and @silvanils Plot Guide here.

The black ocean of trees seethes under a fretful night-wind.

Nightmares breed like maggots in meat.

Wolves howling in council, or prayer, or song.

Gnomic messages scratched into fragments of bark with a knife-point.

Beware of crows.

Painted Masked Goddess in the bluebelled glade.

An inquisitive wind stirs in the woods.

Questing roots crawling over a secret, locking it away against the centuries.

The forest returns to its sleep and its long, green dreams.

Streams suddenly freezing despite the sun.

A laughing wolf.

A pensive bear.

A spider the size of a carthorse.

There are stranger directions than ‘North’ and ‘South’.

Power is a difficult steed to ride. Not everyone can stay in the saddle.

Today's answer could be tomorrow's treason.

A Baker’s Breeze, early in the morning. Upon it, the scent of bread rising in the ovens.

A coy breeze carries the sounds and smells of the market.

Spice. Lies. Laughter. The play of coin.

A grey wind drones in the fireplace.

A slow rain drones on the windows.

A hard wind blows from the east, carrying fat, gloating ravens.

A song of old Serault: the Stag and the Rose.

A star-wind, high and swift, pushes silver clouds to and fro beneath the moon.

The lap of the river upon the castle’s stone feet.

The scent of leaves and nodding barley.

White feathers drift like snow.

Eels in the dark rivers.

The Applewoods are dappled with shadow and filled with succulent midnights. Come closer.

The Biting Wind that Masked Andraste keeps leashed like a dog.

The sun swarms the river.

The Chateau’s four cats stretch out on the roof-tiles.

The wind eddies in corners, making dancing columns of dust. It comes from nowhere, goes nowhere. A Fade-wind, the Dowager calls it.

The Chateau’s pennants crack like whips.

“Payment in Glass” is the Serault motto.

Dappled in gemmy light.

The Green Chapel in the Deepwoods, where wolves go to pray.

A line of grey in the dark; fighting, failing, dying.

A sound like tearing silk.

Burning blue with rage.

Sun as warm as the touch of a hand.

A garland of aster and cuckoo-flowers.

The Masked Andraste isn’t as keen on chastity as her moon-faced sister.

A mage must be a poet, a philosopher, and a butcher.

To see behind the world.

To hold fire by the throat.

Familiar territory, but never quite safe.

Serault’s pride is like her forests: root-deep, thick-skinned, hard-won from the world’s edge.

A bereskarn.

Rune-strewn bones of a fell beast.

A forest victim: flowers sprouting from their eyes.

Hands burned to the blackened bone.

The Tower of Lights, as it never was: scraping the sky, mantled in light.

Weep tears of silver.

Smashing a horned mask of glass and gemstones.

Your true face: a horned mask of glass and gemstones.

The Glassworkers' Guildmaster elections.

This is the Grand Game. Play or drown.

A glass Guildmaster's sword, the hilt spinning fractures of light across the floor.

Freedoms for the Glassworkers: to leave, and leave to marry.

If it doesn't fight back, you drink it.

Secret liaisons with the Lover: Candlelit meetings. Fingers tangling briefly in the corridors. The door to your chambers creaking softly open when the guards change their watch. Stifled giggles as a servant passes.

A change of lovers, and the fallout.

An old tome. Dense, inseparable uncials cram the book. The ink fades. Mold speckles the flimsy pages.

A pig farmer advises the Marquis.

A grin as tight as a gallows noose.

A mosaic floor.

Honor is a game that others play.

Your Chevalier Commander, and her loyalty.

Serault Town: Gold stone, red roofs.

The Horned Knight's hold: a round tower, jagged as a chipped tooth, its floors all collapsed in on one another. A great tree grows within it, spreading a canopy of burgundy leaves where the roof once was.

Grass sparkling with shards of an old, shattered mirror.

Fat partridge, simmering in a pot with sweet onions and pale beans, then a plate of round cakes, peppered with poppyseed and laced with honey.

The mother has eyes of fire; the daughter, a heart of it.

Twilit riverbanks untrod by mortal feet, and rings of tall blue stones that were not raised by human hands…

A hall where the trees walk and the stones speak.

The Horned Knight: clad in armor of forest green, with an ivy cloak that hisses along the flagstones.

Hounds in the kennels, baying for the hunt.

The effects of High Twilight.

The effects of High Peril.

The effects of Rumors of Revolution.

The Dignity of the Huntress, Glass Rose of Serault: deadly, beautiful, adored, dreaded.

The Freedom of the Scholar, who might be the one to bring change to Serault for the good of the common folk.

The apples have interesting properties: astringent... intoxicating.

The Chateau stands on an island in mid-river.

The Acerbic Dowager (Counselor)

The Cheery Baron (Counselor)

The Dashing Outlaw (Accomplice or Bodyguard)

The Elegant Abbess (Counselor or Lover)

The Kindly Knight (Counselor)

The Muttering Banker

The Purveyor of Teas (Accomplice)

The Seneschal (Counselor)

The Silent Hunter (Bodyguard)

The Smiling Guildmistress (Counselor)

The Wayward Bard (Lover)

The Well-Read Pig-Farmer (Accomplice)

His Dour Lordship (Counselor)

The Scornful Sorceress

The Anchoress.

[brokentoys]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂.

𝐁old /italicise what applies.

━━ 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐒

tinkling of piano keys / the click of a lock / an engine starting, stalling / sinful whispers / stifled sobbing / the rattle of death / alarm blaring / a siren call / spanish guitar strumming / loud laughter at midnight / banshee screeching / drunk hiccuping / the giggle of a child / rolling thunder / disdainful chuckling / bones creaking / carefree whistling / singing off key / flesh hitting concrete / white noise / a mirror cracking / laboured breathing / a groan of pain / waves lapping at the shore / the roar of a lion / pages turning / swords clashing / deep humming / birds chirping / dial tone / tongue popping / fingers tapping a surface / crystals breaking / music turned up to the limit / raindrops on a roof / angry yelling / yawning at noon / horns going off / ravens talking / bubblegum bursting / splashing water / teakettle squeal / militia drums / wolves howling / slow, sarcastic clapping / soprano notes / whispering pleas / gregorian chants / mournful cries

━━ 𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐒

filled notebooks / dogeared books / clean shaves / empty stares / sleeping at a desk / the witching hour / driving all night / restless tides / broken windows / coffee any time / freshly baked goods / bonfires / lounging felines / circles under your eyes / bedhead / tangling in the sheets / leather jackets / paint stains / music sheets / too many tabs to find the music / weary brows / card games / messy ponytails / strained smiles / unsent texts / heart on your sleeve / slow dancing in the rain / star gazing / torn jeans / piles of clothes / filled bookshelves / hurricanes / chapped lips / cliff diving / the lights in venice / stolen kisses / poet shirts / half melted candles / empty coffee mugs / hot tea / unlaced boots / shameless flirting / too young to be so old / laced fingers / eyes in the trees / bloody knuckles / french letters / neon lights / ivy covered balconies

━━ 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒

burnt leaves / turkish coffee / spiced rum / moss / vanilla beans / freshly cut grass / decay / sea salt / strawberries and cream / cinnamon / honey / copper / pineapple / wet dog / pine needles / wood shavings / rainsoaked bark / something sharp, indefinable / Russian tea / dandelions / squeezed limes / Italian wine / freshly laundered clothes / coming rain / hardtack and gruel / roasting flesh / something cloying in the chest / ichor / lilies in spring / pollen / damp clothes / meatpies / greasy coins / curdled milk / leather / bone marrow / wet cement / ricecakes / open paint cans / cocoa leaves / tar / apples / sandalwood cologne / orchids / molded onions / cheap perfume / mistletoe / rubber on fire / grave dirt / old books / new books / melting plastic / roses / poison oak / sea cucumbers / peppermint

TAGGED BY . . . @doorinthefloor ( thx ! )

TAGGING . . . uhhmmm anyone who hasn't done this already !! ^^;

[mad-hunts]

CHARACTER AESTHETIC.

𝐁old / italicise what applies.

━━ 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐒

tinkling of piano keys / the click of a lock / an engine starting, stalling / sinful whispers / stifled sobbing / the rattle of death / alarm blaring / a siren call / spanish guitar strumming / loud laughter at midnight / banshee screeching / drunk hiccuping / the giggle of a child / rolling thunder / disdainful chuckling / bones creaking / carefree whistling / singing off key / flesh hitting concrete / white noise / a mirror cracking / laboured breathing / a groan of pain / waves lapping at the shore / the roar of a lion / pages turning / swords clashing / deep humming / birds chirping / dial tone / tongue popping / fingers tapping a surface / crystals breaking / music turned up to the limit / raindrops on a roof / angry yelling / yawning at noon / horns going off / ravens talking / bubblegum bursting / splashing water / teakettle squeal / militia drums / wolves howling / slow, sarcastic clapping / soprano notes / whispering pleas / gregorian chants / mournful cries

━━ 𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐒

filled notebooks / dogeared books / clean shaves / empty stares / sleeping at a desk / the witching hour / driving all night / restless tides / broken windows / coffee any time / freshly baked goods / bonfires / lounging felines / circles under your eyes / bedhead / tangling in the sheets / leather jackets / paint stains / music sheets / too many tabs to find the music / weary brows / card games / messy ponytails / strained smiles / unsent texts / heart on your sleeve / slow dancing in the rain / star gazing / torn jeans / piles of clothes / filled bookshelves / hurricanes / chapped lips / cliff diving / the lights in venice / stolen kisses / poet shirts / half melted candles / empty coffee mugs / hot tea / unlaced boots / shameless flirting / too young to be so old / laced fingers / eyes in the trees / bloody knuckles / french letters / neon lights / ivy covered balconies

━━ 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒

burnt leaves / turkish coffee / spiced rum / moss / vanilla beans / freshly cut grass / decay / sea salt / strawberries and cream / cinnamon / honey / copper / pineapple / wet dog / pine needles / wood shavings / rainsoaked bark / something sharp, indefinable / russian tea / dandelions / squeezed limes / italian wine / freshly laundered clothes / coming rain / hardtack and gruel / roasting flesh / something cloying in the chest / ichor / lilies in spring / pollen / damp clothes / meat-pies / greasy coins / curdled milk / leather / bone marrow / wet cement / rice-cakes / open paint cans / cocoa leaves / tar / apples / sandalwood cologne / orchids / molded onions / cheap perfume / mistletoe / rubber on fire / grave dirt / old books / new books / melting plastic / roses / poison oak / sea cucumbers / peppermint

tagged by: @divingdownthehole! (thank you :D) tagging: @sillyjokes, @sifonie, @smilingmxsk, @fartemis-crock, @volucerrubidus, @katarinawilliams, and anyone else who might like to complete this!!

[sifonie]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂. 𝐁old / italicize what applies.

━━ 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐒

tinkling of piano keys / the click of a lock / an engine starting, stalling / sinful whispers / stifled sobbing / the rattle of death / alarm blaring / a siren call / spanish guitar strumming / loud laughter at midnight / banshee screeching / drunk hiccuping / the giggle of a child / rolling thunder / disdainful chuckling / bones creaking / carefree whistling / singing off key / flesh hitting concrete / white noise / a mirror cracking / laboured breathing / a groan of pain / waves lapping at the shore / the roar of a lion / pages turning / swords clashing / deep humming / birds chirping / dial tone / tongue popping / fingers tapping a surface / crystals breaking / music turned up to the limit / raindrops on a roof / angry yelling / yawning at noon / horns going off / ravens talking / bubblegum bursting / splashing water / teakettle squeal / militia drums / wolves howling / slow, sarcastic clapping / soprano notes / whispering pleas / gregorian chants / mournful cries

━━ 𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐒

filled notebooks / dogeared books / clean shaves / empty stares / sleeping at a desk / the witching hour / driving all night / restless tides / broken windows / coffee any time / freshly baked goods / bonfires / lounging felines / circles under your eyes / bedhead / tangling in the sheets / leather jackets / paint stains / music sheets / too many tabs to find the music / weary brows / card games / messy ponytails / strained smiles / unsent texts / heart on your sleeve / slow dancing in the rain / star gazing / torn jeans / piles of clothes / filled bookshelves / hurricanes / chapped lips / cliff diving / the lights in venice / stolen kisses / poet shirts / half melted candles / empty coffee mugs / hot tea / unlaced boots / shameless flirting / too young to be so old / laced fingers / eyes in the trees / bloody knuckles / french letters / neon lights / ivy covered balconies

━━ 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒

burnt leaves / Turkish coffee / spiced rum / moss / vanilla beans / freshly cut grass / decay / sea salt / strawberries and cream / cinnamon / honey / copper / pineapple / wet dog / pine needles / wood shavings / rainsoaked bark / something sharp, indefinable / Russian tea / dandelions / squeezed limes / Italian wine / freshly laundered clothes / coming rain / hardtack and gruel / roasting flesh / something cloying in the chest / ichor / lilies in spring / pollen / damp clothes / meatpies / greasy coins / curdled milk / leather / bone marrow / wet cement / ricecakes / open paint cans / cocoa leaves / tar / apples / sandalwood cologne / orchids / molded onions / cheap perfume / mistletoe / rubber on fire / grave dirt / old books / new books / melting plastic / roses / poison oak / sea cucumbers / peppermint

tagged by: @divingdownthehole & @mad-hunts TYYY BELOVEDS <3

tagging: you if you know the hit song DotA by Basshunter

[ratwhsprs]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂

𝐁𝐎𝐋𝐃 / 𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐙𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐒

━━ 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐒

tinkling of piano keys / the click of a lock / an engine starting, stalling / sinful whispers / stifled sobbing / the rattle of death / alarm blaring / a siren call / spanish guitar strumming / loud laughter at midnight / banshee screeching / drunk hiccuping / the giggle of a child / rolling thunder / disdainful chuckling / bones creaking / carefree whistling / singing off key / flesh hitting concrete / white noise / a mirror cracking / laboured breathing / a groan of pain / waves lapping at the shore / the roar of a lion / pages turning / swords clashing / deep humming / birds chirping / dial tone / tongue popping / fingers tapping a surface / crystals breaking / music turned up to the limit / raindrops on a roof / angry yelling / yawning at noon / horns going off / ravens talking / bubblegum bursting / splashing water / teakettle squeal / militia drums / wolves howling / slow, sarcastic clapping / soprano notes / whispering pleas / gregorian chants / mournful cries

━━ 𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐒

filled notebooks / dogeared books / clean shaves / empty stares / sleeping at a desk / the witching hour / driving all night / restless tides / broken windows / coffee any time / freshly baked goods / bonfires / lounging felines / circles under your eyes / bedhead / tangling in the sheets / leather jackets / paint stains / music sheets / too many tabs to find the music / weary brows / card games / messy ponytails / strained smiles / unsent texts / heart on your sleeve / slow dancing in the rain / star gazing / torn jeans / piles of clothes / filled bookshelves / hurricanes / chapped lips / cliff diving / the lights in venice / stolen kisses / poet shirts / half melted candles / empty coffee mugs / hot tea / unlaced boots / shameless flirting / too young to be so old / laced fingers / eyes in the trees / bloody knuckles / french letters / neon lights / ivy covered balconies

━━ 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒

burnt leaves / turkish coffee / spiced rum / moss / vanilla beans / freshly cut grass / decay / sea salt / strawberries and cream / cinnamon / honey / copper / pineapple / wet dog / pine needles / wood shavings / rainsoaked bark / something sharp, indefinable / Russian tea / dandelions / squeezed limes / Italian wine / freshly laundered clothes / coming rain / hardtack and gruel / roasting flesh / something cloying in the chest / ichor / lilies in spring / pollen / damp clothes / meatpies / greasy coins / curdled milk / leather / bone marrow / wet cement / ricecakes / open paint cans / cocoa leaves / tar / apples / sandalwood cologne / orchids / molded onions / cheap perfume / mistletoe / rubber on fire / grave dirt / old books / new books / melting plastic / roses / poison oak / sea cucumbers / peppermint

Stolen from: @mxchineherald Tagging: @smilingmxsk @byanyan @mxldito @question-marked & whoever else wants to do this!

[lindwyvrm]

SHAKESPEARE AESTHETICS

(an aesthetics dash game based upon shakespeare's plays ) — repost , do not reblog.

MACBETH.

the howl of wolves. moonless nights. dirt under fingernails.  stained silk.  chattering teeth. voices hoarse and cracked.  rotting fruit. echoing drums.  dry heaving.  hanging cobwebs.  stifling humidity.  bloodshot eyes.the roughness of rusted steel.  wild rosebushes. muscle cramps.  the sound of splintering wood.

A MIDNIGHT SUMMER’S DREAM.

crackling fires.  ivy crawling on stone.  the faint music of running water.  petrichor. dirty, bare feet. tattered clothing. thistledown. wilted wildflower crowns. late evening birdsong. curling leaves.  a symphony of croaking frogs. drifting feathers.  the eerie sound of windchimes at night. humming bees.  beds of clover.

ROMEO & JULIET.

warm golden lamplight. worn shoes.  crumbling brick walls.  whispered poetry.  embroidered satin.  cool, hazy mornings. tousled hair.  rosewater.  flushed cheeks. distant orchestras.  unfinished marble statues.  cobblestone streets.  loose threads. ink smudged on parchment. tapping fingers.  dust illuminated by sunlight.  poison vials.

HAMLET.

shattered glass.  a cluster of fraying ribbons.  unanswered knocks on doors.  lingering dampness.  white noise.  inexplicable drafts.  migraines.  bleeding ears.  the taste of metal.  reflected mirrors.  dry, cracked lips. the sound of tearing paper.  fogged windows. memories of dreams.  tarnished silver.  protruding veins.

tagged by: @/lionscion

tagging: (soulja boy voice) YYOOOOOOOOOUUUUUU

[the-lonelybarricade]

A Ripple, A Tidal Wave - Part I

Summary: An AU where Feyre encounters a very different faerie in the woods. One she decides not to kill.

A contribution to @officialfeysandweek2023. Starfall = fallen star = sad, injured bat, right?

Read on AO3

-

The forest had become a labyrinth of snow and ice.

Feyre flexed her fingers. They’d gone stiff from the cold. The worn leather from her father’s old carving glove hardly fought off the chill of the gusting wind that cut through the clearing, lashing against the thicket of trees at its parameter where she had been crouched for the better part of an hour.

It was impossible to keep her hands from going numb in these conditions. Still, she flexed them, praying for the blood to rush back into the fingers she had curled around her drawstring. Feyre had overheard the village’s hunters in the marketplace, talking about the wolf tracks they had seen. Pawprints as large as your head. An embellishment, surely, but that didn’t change that the wolves would only come this close to the village for the same reason that Feyre would delve this deep into the woods.

They were hungry.

Winter was harsh for everyone. Even the forest was restless—too quiet, too still. She wouldn’t have risked coming here, knowing there were wolves, if her family wasn’t desperate. As far as they were concerned, Ferye would either return with food, or be taken by the forest so that they had one less mouth to feed. It was favorable for them either way.

Unless Feyre returned empty handed, which was looking more and more likely the longer she crouched in the snow, watching the sun’s slow descent across the horizon through gritted teeth. Only a few more hours left of daylight. Soon she would need to turn back lest she try to navigate her way in the dark and double her chances of getting eaten by wolves.

In the back of her mind, she could already hear Nesta’s disapproving snort. The way her vicious eyes would cut immediately to Feyre’s empty hands, how she’d cross her arms over her chest and hurtle all number of accusations without saying anything at all. Nesta had a gift for communicating her every hostile thought with one single, withering glance. Feyre had witnessed her sister grind men to dust without so much as opening her mouth.

Sometimes, pinned beneath that look, Feyre wanted to cry to her, then why don’t you do it?

But Nesta wouldn’t. And neither would Elain. And their injured father couldn’t. So it was Feyre, stalking through the woods, letting the ice soak into her bones. One day, someone would ask what had turned Feyre Archeron so cold and she would point to the forest. It was here her heart had frozen over. It was here, she’d traded her innocence for survival.

Here, it was kill or be killed.

Feyre began rising from the snow-heavy brambles, stifling a groan at the protest of her stiff limbs. She froze, mid-way through stretching, as a great, terrible noise erupted through the forest. It was pure, blood-pumping instinct that threw Feyre’s body back to the ground, covering in the bramble like she expected blowback from the sound. Like the warning rumble of thunder before the lethal strike of lightning.

The howling wind stilled. There was no mass retreat of wildlife, no birds escaping to the skies. It was like everything held its breath, terrified of being caught by the creature as it bellowed another anguished roar.

It wasn’t like any wolf Feyre had ever heard.

She needed to leave. Now.

Still ducked beneath the bush, Feyre angled her head towards the forest, eyes darting across the tangled roots and underbrush to chart the best path back to the village. One that would offer coverage, would give her a fighting chance if the beast—whatever it was—decided to pursue.

The noise came again. Softer, now, more wounded. Had it been attacked? Or was it mimicking injury to lure its prey closer?

Her heart was beating so quickly that each beat leapt into her throat. The brush rustled on the other side of the clearing. It was coming towards her. It was too late to run. She drew her bow, ignoring the tremble in her fingers, how the air was collecting in front of her in short, breathless exhales.

Feyre peered through the thorns.

The wings stood out to her first. Large, membranous bat-like wings. They had been what caused the rustling, for they dragged against the ground, catching on the underbrush.

More startling than the wings, however, was that they belong to a man. No, a faerie. He was too far away to glimpse his pointed ears, but the wings certainly gave it away. He was stumbling forward, an arm slung protectively around his bleeding stomach while the other pushed aside the wayward tree branches. His entire body slumped inwards, around the wound at his center that trekked blood in a ruby-red path behind him.

When he made it to the center of the clearing, his knees gave out, and he stumbled face-first into the snow. Feyre held her position for several breaths, eyes fixed intently on his shoulders, watching their shallow rise and fall as pool of blood collected beneath him.

Her arrow was still notched, still aimed at him through the brush.

He was a faerie. She should have killed him for that fact alone.

His body twitched, then stilled.

Maybe he was already dead. Maybe she should shoot him, just for good measure. Put him out of his misery.

It would be a waste of an arrow, she decided. He looked dead. Besides, there was still the threat of whatever had done this to him. She pushed her aim higher, monitoring the thicket he had come from. She should be running. She should be gone.

Her aim dipped back to the male lying helpless in the snow.

Snow-tipped wind nudged playfully at the wisps of his blue-back hair. It was the color of the night sky when no stars touched it.

From the amount of blood coloring the snow beneath him, he was almost certainly dead.

Feyre lifted from her crouch. The icy snow crunched under her fraying boots. Her mouth felt dry.

He looked so… so still.

She drew her knife and edged closer, more of him coming into view. Those wings were so much larger—so much more stunning, more horrific—up close. Now, she could see the sun warming their leathery surface, glinting off the sharp claw that rested at each apex. A useless part of her stirred, the part that was fascinating by colors and shadows and the way the sunlight illuminated the veins in his wings. She felt oddly tempted to reach her hand out and touch them.

Except they twitched, and Feyre faltered a step back, nearly stumbling.

Not dead yet, then.

Her grip on the knife tightened. It was difficult to tell with his face in the snow, but Feyre thought he looked young, not much older than Nesta. Though the fae were immortal and he could just as easily be centuries old.

For a creature that could defy time itself, he didn’t look very intimidating now. If she looked past the wings, she could almost pretend he was just a wounded man. Someone who was suffering with every slowing breath. Someone who… someone who needed help.

Inwardly, she was screaming at herself, wondering why she didn’t just bury the knife in his back and run. Or better yet, the asharrow that had sat unused in her quiver for the last three years.

She touched his hair. It was soft, silken yet damp from the snow. She tightened her fingers and used that grip to, as delicately as she could, turn his head to the side. He groaned, a barely conscious sound that told her he was still alive.

For a moment, Feyre could do nothing but stare at the face before her. He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, even with the sweat and snow clinging to his skin, and the way his face pinched in pain. He had full, sensuous lips that she ordinarily might have been tempted to study, were they not parted open to expel slow, shallow breaths.

His eyes were shut, and behind his eyelids she could see his pupils moving rapidly.

It wouldn’t even be necessary to stab him. She could leave him here and he would undoubtedly be dead by morning, buried beneath layers of snow. No one would miss him, certainly not in the mortal village. And judging by the mortal wound his own kind must have dealt him, Feyre doubted he would be missed beyond the wall, either.

She stared at him, feeling an unexpected sense of dread, of pity, rise within her. Objectively, she knew that it was absurd to feel bad for him. He was a faerie, and if he weren’t gravely injured, it would likely have been her blood seeping into the snow.

But no one would care if she didn’t come out of the woods, either.

It could have been her laying face down in the snow. No one would have bothered to come looking for her. No one would have helped.

Praying for mercy from the long forgotten gods—as if they would even indulge her for being so foolish—Feyre sheathed her knife. Their options were limited. Sundown was fast approaching and he was… he was ginormous. It wasn’t as if she could run to the village for help, they would sooner finish the job. And he was too heavy to carry back to the cottage. Not that she would. Nesta and Elain would never agree to help him.

No, she needed to take him somewhere close and out of the snow so that she could take a closer look at his wounds. The only thing that came to mind was a small, deserted hunter’s shack further in the forest, leftover from a time when humans felt comfortable enough to venture that close to the wall. Or a time when they were desperate enough to risk it.

The first difficult task would be getting him onto his back. She’d need to drag him a way’s through the forest and she couldn’t risk the dirt and undergrowth catching in his wound. With the wings, turning him over would be a cumbersome task—especially given that they looked heavy.

After several moments of deliberation, puzzling over the best approach, Feyre decided to forgo caution and just move him. It was better than letting him bleed out in the snow. But the second her hand curled around the edge of his wing, his eyes snapped opened.

Feyre dropped it immediately, letting the massive appendage fall back to the snow with a soft smack. He groaned.

His eyes fluttered shut again, giving her the confidence to step forward. “I’m trying to help you,” she said to him. “I don’t… I’ve never met someone with wings before. So you have to be patient with me.”

He made a gurgling noise in the back of his throat, like he was choking on something liquid. Then a moment later his wing fluttered, trying to lift it, and Feyre decided she could meet him halfway. With the faerie taking some of the weight off, she was able to fold the wing to the side.

“Thank you,” she said. Then, “If you thought that was bad, this next part isn't going to be very fun.”

Feyre could almost mistake his answering grunt for a laugh. She took that as permission to haul him upwards from beneath the shoulder, trying to both lift and roll him onto his side. He hissed—a weak, agonized sound that raised every hair on her arms.

“You’re almost there,” she said, not letting the noise deter her movements. If she did, it would only prolong the pain. “Just suck it up a little more.”

It felt like pushing a boulder up a hill. Feyre was panting by the time she got him propped on his side, and from there it was only a matter of letting gravity do the rest. She rolled him, inelegantly, onto his back, wincing at the way his wing had folded under him. It wasn’t perfect, or comfortable, but nothing about this experience would be.

He slumped into the snow once it was done, tilting his head back in exhaustion like he had been the one to lift a male twice his size. Though, from the wounds splitting across his torso—the worst of them a deep gash stretching from his sternum to his naval—Feyre supposed she shouldn’t be complaining.

The sight of the gore made her feel dizzy. She turned away, pressing a hand to her mouth like it might do anything to ease the rising bile in her throat. Feyre swallowed, trying to steady herself. Would whatever creature that had done this to him come for her next for trying to help? Would they come for Nesta and Elain?

“Rh—ys.”

It took Feyre a moment to register that he had spoken. Or tried to, at any rate.

“What?”

“Rhys,” he choked out, eyes opened to barely-there slits.

“Is that… your name?”

He just huffed, which Feyre took to mean yes.

“Well, Rhys,” she said, stepping around his body to kneel at his head. Her arms slid under his shoulders, securely his body beneath his armpits. “I hope those wings aren’t sensitive, because you and I have a long journey to make through those woods.”

[archduchessgortash]

Last Line Tag

Thanks for tagging me, @kaava!

I'm writing two simultaneously, so doubles it is.

Last lines written for Love Is A Tyrant.

Enver was dazzled by the view before him. On his left, a gold and steel mouse scampered in circles around a steam-hissing, silvery housecat that swiped at the rodent ineffectually. The cat's vivid green eyes seemed to follow him. Further up, on the same side, a circle of seven beautifully crafted wolves craned their necks upward, maws open as if to howl, their black and silver metal forms molded and shaped to resemble the furred bodies of living wolves. They surrounded a clockwork moon that hovered about five meters overhead, its movement mimicking the phases of Selune herself. On both sides of the path, four shiny metal horses reared up, then bowed low. To his right, beautiful steel deer with springs for legs bounced back and forth over a hedge in a looping pattern. A great bronze clockwork bear clawed at a polished golden beehive hanging from a tree branch. He thought he saw tiny metal bees hovering near it. The urge to leave the path for a closer look was overwhelming, yet it was stifled at the cluck of his mother's tongue. 

If you like it, here's a link:

Last lines written for The Ribbon...

As his heart slowly returned to a normal rhythm, the Banite moved his fingers over the scales on his partner's shoulder, listening to and feeling his breath against his neck; the weight of his heavy body draped over him was a tremendous comfort, like a large, scaly blanket. After a few minutes, the sound of the Bhaalspawn's breathing changed, and the human felt a vibration on his shoulder. It was coming from the dragonborn's throat. Was he snoring? If so, it was the softest, most soothing sounding snore he'd ever heard. ‘Are you asleep?’ the Chosen of Bane whispered, only barely able to see that his partner's right eye was indeed closed.  ‘No,’ Bhaal's Chosen rumbled, the low hum continuing. ‘What's that sound you're making?’ Gortash asked, sliding his fingertips under the scales at the back of his partner's neck and rubbing the muscle beneath. ‘I don't have a name for it,’ Praxas answered softly, then sighed, ‘Hm. That feels good.’ The sound grew incrementally louder for a moment, then he explained, ‘I do it… when I'm very relaxed.’  Continuing to knead the back of his partner's neck, the Banite frowned slightly as he commented, ‘You didn't do it last night.’  ‘As far as I know, I don't do it in my sleep,’ the Bhaalspawn clarified, the sound pausing while he was speaking, but resuming when he stopped. ‘I suppose I was still… tense.’  ‘Even after? And yet not this morning,’ the human mused, deciding that he liked the sound, whatever it was. He asked, ‘What's different now?’  The dragonborn nuzzled his partner's neck, the sound in his throat deepening, then he answered, ‘It's morning, and you're still… here.’ 

For more [18+ only], have a look 👀:

Tagging @nyda-the-tav, @dm-dragonpuff & @twinaquapisces.

I'd love to see what you're working on! 🥰

[malusrecord]

SHAKESPEAREAN AESTHETICS

Muse: Angela

MACBETH: the howl of wolves. moonless nights. dirt under fingernails. stained silk. chattering teeth. voices hoarse and cracked. rotting fruit. echoing drums. dry heaving. hanging cobwebs. stifling humidity. bloodshot eyes. the roughness of rusted steel. wild rosebushes. muscle cramps. the sound of splintering wood.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM: crackling fires. ivy crawling on stone. the faint music of running water. petrichor. dirty, bare feet. tattered clothing. thistledown. wilted wildflower crowns. late evening birdsong. curling leaves. a symphony of croaking frogs. drifting feathers. the eerie sound of windchimes at night. humming bees. beds of clover.

ROMEO AND JULIET: warm golden lamplight. worn shoes. crumbling brick walls. whispered poetry. embroidered satin. cool, hazy mornings. tousled hair. rosewater. flushed cheeks. distant orchestras. unfinished marble statues. cobblestone streets. loose threads. ink smudged on parchment. tapping fingers. dust illuminated by sunlight. poison vials.

HAMLET: shattered glass. a cluster of fraying ribbons. unanswered knocks on doors. lingering dampness. white noise. inexplicable drafts. migraines. bleeding ears. the taste of metal. reflected mirrors. dry, cracked lips. the sound of tearing paper. fogged windows. memories of dreams. tarnished silver. protruding veins.

[snkts]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂 — 𝐁𝐎𝐋𝐃 / 𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐙𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐒

━━ 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐒

tinkling of piano keys / the click of a lock / an engine starting, stalling / sinful whispers / stifled sobbing / the rattle of death / alarm blaring / a siren call / spanish guitar strumming / loud laughter at midnight / banshee screeching / drunk hiccuping / the giggle of a child / rolling thunder / disdainful chuckling / bones creaking / carefree whistling / singing off key / flesh hitting concrete / white noise / a mirror cracking / laboured breathing / a groan of pain / waves lapping at the shore / the roar of a lion / pages turning / swords clashing / deep humming / birds chirping / dial tone / tongue popping / fingers tapping a surface / crystals breaking / music turned up to the limit / raindrops on a roof / angry yelling / yawning at noon / horns going off / ravens talking / bubblegum bursting / splashing water / teakettle squeal / militia drums / wolves howling / slow, sarcastic clapping / soprano notes / whispering pleas / gregorian chants / mournful cries

━━ 𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐒

filled notebooks / dogeared books / clean shaves / empty stares / sleeping at a desk / the witching hour / driving all night / restless tides / broken windows / coffee any time / freshly baked goods / bonfires / lounging felines / circles under your eyes / bedhead / tangling in the sheets / leather jackets / paint stains / music sheets / too many tabs to find the music / weary brows / card games / messy ponytails / strained smiles / unsent texts / heart on your sleeve / slow dancing in the rain / star gazing / torn jeans / piles of clothes / filled bookshelves / hurricanes / chapped lips / cliff diving / the lights in venice / stolen kisses / poet shirts / half melted candles / empty coffee mugs / hot tea / unlaced boots / shameless flirting / too young to be so old / laced fingers / eyes in the trees / bloody knuckles / french letters / neon lights / ivy covered balconies

━━ 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒

burnt leaves / turkish coffee / spiced rum / moss / vanilla beans / freshly cut grass / decay / sea salt / strawberries and cream / cinnamon / honey / copper / pineapple / wet dog / pine needles / wood shavings / rainsoaked bark / something sharp, indefinable / Russian tea / dandelions / squeezed limes / Italian wine / freshly laundered clothes / coming rain / hardtack and gruel / roasting flesh / something cloying in the chest / ichor / lillies in spring / pollen / damp clothes / meatpies / greasy coins / curdled milk / leather / bone marrow / wet cement / ricecakes / open paint cans / cocoa leaves / tar / apples / sandlewood cologne / orchids / molded onions / cheap perfume / mistletoe / rubber on fire / grave dirt / old books / new books / melting plastic / roses / poison oak / sea cucumbers / peppermint

tagged by : yoinked from @isportal

tagging : everyone :3

[tarot-muses]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂.

𝐁old /italicize what applies.

━━ 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐒

tinkling of piano keys / the click of a lock / an engine starting, stalling / sinful whispers / stifled sobbing / the rattle of death / alarm blaring / a siren call / Spanish guitar strumming / loud laughter at midnight / banshee screeching / drunk hiccuping / the giggle of a child / rolling thunder / disdainful chuckling / bones creaking / carefree whistling / singing off key / flesh hitting concrete / white noise / a mirror cracking / labored breathing / a groan of pain / waves lapping at the shore / the roar of a lion / pages turning / swords clashing / deep humming / birds chirping / dial tone / tongue popping / fingers tapping a surface / crystals breaking / music turned up to the limit / raindrops on a roof / angry yelling / yawning at noon / horns going off / ravens talking / bubblegum bursting / splashing water / teakettle squeal / militia drums / wolves howling / slow, sarcastic clapping / soprano notes / whispering pleas / Gregorian chants / mournful cries

━━ 𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐒

filled notebooks / dogeared books / clean shaves / empty stares / sleeping at a desk / the witching hour / driving all night / restless tides / broken windows / coffee any time / freshly baked goods / bonfires / lounging felines / circles under your eyes / bedhead / tangling in the sheets / leather jackets / paint stains / music sheets / too many tabs to find the music / weary brows / card games / messy ponytails / strained smiles / unsent texts / heart on your sleeve / slow dancing in the rain / star gazing / torn jeans / piles of clothes / filled bookshelves / hurricanes / chapped lips / cliff diving / the lights in Venice / stolen kisses / poet shirts / half melted candles / empty coffee mugs / hot tea / unlaced boots / shameless flirting / too young to be so old / laced fingers / eyes in the trees / bloody knuckles / french letters / neon lights / ivy covered balconies

━━ 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒

burnt leaves / Turkish coffee / spiced rum / moss / vanilla beans / freshly cut grass / decay / sea salt / strawberries and cream / cinnamon / honey / copper / pineapple / wet dog / pine needles / wood shavings / rain-soaked bark / something sharp, indefinable / Russian tea / dandelions / squeezed limes / Italian wine / freshly laundered clothes / coming rain / hardtack and gruel / roasting flesh / something cloying in the chest / ichor / lilies in spring / pollen /damp clothes / meat-pies/ greasy coins / curdled milk / leather / bone marrow / wet cement/ rice-cakes / open paint cans / cocoa leaves / tar / apples / sandalwood cologne / orchids / molded onions / cheap perfume / mistletoe / rubber on fire / grave dirt / old books / new books / melting plastic / roses / poison oak / sea cucumbers / peppermint

Tagged by: @archaievist

Tagging: @prcdator (for dutch, if you please), @stclker, @purityadmired <3