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hphmmatthewluther · 2 years ago

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Threads Of Silver - Chapter 1: The Dream

Here we go!! This is the first chapter of my Founders’ Era story, with this one featuring a brief appearance from @nikyiscreepy ‘s Persephone Palerosine and a mention of @the-al-chemist ‘s Artemis Hexley! Taglist of people who might be interested (pls let me know if you want to be added or removed!): @camillejeaneshphm @endlessly-cursed @gaygryffindorgal @that-scouse-wizard

Almost a millennium before Matthew Luther would shatter curses and do battle with those who unleashed them, the very notion of “Hogwarts” existed merely in the mind of one woman: Rowena Ravenclaw. On the same night she has a fateful dream, informing her of where this school should be built, her newest apprentice, a peasant boy by the name of Lachlann Doherty (though people call him Lam) arrives. Taking this to be a sign, she begins to teach Lam in the ways of both magic, and of power, for the ones she will need to achieve her dreams are currently rivals. Set out with a nigh-impossible task, will the two prevail? Or will they be lost to the pages of history?

Chapter 1: The Dream

“Hey, Matt!” Mayson Kowalski exclaimed, smiling. “How’re you today?”

Matthew Luther turned around to look down at his younger cousin. Behind him, Matthew could see Mayson’s fellow Slytherins heading to their next class, and a girl with light brown hair was waiting for him, tapping her foot.

“Mayson.” Matt said, clicking his tongue. “You need some of my notes again?”

The younger cousin’s cheeks went pink. “I…uh…” He stammered, before quickly regaining his composure. “Can’t I just say hi to my favourite cousin?” he asked innocently.

Matt chuckled. They’d fallen into a pattern of Mayson asking him for the notes he’d taken the year before; Mayson claimed he found them far more useful than his own notes. “Favourite cousin? I’m gonna tell Artemis you said that.”

Mayson’s eyes widened. “Aw, c’mon, man…I’m getting help with my broom-riding from her, ya can't…”

Matt raised his hands to reassure him “Don’t worry, I’m only fooling. Keep your trousers on.” “Pants, you mean.” Mayson said, smiling. As much as he was happy to be at Hogwarts, sometimes he missed New York, where as far as he was concerned, people spoke normally.

“Agree to disagree.” Matt said, pushing the hair out of his face, “so, what do you need?”

“We got an assignment from Binns.” Mayson explained, pulling a piece of parchment out of his pocket. “We gotta “Give an account of the end of the Mage Wars and how this led to the founding of Hogwarts.” It’s…there’s so much that happened, so many names to remember, I-”

Matthew nodded, remembering how it had been for him and his classmates to learn it all. “Well, if you want my advice, it’s not me who’s the resident history expert. There’s someone a little closer to home you can ask…”

At that point, the brown-haired girl yelled out for Mayson, and Matt noticed her socks, which had cat faces, were starting to hiss.

“Coming, Persephone!” Mayson yelled back. “We’ll talk later. Thanks Matt!” he said quickly before running off. Matt smiled and waved, before walking to the Great Hall, hoping to find who he was looking for there. When he did, he couldn’t stop the blush that appeared on his face.

***

“What?!” Mayson exclaimed later that night in the Slytherin Common Room, with most of the rest of Slytherin up in their dorm rooms. “You’re the “resident history expert”?!”

Merula Snyde huffed, placing down a large collection of notebooks and parchments . “Is that what you called me, Luther? Really, you’re too kind…”

Matthew was sitting there too, having snuck in earlier. Mayson didn’t miss the way they’d looked at each other as he’d come into the room. “Well, you do have the highest score in the class, Merula.”

“Because I find the subject interesting.” Merula shrugged, which Mayson translated as “I’m the only one who can stay awake listening to Binns ramble.” Which, to be fair, was an impressive feat. “Right,” she continued, “get your notebook out. We’ve got a lot to cover.”

Mayson looked up at her, a little confused. “I…I thought I was just gonna take the notes?”

Merula scoffed at the suggestion. “Nonsense. I’m not just going to let you copy my notes, you’ve got to have the full understanding. This is our history, y’know. Literally.”

Mayson raised an eyebrow. “Whaddya mean, “literally”?”

Matthew leaned forward. “Some of our direct relatives are involved here. My great great times…a whole load, grandparents.” he explained, pointing to himself, “and hers too. Plus a great aunt for good measure.”

Merula nodded. “See? And he only knows all of that because I explained it to him so brilliantly.”

Mayson shrugged. “...It’s either this or meticulously copy the notes, I suppose…alright. Let’s do this. We…don’t have to do it all tonight, do we?”

Matthew shook his head. “Nah, we’ll space it out. Your assignment is submitted in chunks anyway, so this’ll help.”

“Right!” Merula exclaimed. “If you’re both ready, I’m going to start…now…let’s see…Ah ha. Perfect. We’ll start with The Dream.”

***

“Rowena Ravenclaw discovered the location where Hogwarts would be built in a dream, in which she was led to the position near the lake and forest by a warty hog. She considered the dream to be a gift from the forces of magic themselves. I however find it much more likely that she had a bad curry before going to bed, as that’s how I normally get weird dreams like this one.” - Mayson Kowalski’s History of Magic Report

The night was darker back then. Not just because of the fewer lights, after all that normally allowed the stars and the moon to shine bright across the land. But when it was cloudy too, and storming and raining, it was well and truly dark, with any lightning only serving to punctuate the pitch black fields of the Highlands. It was not known as Scotland back then, after all. That was all yet to come. This, and the lands down South, were formed of kingdoms which either made peace, traded, or battled in skirmishes, magical or non-magical. The sorcerers of this time were known, and revelled in their importance to the lords and kings of the land, but were just as bitter rivals as the people they assisted. Not since Merlin had a witch, wizard or otherwise tried to reach out to form bonds as opposed to fighting and warring. Not until now.

The rain slashed at the windows of Ravenclaw Tower, sliding down to the wooden windowsill and dripping off onto grass and mud several feet below. Inside, the various magical ornaments and parchments rattled every so often when a particularly loud burst of thunder rang out, albeit muffled by the great stone bricks that made up the structure. The Tower’s only occupants could be found at the very top of the tower, past floors upon floors of, at this point, relatively new tomes and books on spellcraft. One of the two rocked with the wind and rain outside. The other was calm, serene, unmoving in her sleep, her raven-black hair the only thing that moved, as a slight wind brushed past. This was Rowena Ravenclaw, greatest witch in the Highlands, who had only remembered that she needed to sleep about ten minutes ago. The lying completely still was an attempt to compensate for that. It wasn’t working. Sure, she was tired, she had stayed up all night reading, after all, but she didn’t feel sleepy. At least, not until a bolt of lightning sailed past outside, striking a hill. She winced, and suddenly felt herself falling deeper into sleep. If she had opened her eyes, the lightning would have illuminated a young man leaping back from the lightning. A young man walking towards her tower.

For Rowena, there were no sounds of rain and thunder. Instead, she was standing outside on a partly cloudy day. She gazed around, trying to get her bearings, when she heard a strange grunting sound from nearby. She turned and was surprised to find a large pig sniffing the grass in front of her. There were splotches on it that seemed to look like runes, which was where Rowena’s attention should have been, but her eyes were fixated on its face. It was the ugliest pig she’d ever seen, with so many warts she was surprised it could see. She thought it was somewhat adorable just how ugly it was, and when she smiled at it, it squealed with delight and started to trot forwards. Curious by nature, she started to walk behind it, taking in what was around her. She could see water flowing, and a dense forest full of life. But then the pig stopped, and she gasped.

They had come to a hilltop overlooking a large lake. The forest was still visible, and it was clear this was where the water was flowing from. It was beautiful, it was full of space, it hadn’t been touched…

“It’s perfect.” Rowena said, the wheels beginning to turn in her brain. “What is this place?”

The pig looked up at her, but instead of oinking, the noise that came out of its mouth was more akin to a knocking at the door. There was another flash of lightning, and Rowena was forced awake, the knocking sound continuing. Someone was at the door. Rolling her eyes, and briefly checking on the other person in the tower, she began the long walk down the steps, her wand illuminating the floors of her tower. The knocking continued, pounding like the thunder that came in between, until she finally got to the wooden door and pulled it open.

Before her, in the cascading rain, stood a young boy in a black hood. She could see his dark hair that matched the colour of his cloak, and green eyes that reflected off of the light of her wand. He blinked several times, wiping the water from his face.

“Lady Ravenclaw?” he asked over the sound of the ensuing storm. “You…asked me to come here?”

She looked down at him for a few moments, confused, before recognition filled her eyes. Ah yes. The trip to Ireland. “Of course I did. It’s…Doherty, isn’t it?”

The boy (young man? Rowena hadn’t asked his precise age) nodded. “That’s right, Lachlan Doherty…though people call me “Lam”.”

Lightning illuminated both of them. “Well, you’d better come inside, here…” Rowena gestured inside the tower, and Lachlann nodded, walking through, very obviously happy to be out of the rain. Rowena closed the door behind him, sighing for a second. “...Well, welcome to Ravenclaw Tower. I made a bed up for you…I say made, conjured, more accurately.” She turned to him, but he was transfixed by everything around him. The ornaments, the cauldrons, the shelves stacked with books, he spun on the spot trying to keep up with it all.

“...This is your first time in a Mage’s Tower?” Rowena asked, lighting some of the candles hanging on the walls, “Wasn’t there one nearby in your village?”

Lachlann took his hood off, revealing his short black hair, and shook his head. “There was one, a while ago, but it’s in ruins now. Something must have attacked it., at least that’s what people said.”

Rowena nodded. “Being a sorcerer’s a dangerous thing. When a mage dies, their tower dies with them…I suppose that ought to be your first lesson.”

Rowena sat down at a table,clearing some of the papers and books and inviting Lachlann to do the same. She looked over at him. While travelling in Ireland looking for a certain type of plant, she came across a village after what had seemed like hours. She had seen the ruins of the tower, but had guessed that another one would have been nearby. Another one should have been nearby. What had happened to it?

“Things are alright back at the village, yes?” Rowena asked, Lachlan jumping slightly. “Settled down a little now?”

The young boy nodded, the sound of his cloak dripping onto the floor being absorbed by the storm outside, “More or less, but they all got excited again when I told them I was leaving. Wanted to have a whole celebration and everything…”

As Lachlann explained his journey, Rowena tried her best to keep her attention on him, but it was late, and she had a lot on her mind. That dream, for one thing, but the memory of her time in Lachlann’s village was coming back to her too. She had been there to examine the connections to the Fae present on the neighbouring island. Her attention had been caught by smoke and screaming coming from the village. She had immediately raced down there. She knew a dragon attack when she heard one.

And yet, when Rowena had got there, the all-too-common sounds of burning and roaring had quietened. After a moment of searching, she had found it: a young Welsh Green, on the cusp of adulthood. She wondered if it had mistakenly flown across the sea here. But the dragon did not notice her. It had its eyes on a young peasant boy a few feet away, holding a farm implement of some kind. Any other serf would have been burnt to a crisp, but this dragon was up on its hind legs, smoke still billowing from its mouth, transfixed on the top part of the rake. It was only when she stepped closer that she saw why: it was glowing faintly, as if on fire, but it did not burn. The peasant boy looked just as surprised as the dragon. Rowena, however, knew exactly what it had meant. This was what she had been looking for.

As the minutes passed, and Lachlann dried out, the rain quietened down. Now the only sound that could be heard was the howling winds outside. Rowena brought her hands together. “Now, regarding your employment as my apprentice. That is why you’re here, yes?” When Lachlann nodded, she continued, “Good. Now, I shall teach you the ways of magic, give you food and shelter, as well as a small amount of pay, and in exchange you’ll help me with regards to my many errands as a Freelance Witch.”

Lachlann’s ears perked up. “Freelance?” he asked, a little confused.

Rowena simply sighed. “Indeed. There remain very few freelance magic-users left in these Isles, with most promising their services to a king or lord. But while power and the wealth that comes with it are…tempting, I choose to remain independent on principle. Magic is not to be wielded by some chief in a battle.” she seemed to be on the verge of a rant, but stifled it. “...hm. I suppose that’s your second lesson.”

Just then, a sound rang out through the tower, overpowering the winds outside. Rowena looked at Lachlann, who looked like he was wondering if his ears were deceiving him. “Here comes your next lesson.” Rowena sighed. “Follow me.” Up the stairs they went, the sound growing louder as they did. She looked back at Lachlann, who thankfully seemed more curious than anything else. She pointed out his bedroom to him as they scaled the tower, until finally coming to the very top floor, both having to duck a little under the roof of the structure which made up the ceiling. By the window was Rowena’s bed, a mess after she’d scrambled out of it earlier, as well as a wooden cot. Lachlann stepped forward and seemingly confirmed his decisions, as his eyes fell upon the source of the noise.

“Oh, Helena…” Rowena crooned, walking forward and picking a crying baby up out of the cot, holding her close. “Did we make too much noise? This is Lachlann, he’s going to be staying here for a while - oh, it’s alright, I’m here-”

Lachlann blinked a few times as Rowena rubbed Helena’s back. “Lachlann, this is…the other part of my job. And yours too. I probably should have mentioned this a little earlier.”

***

The quasi-lecture Merula had been giving had lasted around half an hour at this point, and while Mayson had chuckled at a few parts (specifically the pig) he had burst out laughing here.

“She didn’t tell him he’d be babysitting?!” he exclaimed, cackling and kicking his legs.

“Shut up!” Merula hissed. “You’ll wake someone up!”

Matthew was trying to stifle a laugh of his own. “Yeah, as much of a genius Rowena was, she did sometimes forget to mention…y'know…important details.”

“Mm, sounds like someone else I know.” Merula replied, winking at him before turning to Mayson. “Right, are you done yet? We’ve haven’t even got through one full day of Lachlann’s apprenticeship!”

Mayson’s laughter started to die down at this point, and he wiped the tears from his eyes. “Sorry, sorry…it just goes to show how good you are at this stuff.”

“Oh…thank you.” she said, surprised at the compliment. “Now, where was I…ah yes, the day after…that was when…ah. A reminder that Luther’s family has had rotten luck since day one…”

#hphm #founders' era #hp founders era #threads of silver #matthew luther #mayson kowalski #merula snyde #rowena ravenclaw #lachlann doherty #helena ravenclaw

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vannahthehufflepuff · 5 years ago

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NEXT GEN OC | GRESHAM MALFOY

House: Gryffindor

Blood Status: Pureblood

Place of Birth: London, England

Career Path: Professional Quidditch Player

Sport: Quidditch (Seeker)

Likes: Quidditch, himself, showing off, cats, flying, swimming, foraging with Isla, Hogsmeade, lounging dramatically, piano

Dislikes: not getting enough attention, homework, bugs, small spaces

Favorite Classes: Potions, Defense Against the Dark Arts

Physical Quirks/Scars: a small scar on his lip from falling off his broom once

Speech: loud, bit raspy, sounds very similar to his dad

Wand: Ebony wood and Unicorn hair, 13 1/4", Rigid

Patronus: Erumpent

School Pet: a tabby cat named Boris

Family: Draco Malfoy, father. Alena Foster, mother. Bryony Malfoy, younger sister.

Friends: Einin Wood (lou’s oc), Finlay Weasley, Isla Weasley

Love Interest: Isla Weasley

Personality: like his mom, he knows everything about everyone. bit of a gossip. super full of himself. very dramatic. always bothers Harry about Quidditch. despite being so full of himself, he’s really nice. loud.

Face claim: Matthew Clavane

#next gen oc: gresham malfoy

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rational-mastermind · 6 years ago

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King’s Cafe Ch 1

HELL YES we’re starting this year off with a shit ton of writing!!

Now fair warning to the five others in this fandom and what few read my writing for the sheer sake of it: I’m not intending on making this a serious fanfic. Trilby won’t save the day or have any sort of epic quest to save the coffee shop. Just...more like glorified head canons than anything. How they meet. What others do with their modern-day life. A few consistencies, but nothing major. No over arcing plots. Hell no real plot at all. Just slice-of-life shit. That being said, enjoy.

Chapter 1 - Introductions

On the corner, at the intersection between Bronwyn road and Kings street, sat a small cafe which was aptly named King’s Cafe. It was small and quaint and obviously trying its best. Nothing too fancy or special. A modest little coffee shop that got by on the average. It had its share of regulars and made decent enough sales to keep the employees paid.

And one employee in particular, Siobhan O’Malley, was running late.

She hurried into the store and closed the door behind her. She sighed disappointed and frustrated, knowing she’s likely to hear about her tardiness from the manager, Cabadath. But now wasn’t a time for self-pity. Now was a time for work. She came over to the door to the worker’s back room, grabbed her apron, punched in, heard the snide remark from Cabadath about being a few minutes late, and came out, ready to start her day.

First she headed to the back to check on their resident baker, John DeFoe.

John was an unusual lad. He was tall, pale as a ghost, and lanky, practically skin and bones. He had a gaunt face and hollowed eyes, but he wasn’t really as spooky as he appeared. He was actually very timid and sweet, but a hard worker as well.

He always arrived first, bright and early, to get started on the cakes and doughnuts and pastries. It would’ve been a surprise that the cafe’s management even allowed him to have so much free reign, but it was no secret that his baking was what really brought in customers. Between his sweet treats and the way his twin brother, Matthew, would ice and decorate and customize each and every cookie, it was a wonder you could call it a cafe at all and not just a bakery.

Siobhan peeked into the kitchen to check on him, the sweet warm smell of spices, yeast, and fresh brewed coffee already wafting about the air.

“Morning!” she greeted cheerfully.

John was in the middle of stirring up dough and looking at a recipe on the company’s laptop. He jumped, slightly startled, before his gaze became expressionless once more, as it normally was, and he fixed it on her. He gave a curt nod.

John was a mute. He could hear, and he often used sign-language as a means to communicate, though it was really only something Matthew understood. In all truth, it always made Siobhan uneasy and constantly in the dark of the lad’s real thoughts or intentions. She hoped the nod was meant well and she gave a thumbs-up in return, feeling momentarily stupid for doing so.

“Morning, Ms. Siobhan!” Matthew’s sweet and excited voice rang out as he came in, from the pantry behind the kitchen, carrying a large tray full of different colored icing.

Siobhan immediately started to lighten up and feel better. Matthew’s sunny disposition and youthful energy easily filled any room. A complimentary yang to John’s yin.

“Hey Matt.” Siobhan smiled back. “How we looking today?”

“Doing great! Same as always!” Matt replied easily.

“Awesome.”

Siobhan came back out to the main room and looked up at the chalkboard. She noticed Cabadath had already scribbled in specials for the day and the cake display was already polished and gleaming. She got started on brewing a few of the coffees, and, when ready, made herself a Caretaker. A personal favorite of the unusually named coffees they served.

Siobhan then went about the cafe, setting chairs to tables, setting out the old magazines no one looks at, and setting pillows up on the couches, where they belonged.

“S’cuse me, Siobhan.”

She turned and saw Theo standing behind her with a broom and dustpan. An expectant and rather bored look on his face.

“Oh! Yeah, sorry.” she stepped out of the way and Dacabe began sweeping under the couch. “When’d you come in?”

“Same time as you. I came in right behind you.”

“Oh..” Siobhan gave a weak grin. “Ah.. Sorry, I didn’t see you.”

“No one ever does.”

She rolled her eyes and walked away. Theo was always a bit of a crybaby. He was the janitor though, so not only was it easy to overlook him, it wasn’t exactly like he had the hardest job. Not in Siobhan’s opinion at least.

Siobhan came to the front and pulled away the blinds and turned around the open sign. She came back to the counter.

‘5….

‘4….

‘3….

‘2….

‘1….’

“Morning!” Claire’s voice rang out, out of breath but still perky. She hurried to the door to the back office and soon reappeared, dressed for work. “Hey! Sorry! Sorry I’m late!”

“You’re right on time, Claire.” Siobhan grinned.

Claire hurried around the counter, said good morning to the boys, and came back to the counter and began helping set things up for the morning.

“So, how’s it going?” Claire asked.

“Same old, same old.” Siobhan sighed with a patient smile.

Claire worked the counters with Siobhan. She was a sweet, short, bespectacled woman. The type who loved to collect cat figurines and make movie references. She was bubbly and kind and claims to be psychic. Some believe her, some don’t. It didn’t really matter to Siobhan either way. Working with Claire was always a delight.

They got the store ready and opened. After helping a few early morning patrons, Siobhan looked up at the clock. 9:30.

She heard the door jingle and looked over in time to see Dr. Somerset walk in.

“Morning, Somerset!” she called out with a smile.

“Morning.” he greeted with a small nod.

“You ordering anything this time?”

“Maybe in a bit.” he walked over to the same corner he always sat at, in the arm chair underneath the space poster, and pulled out his laptop from his bag.

Siobhan rolled her eyes. Somerset was nice enough, but being a psychologist, trying to get into the field, he was almost always jobless. As such, he hardly ever actually ordered coffee. Instead he sat on his laptop, scrolling through the internet, busy with job hunting.

Not 3 minutes later did the door jingle for another regular.

“Siobhan!” Prof. Abed Chahal called out, as soon as he came in. He was a good man, a history professor for the nearby university. He always came in on the weekend, carrying a suitcase.

Siobhan waved, smiling.

“Morning, Abed! What’ll it be?”

“Ah.. I’m feeling adventurous today.” Abed thought for a moment, looking at the menu. “I think I’ll have a Guide.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

“Do the boys have any pastries ready?” he glanced over at the glass display of cakes and tarts.

“They’ve already been baking. Whatcha need?”

“Mmm.. What would you recommend?”

“Hm. I think I saw Johnny put in a sheet of cookies!”

“Well that sounds perfect. I’ll have one of those when they’re finished.”

“Alright then.” Siobhan jotted down the order and rang him up.

Abed walked over to a booth to wait. He sat down his suitcase, opened it up, and began setting up the chess board he always brought with him. Siobhan chuckled and watched him set up all the pieces.

“Who are you gonna play today?” she asked.

“Not sure, yet. But I’m sure I’ll find someone. Perhaps Johnny will entertain me on his break.”

“Hm. Maybe.” though Siobhan was sure he wouldn’t.

Johnny almost always liked to keep to himself and stay in the back. Abed was likely confusing him for Matthew.

Time went by, she made the coffee, got the cookie, came out to the counter.

“Abed, you’re coffee’s ready!” she immediately turned to find Chris Quinn, just as he was about to attempt shouting and scaring her. “Morning Chris.”

“Aw- what?!” Chris’ face fell in disappointment. “Bullshit, how’d you know I was here?”

“Because you do it almost every morning.” Siobhan chuckled. “And I heard Claire take your order.”

“She’s a sharp one, Chris.” Abed was chuckling as he took his coffee.

Chris blew a raspberry and proceeded to act like he was deflating and drape himself over the counter.

“You’re no fun, Siobhan.”

“And you’re still a child.” she chuckled.

“Here’s your coffee, Chris!”, Claire nudged past Siobhan and handed him a cup. “One Arrogant Joe.”

“Hell yes. Thank you!” he grinned and quickly bounced over to the couch beside Somerset and sat down to bug him instead.

Chris Quinn was an odd one. A man who supposedly wrote for a living. He was childish, excited, exuberant, and eccentric. He would’ve looked like a psychopathic horror, with the dark bags under his wide eyes and the long black trench coat that had red splatter paint on it.

He was a type of person Claire would describe as “bright”, but not in the traditional sense of being intelligent. “Bright” as in the way a 1000 watt lightbulb would be bright. He was friendly with everyone, had a horrible caffeine and sugar addiction, and was only ever kicked out once when he made everyone uncomfortable after downing 5 lattes on a dare and began talking about talking dog heads and zombies. He was mostly harmless, but has warned most of his slight schizophrenic tendencies.

After a while, the doorbell rang once more and the last regular of this cafe’s dysfunctional family arrived; Jim Fowler.

Jim was less common compared to others, being generally busy with school himself, but often stopped by on the weekends. He was a good, sensible lad who was on good terms with the DeFoe Twins, despite being a year younger. They go to the same school and on weekends, like today, Jim sometimes hangs around the shop and studies.

“Morning, Jim. What’ll it be?”

“Morning, Ms. O’Malley. Um..” Jim looked over the menu, thinking a moment before finally snapping his fingers with an answer. “Y’know? I think I’ll have the Bridgekeeper.”

“Got it.”

“Any of John’s cakes?”

“Plenty!” Matt came around, setting up another baked good for the display. “Whatcha need?”

“What was that one..? You guys were talking about it the other day. With the caramel?”

“Ooh! Yeah, the Salty Bears! We just finished those!”

Matt quickly disappeared into the back to retrieve his dish. Siobhan chuckled and rang him up.

“Jimmy! Why don’t you sit down and play a round with me?” Abed asked, looking up from his board.

“Wish I could, Abed, but I got studies!” Jim gave an apologetic grin.

“Nonsense! It’s just one round!”

“Mm. He should really study.” Claire chimed in, closing her eyes. “Big test coming up.”

“You’re telling me..” Jim rolled his eyes. “My dad’s gonna be all over me if I don’t pass.”

He hurried to another table and sat down, sitting his backpack beside him and started pulling out his textbooks.

“Welp, everyone’s here today.” Siobhan said to Claire.

“Yup. Another day in the King’s Cafe.” Claire sighed contently.

Jim soon got his coffee and pastry, and then it was just another, slow, typical day in the cafe.

Abed managed to convince Matthew to play with him on his next break.

A few randos came in and went out.

Simone Taylor droned on in the background on a small TV mounted to the wall in the back.

Chris decided he was done bugging Somerset and struck up a conversation with Siobhan while waiting for his next cup.

“So, can I ask a serious question, Siobhan?” Chris was asking.

“But you’re never serious.” Siobhan chuckled, pouring the milk into his latte, practicing her foam art.

“No, come on. Really.”

“Okay, fine, what?”

“When are we gonna stop playing these silly games with each other?” he grinned suggestively.

Siobhan laughed. It wasn’t the first time Chris was a flirt, let alone flirted with her. But as opposed to most guys, Siobhan didn’t think it wise to have even a casual fling with a man like Chris. She shook her head.

“Chris, I still don’t know what game you’re talking about? But if you’re looking for a date Friday, the answer is still no.”

“Aw, come on!”

The door jingled and rang. Siobhan handed him his coffee.

“Just take your drink, would...ya…” Siobhan’s thought slowed as she took in the recent customer.

He was tall.

He was handsome.

He was well dressed.

He was soaked to the bone.

His long black hair clung damply to his pale face.

He took off a small gray hat, a complementary part to the three piece grey pinstripe suit he wore, and shook the excess water off.

He looked up and smiled at Siobhan, politely.

“Good afternoon.” he said in a soft, posh, baritone voice.

“Um..” Siobhan quickly shook her head and smiled readily. “Welcome to the King’s Cafe, sir. What can I get you?”

“Well let’s see um…” the man frowned, reading the menu. “I’m...afraid I don’t quite understand what some of your options are.”

“Oh! Right! Uh, the King’s Cafe has a few specials, and ergo a fun and special lingo for the customers.” Siobhan chuckled. “It’s a little silly really, but I’ll do my best to explain anything that catches your attention.”

“Well.. What’s the Guide?”

“The Guide is basically a Mead Raf.” Siobhan explained. “Espresso with a shot of honey and topped with heavy cream. Bitter, strong, but a hint of something sweet.”

“Actually that already sounds lovely. I think I’ll try that.”

“Coming right up, sir. Do you like cakes?”

“Not often...” he said, looking at his watch, frowning thoughtfully. “...Perhaps another time.”

“Alright then. I’ll get that coffee ready.”

She rung him up and he paid, but was so distracted he left to a table and sat down immediately. He was carrying a leather messenger bag and quickly sat up in a corner booth, pulling out several notebooks and a laptop. He immediately got to work on whatever and it took Siobhan an embarrassing amount of time to realize she hadn’t asked his name.

“Uh, sir? Sir?” but it was too late.

The man was already too engrossed in whatever it was he was doing to hear her. Siobhan simply sighed and looked at the cup. She shrugged and drew a trilby on it. And that was when she realized the newcomer had caught everyone’s attention. Even Somerset and the DeFoe twins were all looking over, trying to get a look at the strange man.

“...Alright, come on you guys, there’s nothing to see. He’s just another customer.” Siobhan rolled her eyes and got to work.

“He is kinda cute though.” Claire grinned, leaning over the counter to look better.

“Claire.” Siobhan said disapprovingly.

“Hell maybe he’ll wanna go out this Friday.” Chris grinned.

“Chris, you’re not even gay.” Siobhan looked at him, confused.

“So?” Chris immediately went over to introduce himself.

Siobhan internally cringed. She hated when Chris did this with other customers. The one time it was funny because a guy named Philip clocked him in the face, but aside from that, it was usually just embarrassing and frustrating.

“Hey!” Chris greeted, taking a seat opposite of the man. “So what’s your name?”

The man didn’t skip a beat, and continued to type away on his keyboard, slowing only to reach over with one hand and hold up a notebook he was looking at. One hand still typing away while he read.

Chris sat there for a moment before leaning over a little closer, looking over the notebook.

“Whatcha working on there?” he reached to move the notebook down a little.

“Your demise if you so much as touch this notebook.” was the sharp and quiet answer.

Chris immediately retreated. The man continued on, unphased.

“I’ve no time for idle chit-chat, thank you.” the man said politely. “I’ve a very important deadline.”

“Then maybe another time? ‘Nother place?”

“Here and now is plenty for me to worry about. I’ve no interest in any further plans.”

Siobhan chuckled at how utterly rejected Chris looked. Eventually she finished the order and looked over at him. She wasn’t sure at first how to address him, but figured if she had to, she’ll go over and tap him on the shoulder.

“Um.. Sir? W-with the trilby?” she leaned over the counter a little.

At that, as if by magic, the man’s head popped up from his work

“Hm? Me? Oh, yes.”

He came over and grabbed the coffee.

“Thank you very much, miss.” he smiled politely.

“Wait, what’s your-?” He already turned and retreated back to his corner.

“Maybe his name’s Trilby?” Claire suggested.

“What kind of name is that?” Siobhan scoffed.

“Hm, judging by his laptop and notebooks, it could be a pseudonym.” Somerset commented thoughtfully. “Likely an author or writer of some sort.”

“You think he’s here to stay?” Chris asked.

“Whatcha mean?” Claire asked.

“Well I mean.. Look at us.” Siobhan shrugged. “Normally we’re all here at some point or another. Sometimes with Philip or Janine.”

“Oh.. So you think maybe he’s gonna…” Claire looked back and Chris helpfully finished the sentence.

“Stick around.”

Everyone was looking at him curiously now, lost in their own thoughts and assumptions.

Siobhan watched him for a while, serious and busy hammering away at his laptop. He occasionally paused only to look over his notes once more or to sigh, rub his chin, and soon enough get back to typing. Perfectly content and oblivious to the world around him. She smiled.

“...Maybe he will.”

#Chzo Mythos #trilby somerset #siobhan o'malley #jim fowler #defoe twins #john defoe #matthew defoe #johnathon somerset #chris quinn #quinnby #trilbhan #simone taylor #abed chahal #philip harty #theodore dacabe

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wolfpawn · 6 years ago

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When Ghosts Come for Us

Chapter 52

NOTE This is based on the movie Crimson Peak, so if any of the subject matter in that was uncomfortable for you, you will find this similar. I will *NOT* be describing incest in this, it will only be implied, same as the movie.

As I have stated already, my laptop is broken at present so please excuse grammar mistakes and the lack of GIFs and pics.

Also, I do not own any image or gif used in this story.

HERE is the link to Chapter 1 on Ao3

Rating - Mature

Charlotte looked out the window forlornly. Thomas had not arrived, he said he would try and come by the Wednesday, that was a fortnight previous. Every day she waited patiently, and every day she was met with long hours staring out the window, only to be disappointed. She turned and walked over to the fireplace, sitting beside it.

She was still weak, tired and taking deep breaths hurt but she could walk around her room in short journeys, that was a considerable amount of progress. She was completely downtrodden. Dr Halford, the man that had tended to her in her sickness had to be called twice more since to Foxgrove. Lucille had begun to act incredibly oddly after a few days, shivering and gagging and all sorts of other things, he ascertained that she had become addicted to her opioids, something he was not privy to until he recognised the symptoms, then he suggested they wean her slightly from them, thinking her physician in Cumbria to be too heavy-handed. The second call was when she tore at her nurses viciously, her limbs thankfully not too strong but she screeched like a creature possessed and Dr Halford declared the opioids more than required and immediately drugged her again. Her speech was slurred from lack of use, but he thought her mad for her accusations that her brother and his wife had done it to her. With Dr Percival and Dr Thompson claiming her to have had strokes and seizures, he took her thoughts of what she thought to be attacks on her to blurred memories of Thomas and Charlotte aiding her, restraining her for her own good. When he explained this to her, Charlotte played innocent and stated that she and Thomas knew he would suggest a sanitorium had he been given all of her documentation, they hoped that they would not have to. Of course, Dr Halford immediately stated there was a wonderful and beautiful one in the area, that would tend to her very well, but Charlotte declined, stating that she did not want to make such a decision for Lucille, especially in her current weakened state.

She had yet to see Thomas Jr that day, causing her humour to be all the more glum. She had more staff than she knew what to do with, there was always someone flitting in and out of the room, but yet she felt more lonely than her days in Allerdale Hall before Mrs Phillips and Margaret came to work there. She wanted to go home. As a result of it all, she swore to herself that should Thomas not come by the following weekend, she would demand to return to Allerdale.

Sitting by the fire, hoping to stay warm, she felt herself doze off into a light slumber.

When Charlotte woke a time later, it was not from nightmares, cold or even a maid entering her room but from shouting out in the hallway. Frowning for a moment, she listened to the cries worriedly, thinking Lucille had done something mad. When she heard a cry about a “dog and the baby” she became worried some rabid animal had come to be in the house and was a risk to Thomas Jr. She forced herself from her chair and walked to the door as quickly as she could, worried about what she would meet on the other side, she braced herself, then opened it. There were maids acting as though the Viking invaders of old had come to purge the building of all souls within when Mr Matthews called from the bottom floor that he had a shotgun readied, she became worried for people’s safety.

“Lady Sharpe, get back into your room before you get harmed.” One of the maids ordered as she passed her.

“What is this of a dog and my son?” She whispered, her voice still recovering.

“There were a dog trying to get into the nursery, Ma'am. Some mud covered mutt, he were mad to get in there. When we tried to stop it, he ran off and is about the house now wrecking the place.”

“What is some random dog doing here?”

“I have no, idea Ma’am.”

“My house is descending into chaos.” Charlotte shook her head, hating the loud shouts and knowing they would be upsetting Thomas Jr, who was not used to such madness. “Honestly, everyone needs to…” Her instruction was interrupted by a bark. “No, it is not possible.” She whispered to herself. Another bark followed and a yelp. “Blake!” It hurt to shout but she did it at hearing the yelp. “Blake!” A moment later, there was a flurry of commotion before a chocolate coloured blur rushed the stairwell, the maid and servant at the top trying to prevent it coming up. “Out of the way,” Charlotte ordered them, walking swiftly to them. With them and their weapons of house cleaning utensils of a broom and mop, the dog made it up the stairs, panting excitedly and looking around. As soon as it saw Charlotte, it rushed to her and she fell to her knees. “It is not possible.” She beamed as she cuddled the muddy animal to her. “How are you here?” He barked excitedly and rushed into the room she had just exited, her following after. With another bark, she noticed he was at the window. Looking out, she saw the answer to her question.

A lone horse and rider were cantering the laneway up to the house. She knew immediately, from the very pits of her soul who it was riding the horse. With energy she should not possess, Charlotte walked as swift as she could to the stairs, Blake on her heels and walked down them.

“Lady Sharpe, you should be in bed, and that animal…” Mrs Matthews growled.

“I will return to it soon, and that is no mere animal, that is my Blake and he has just arrived from Cumbria. He is to be washed, dried and fed immediately.” She whispered as she passed her.

By the time she reached the end of the stairs, the rider was in her hallway, taking off his hat and looking around. When he saw her coming toward him, he gave a weak smile. “Lottie.”

“You are late.” She stopped descending the stairs to admonish him.

“I can only apologise profusely.”

“You could not have written?”

“I hoped to be faster than the mail.”

“I have been waiting like a fool for a fortnight.” She growled.

“I have been feeling remorseful for my delay since the Saturday morning I was supposed to depart.” He walked forward towards the stairwell. “I was also worried with only the shortest distance left in my journey, Blake ran off a mile or two from here and I could not find him, I can see he made his own way.” Thomas indicated to the muddy pawprints on the floor.

“He wanted to see Thomas.” Charlotte continued her journey down the stairs, looking at him as she did. “I am not dreaming still, you are here?”

“We are. Late, tired, bitterly cold but we are here.” Thomas confirmed. “We are all here.”

“You have been ill?”

“I have not done well in your absence,” Thomas confessed. “I see you decided to give yourself pneumonia in mine.”

“Planned, of course,” She scoffed.

“Obviously.” He took off his riding gloves and gently touched her cheek. “I have missed you beyond words.”

“As I have you.”

It was not proper, it was an utter social faux pas, but Thomas leant forward and kissed his wife, even with the majority of the staff of Foxgrove looking at them. “Where is our son?”

“Being held like a besieged prince in a tower.” Charlotte joked. “None knew Blake to be his guardian and have been ‘protecting’ him as a result.”

“He has missed his charge, he sniffed the cradle more than once for him.”

“He had his chance to come.”

“I needed him, he knew that before I ever did,” Thomas stated, causing Charlotte to look at him. “I will explain after I get some tea.”

“I think we can do that.”

Thomas smiled as he held his wife to him, clearly able to see she was weak. “Wonderful.” He turned to the startled looking Mr Matthews who was still brandishing his shotgun. “Good Sir, I do not think that necessary now, there is little threat here.”

“No, there is not. My apologies Sir Sharpe.” He caused the barrel of the shotgun to part and no longer be a risk to any.

“Mr Matthews was simply trying to protect Thomas.” Charlotte smiled.

“Of course,” Thomas ensured his face was one of relaxed demeanour. “Mrs Matthews, how wonderful to see you again.” He gave a slight bow as he addressed the startled housekeeper. “By any chance, may I have some tea?”

“Of course, Sir.” She extended her hand and took his hat and riding cape. “Sandwiches Sir?”

“Please, no dried meats though, I find them tough. Darling, let us get you sitting and we can talk more then.” He urged Charlotte to the drawing room they spent time in on their visit after they wed. “After, I would very much like to see Thomas.”

The house stood stoically still for a few moments longer as it tried to process the sheer madness that had descended on it a moment before.

“Someone catch that blasted dog.” Mr Matthews ordered as Blake continued to evade those trying to catch him to do as Charlotte had ordered. “And bath it before it wrecks the place.”

“Blake!” Margaret, who was the only one to recognise the dog, called him. Immediately, Blake recognised her and rushed over, sitting by her feet. “Bath.” She smiled. He barked happily and followed her.

“You wanted a loud and eventful home, My Dear.” Mr Matthews stated to his wife as she looked in horror at the mucky boot and pawprints that now littered the house. “Beware what you wish for.” He added as he went to put his shotgun away.

Thomas trotted most of the journey, stopping often on route to rest his horse. He could not acquire a carriage, so he simply took his horse. It meant travelling in horrid weather but seeing as the alternative was a winter without his family, to him, there was simply one option, to get there.

Blake ran most of the way beside the horse, tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth happily. As a hunting dog, it was in his very nature to run for hours on end. When they got close to Foxgrove, Thomas became worried when Blake rushed off through the trees. He could not follow on horseback but was relieved to see his chocolate coloured form rush in direction of the house. Often, Blake surprised Thomas, he seemed to know things a dog should not know. He watched as the dog made his way to the house, putting his heels into his horse’s sides to urge it into a gallop to end his own journey a tad faster.

When he arrived at the house, there was something akin to bedlam apparently occurring inside. He rushed the steps to see maids and servants acting as though mad and descending the stairs, her voice barely more than a whisper, her hair falling loose and looking pale and exhausted, yet incredibly hopeful, stood his Lottie. As soon as his eyes met hers, the darkness that had consumed his world, his shadows and ghostly cries all left his mind. Her brightness, her light banished them and all he felt once more were joy and happiness.

He did not care if their servants were there, he could not have cared less if the world was watching, he needed her embrace, her lips to his once more and heavens help whoever stood in their way. He wanted Thomas Jr too. He wanted his son but he knew he would not be able to hold him until he warmed slightly, so tea would see to that.

He sat her down close to a fire, moving a chair across from hers to face her. He looked at her face, realising her fight with her illness had stripped some of the bright youthfulness from her face.

As he looked at her, she too was looking at him. “When did you last rest well?”

“The night before you left, with you against me after I declared my adoration of you and your body physically.” He answered immediately. “I have not rested easy without you.”

“What happened?”

“I got snowed in, for two nights. It started just as we shut the mines and did not stop until two feet had fallen. Mrs Phillips could not get to me and I could not get out. On the Sunday, I was attempting to find food when the doors opened, Mr Parsons, Mr Carson and Edward were standing there, they came to get me from Allerdale Hall.”

Charlotte’s face was a mixture of shock and joy. “Edward?”

“Yes, He assisted them to get to me and allowed me to remain in his home for a week or so.”

“You stayed in Edwards?”

“He stated he could never look you in the eye again had he not tended to me.”

“Why did you require tending?” Charlotte asked, concerned for her husband. Were she to have lost her sight, she would have still been able to see his less than healthy state.

“As I stated, I have not done well without you, Lottie.”

“How so?”

“I...Let us just say, it was not pleasant and I may have slept all of two hours most days.”

“And I feel like I slept more like twenty-two. So between us, we slept for a day and neither of us is the better for it.”

Thomas chuckled. “It appears not.” He toyed with his hands slightly. For a moment, he contemplated telling Charlotte of his nightmares but thought not to in the end. Instead, he looked at her and smiled lovingly. “So, tell me of all that is occurring here?”

“I do not know, I have, until this time, been confined to my chambers in an attempt to recover. All of Carmarthenshire, Pembrokeshire and even London could have been here and I would not have known. Though I must warn you, Mr Longley has business he wishes to discuss with you. I was told to inform him of when you arrived to arrange such a meeting.”

Thomas frowned as he recalled the man from the previous autumn that ordered him, with utter clarity to have Charlotte with child post haste, he knew the man had no faith in Charlotte as a person, he had little idea was that based on her gender or her ability to play the fool, but either way, for all their acting to give the impression she was such, he despised people thinking such of his wife. She was an incredibly smart creature and he found it one of her most alluring qualities.

After their tea together, Charlotte’s exhaustion became too much for her once more and she had to be brought to the bedchambers for a rest, Thomas assisting her as he did so. He also cleaned himself and changed, relieved to have planned ahead and have sent some clothing with Charlotte on her journey. While she rested, he checked on Lucille, his jaw clenching when he was told of her attempts on a carer’s life when the opioids had been decreased. Then he went in search of his son. It took two maids to tell him where his son was even housed and he was startled to see that the nursery was very much kept away from the rooms he and his wife slept in.

On arrival at the nursery, he was allowed into the front area which housed the seating and such for Thomas’ nurses and wet nurse. Charlotte had informed him that due to her illness, she was not able to feed Thomas any longer. He saw the heartache in her features at that and knew that to Charlotte, it was an immense sadness, he consoled her by saying that it was a small price to pay for her to be well again. When he asked the nursemaid to see his son, he was startled by her answer.

“Sir Sharpe, we were not made aware you would ask to see him today, he is not fit to be presented.” She responded.

Thomas frowned for a moment as he processed her words. “What of my wife, was she not to spend time with him today?”

“I...well she was resting at the time allotted for such so we thought it best…”

Thomas rarely gave intimidating looks, but at that moment, he fixed one of ire and intimidation on the woman in front of him, causing her to silence. “Allotted? Allotted? And may I ask, who allots this time for my wife to see the child she carried and birthed?”

“Well, he has a schedule we must keep to…” The nurse answered.

“I asked who allots this time?” Thomas refocused his question.

“...Well….”

“Did my wife, the Lady of the house ‘allot’ it?” He practically spat the word back at her.

“No…”

“So she is to be dictated to, that is what you are telling me. The hired help tells Lady Sharpe when she is permitted to see her son. A nursemaid dictates Foxgrove Park, that is what you are telling me?”

“...I….”

“And when I, his father, your other employer state I wish to see him, I am told no also, that is what you are saying?”

“He is not fit to be presented…”

“He is a young infant, he is not being shown to society as a young gentleman for courtship. I am his father. I have held him as he has slept, as my wife prepared to feed him, for the first two months of his life, he slept in the same chambers as me, there is nothing of my son I am not aware of, his leg included, as well you know, so do not give me such excuses. I have gone the past two months without seeing my son. Half of his life I have been forcibly separated from him and then for some woman that I have never met of employment here to tell me no, that I, his father, a Baronet am forced to wait to see him on her command, his mother, a Lady of immense wealth is declined also by a person she pays…” He shook with rage as the woman in front of him quivered in fear.

“Sir, Sir he is sleeping at present.” Another less senior nursemaid informed him. “He will wake in the near future, we can have him brought to you then?”

Thomas inhaled deeply to calm himself before looking to the other nursemaid to speak. “I want my son given to me as soon as he is fed and cleaned. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I will be in the bedchambers, keeping my wife company.” She nodded nervously. He then looked to the head nursemaid who was still petrified on the spot. “I will not be so lenient in the future. If you deny a reasonable request by my wife or myself again regarding our son, you will be fired on the spot and I will ensure you will never be able to receive employment in Southern Wales and all of England for the rest of your years, am I clear?”

“...Yes….Sir.”

Thomas stormed out of the nursery wing without so much as a second glance. In the hallway, a terrified Jane, Mrs Matthews and a servant looked worriedly, having heard his angry tirade at the nursery staff for their insubordination.

Those who worked in Foxgrove were left under no false illusions after that day. The Sharpes were not going to conform to social norms regarding those of higher standing and their children and if it displeased Lady Sharpe, Sir Sharpe would rain down fury on any who displeased her.

When Charlotte woke from her rest, she heard Thomas’s voice before she even opened her eyes, telling her it was no dream, that he had arrived to her in Foxgrove. When she heard the words he was speaking, she turned to look at him and smiled.

Thomas Jr was on his father’s chest, his fingers toying with the lapel of his coat as Thomas told him of what he had been doing with the mines since their departure. Telling him that the day would come that he would be the Baronet of Allerdale hall and that the mines would be his. Thomas Jr simply seemed to be enjoying his father’s soothing voice. Beside them, on the ground looking cleaner and happier, was Blake.

“You’ve woken? I’m sorry, did we wake you?”

Charlotte looked at her worried husband. “No.” Her voice was broken as she attempted to speak so she said nothing else, instead of turning herself more and tried to lean up.

Thomas walked over to the bed with their son in his arms and sat beside her. “Lottie, what has been occurring here? The nursemaids would not allow me to see him and informed me you only are allowed to see him when suits them.”

“Before I got sick, they complied, after…”

“No more. I am here now and we will have our orders on him adhered to.” She smiled at his words.

They looked at their son, who seemed eager to go to his mother. Gently, she and Thomas orchestrated a manner for that to occur. He sat to the side so there was no chance of Thomas rolling off the side of the bed. “He misses you.” He noticed her tears. “Lottie?”

“I have not held him since, they...I was too weak.”

Thomas swallowed. Their son meant the world to her, she loved him more than her very being, to force her to be separated from him was a fate more cruel than even the worst of deaths for her. He had not experienced such a bond with his mother, she had fled Allerdale Hall mere days after he was born, her duty fulfilled, but Charlotte adored Thomas and he would not have her forcibly parted from him.

This to him was a reason to miss Allerdale Hall. As good as it was to have people tend to them in many ways, the fact many of those tending to them were forcing their ideals on them caused him consternation. Come the spring, he had little doubt but that Charlotte would yearn to return to Cumbria to continue a prefered life with their son.

He watched as she spoke with Thomas Jr, her voice loving and kind, making her face far more expressive so to invoke a reaction from him. More than once he seemed to look for his father too, smiling brightly at him as he did. A sense of contentment enveloped Thomas for the first time in some time.

TAGS; @ilovekingt @sigridlaufeyson @lokiloveheart @lokilover9 @whovianwookie86-captainxev @wolfsmom1 @perpetual-fangirl @texmexdarling

#lucille sharpe #thomas sharpe #crimson peak story #when ghosts come for us #crimson peak #chapter 52

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sakurakinmoto · 7 years ago

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*✧.:°░｡ — a very magical intro.

*ehem clears throat again* i have excitement and i have characters and lots of ideas. so love me and them, but mostly me.

lyssa beaumont

full name: alyssa odette beaumont

age: seventeen years old

blood status: pure - blood

year: 7th

school: beauxbatons academy of magic

pets: a snow white cat named toulouse aka tilly and the family owl, nice

social media: n/a, it’s a scary world she does not dive into.

future aspirations: french minister of magic

face-claim: ginny gardner

pinterest board: [ x ]

think of a modern version of the black family, if this world has a sacred 28, they are at the top of the list. the beaumonts are very influential and are practically the self proclaimed leaders of “ french magical society “ her father is the head of the magical law enforcement branch of the ministry and best friends with the minister of magic. they have all the connections and all the wordly charm. every member of her family attended beaxbatons and she’s the last to graduate her eldest sisters ( twins ) graduated two years ago and have been doing great things since then. it’s safe to say that alyssa or lyssa as she likes to be called has always had the weight of the world on her shoulders, she’s subjected to many expectations. now most people find her resume impressive, her parents? after what her sisters did? not so much, like they hold her to an impossibly high standard and nothing she does is ever really good enough. the difference with her and the fam though is that lyssa really does care, she has a good head on her shoulders and she wants to change the world not for the notoriety ( not that she dislikes it, she can command a room rather well ) but because she wants to make an impact. you know use her status for good and all that. she’s her school’s champion and it’s safe to say that she moves around with the popular crowd... she’s your local overachieving but very likable witch. don’t ask her about social media, muggles confuse her.

raine clarke

full name: lorraine sophia clarke

age: seventeen years old

blood status: muggle - born

year: 7th

house: ravenclaw

school: hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry

pets: a bowtruckle she rescued named peggy, she lives in her robe pockets.

social media: find her on all the sites user name @raineyclarke

future aspirations: taking a nap during history of magic

face-claim: lily collins

pinterest board: [ x ]

meet your fellow ravenclaw ditz, literally the embodiment of the phrase “ i’m going to wing it “ a 7th year, born in surrey. her dad’s a pediatrician and her mom is a school teacher, you know she’s had your perfect muggle upbringing with some weird happenings here and there. the reason? she’s the first witch in her entire family, she used to make dolls float, cookies fly on over to her when she wanted them too and her parents for a while just took to ignoring because no one could explain it until she got her letter. she’s always been curious, about the world around her and she’s always been a bit off. literally the most forgetful person you could ever meet, she sucks at figuring the riddles to get into ravenclaw tower so she’ll hold up the line for hours, she’s always late to class, falls asleep half the time, a dragon ate her homework and people are forever wondering if the sorting hat has gone senile... because what sort or ravenclaw is she? the worst to ever live. she tries tho, she’s a chatterbox too social for her own good and will chat up a snake if she could. she loves care of magical creatures, and will probably fight you over house elf rights or keep you from killing the fly on your sandwich. your expert on all things social media, has taught every pure-blood she meets about the wonders of a cell phone. 10/10 will put your life in danger be careful.

tommy shepherd

full name: thomas henry shepherd

age: seventeen years old

blood status: half - blood

year: 7th

house: thunderbird

pets: a rock, he’s too irresponsible to keep something alive.

social media: he has fansites, but his official name across social media is @shepherd14 ( 14 is his quidditch jersey # )

school: ilvermorny school of witchcraft and wizardry

future aspirations: to still be relevant in the quidditch scene five years from now

face-claim: matthew daddario

pinterest board: [ x ]

a quidditch protege, he’s been playing from the moment he learned how to ride a broom. he’s a seeker and has just been signed to a professional quidditch team so he’s a rising star. he has newly formed fan clubs, and he’s getting attention from girls and people who never really looked his way before, he’s in other words really enjoying himself. has quickly built himself a bit if a reputation with the ladies, one that didn’t exist before all of this. ( i want an ex female best friend who got tired of his shit and now she hates him, gimme the plot ) 10/10 will be an arrogant ass if you don’t know who he is. however outside of that and if you can get past his big head he’s actually quite a pal? very loyal and very protective. he’s one of five children and growing up in a household with tight economic status wasn’t exactly easy. now they aren’t lower class but they aren’t exactly rich either so he had to make do with what he got a lot of the time. that’s changing now, that he’s getting endorsement deals and he’s getting noticed which is why he’s begun to develop that big head. he kind of thinks the world owes him something now and he’ll walk around demanding. in other words feel free to kick him in the shin. underneath all that bravado he now has though, he’s a good person... it just may take a while for someone to find the real him.

#( character intro )#( drea talks )#( ch; alyssa beaumont )#( ch; lorraine clark )#( ch; thomas shepherd )#( v; hogwarts )

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icephas · 4 years ago

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Too Tired to Run - Rest and More

Wednesday, August 18

Elijah is too tired to run anymore. And so, he prays again. This prayer is very different from the faith-filled prayer that God answered on Mount Carmel (1 Kings 18:36, 37) in front of the priests and prophets of Baal, the members of the court, and the common people. This is a simple, short prayer of desperation.

In 1 Kings 19:4, Elijah states that he is no better than his fathers. What was he talking about?

When Elijah finally is still, guilt comes crushing in on him. He realizes that his quick exit has hijacked what could have been a great opportunity for reformation in Israel. He realizes that he has disappointed those who needed him. And he’s powerless to do anything about it. Thus, in a painful moment of self-reflection, knowing full well the history of his people, he sees himself for what he really is.

That can be a painful revelation for anyone of us, can’t it — that is, seeing ourselves for what we really are? How grateful we should be for the promise that, sinful as our lives have been, in Christ God will see us as He sees Jesus. What more hope can we have than that, by faith, we can claim for ourselves the righteousness of Christ? (See Philippians 3:9.)

Nevertheless, depression has a way of sucking us into a dark whirlpool of self-loathing. And sometimes we begin to think that death is the only way out.

This seems to be the case for Elijah. It’s all too much for him. He says, “It is enough; now, O Lord, take away my life; for I am not better than my fathers.“ (1 Kings 19:4).

The good news is that the great Healer doesn’t condemn Elijah. God understands better than we do what we are up against as we fight depression.

“We may have no remarkable evidence at the time that the face of our Redeemer is bending over us in compassion and love, but this is even so. We may not feel His visible touch, but His hand is upon us in love and pitying tenderness.” Ellen G. White, Steps to Christ, p. 97

God knows and understands that “the journey is too great” (1 Kings 19:7) for us, but sometimes He has to wait until we stop running. Then He can intervene.

Sometimes people who are drowning become so confused that they will fight a lifeguard off. The lifeguard then has to back off and wait to perform a rescue until the victim actually becomes unconscious.

What hopes and comfort can you find from the following texts: Psalms 34:18, Matthew 5:1-3, Psalms 73:26, Isaiah 53:4-6?

Thursday, August 19

God knows that all the running has made Elijah tired. God knows that more than being physically tired, Elijah is emotionally tired and carrying a tremendous load of guilt. Like Jesus would do for the paralytic so many years later, God wipes the slate clean and provides rest for Elijah. Finally, he can really sleep and be refreshed.

We would expect this to be the end of the story, but it isn’t. God’s rest is not a one-time event. Entering into God’s rest has to do with healing — with slowly unlearning negative thought patterns and destructive habits. God does not rush healing.

Read 1 Kings 19:5-8. Where is Elijah going now, and why?

After rest, Elijah is running again. But this time God reorients his running. God understands that life in this sinful world can and will cause depression. He understands our impulse to run, but He wants to redirect our running. Instead of all the self-destructive coping mechanisms we try, He wants us to run to Him. And once we start running to Him, He wants to teach us to listen for the “still small voice” (1 Kings 19:12) that will give us rest.

Elijah had no energy to lift himself up and make the journey to meet God. God provides the energy for the meeting, and God promises a better tomorrow.

As Elijah lay under his broom tree and wished to die, he believed that his best days were over.

Read 1 Kings 19:15, 16 and 2 Kings 2:11. What was still in store for Elijah?

God knew that better days lay ahead for Elijah. Healing would come for the prophet as he would learn to regulate his life by God’s rhythms and accept His rest. There were still kings to be anointed and a successor to be chosen. God already knew about Elisha, who would become as close as a son to Elijah. God knew that in faith Elijah would again call down fire from heaven (2 Kings 1:10). For Elijah, there would be no desperate death under a broom tree but rather a fiery chariot ride to heavenly rest.

What can we learn from the story of Elijah about why, no matter how bad we feel, in God’s strength we must still seek not to give up?

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thetonhq · 4 months ago

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what type of fcs are you looking for?

Face claims will depend on the family. For example, the royal family will have fcs such as Zawe Ashton, Lolly Adefope, Denée Benton, Halle Bailey, Regé-Jean Page, Jacob Anderson, Joel Fry and Matthew Broome. When we release the families, they will have fc suggestions!

#bridgerton rp #regency rp #period rp #secrets rp #new rp #theton;ask

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findingfeathersseanchaidh · 8 years ago

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Chapter 56: A Time to Hear

"Doctor Tyler?"

Amaya's voice broke through the silence of the medical bay like an axe through ice. Sound seemed to flood back: the hum of the engines, the buzz of the monitors, the sound of breathing. Of movement. Of life. The doctor's eyes unglazed, returning to their native hue. He blinked.

"Doctor Tyler?" Amaya repeated, stepping closer and reaching out a tentative hand to the newly discovered android.

"I'm fine," blurted Tyler, holding up one hand to halt her progress and pressing the other into the laboratory desk to steady himself.

Amaya paused, but she didn't retreat. "You do not look fine."

"I remember," explained the doctor. "It's... It's a lot to take in. Just... Just give me a moment. I'll be fine. Please: sit."

Amaya perched on the nearby stool, one arm resting on the worktop. "Rex..."

"Don't!" Tyler cut in raising a peremptory hand again. "That's not my name. I'm not him. I look like him. I have his memories. But I'm not him."

"Then who?" Amaya began, but she was interrupted yet again.

"Matthew," said the android. "My name is Matthew. Matthew Tyler."

XXXX

Christmas of the year fifteen ninety seven proved a plentiful one for William Sly. After an advent of fasting, broken only by the celebration of Gaudete Sunday on the third week, and only then by the court of the Queen, a place at any table would have been welcome. He was indeed welcome at the Condell table and lodged with Henry and his wife for two days after the great feast day and the promise to return for the celebration of the twelfth night and many meals between. Sly returned to his lodging burdened with spare pies and cooked meats, preserved fruits and savoury aspics, unequivocally convinced that Henry's claim was true: he had indeed married the best cook in London. The Christmas meal had been one that would long live in Sly's memory. Even now, the ghost of the scent of baked ham, stuffed with apricots, glazed with honey and studded with cloves, made his mouth water. The warm pastry of the minced mutton pie, shaped long, like a manger, made his stomach rumble in mourning. Saint Stephen's day had been a fish day, with a whole baked carp, stuffed with prunes and spiced with cloves and mace. A similarly aromatic and flavourful frumenty had accompanied each dish and a portion of it rested now in Sly's bag. Even the roasted vegetables, doused in honey and oil and winter savoury, brought fond memories to William's mind. A sealed jar of pureed apples, cooked with cream, rosemary and rose water, weighted down the bottom of the bag; while a lovingly wrapped, soft, moist gingerbread, redolent with an intricate dance of spices, rested safely on the top.

Already hungry with the thought of his burden, even though the midwinter sun had barely reached its zenith, Sly opened the door to his lodging house. The owner of the house, a tavern in truth, met him by the stairs, a broom in one hand and a folded, sealed letter in the other.

"Arrived yesterday evening, Sly," the landlord informed him, handing him the letter and turning back to his sweeping. "There be mutton and chicken stew a-cooking for this eve, and you'd be a welcome hand in here when the wassailing starts. T'would earn you a few coppers more while the season lasts."

"A few coppers more would be of use indeed," nodded Sly, taking the letter and clasping the man's hand in thanks and agreement. There would be more than a few coppers coming his way if he were in the alehouse. There would be whatever the drinkers were too drunk to miss. Turning the letter over in his hand, he ascended the stair to his rooms, laying the bag of vittles carefully by the bed. He broke the seal and held the paper to the light of the window. The scratchy cursive proclaimed the writer's identity before William had read a single word. He perused the paper, taking in the news from Stratford and his friend.

Shakespeare had bought a house, New Place, and had settled himself and his family there before Christmas, making it a double celebration. His epistle was filled with stories of his daughters: how they had grown, how they had changed, what endeavours they had succeeded in that past year and more, how they smiled when first they saw him, and how greatly they had appreciated the Yuletide gifts Sly had helped him pick out. The note ended with news of Anne. The distance still remained between them, but Will had hopes of closing it in the coming months. For these reasons he would remain in Stratford longer than anticipated: to help his family settle into their new home and to win back the heart, and the trust, of his wife.

Sly nodded thoughtfully to himself and placed the letter on his small wooden table that served as desk, library and wash stand. He would reply later. For now his mind was on other matters; namely finding storage space in his small rooms for the copious remnants of the Condells' Christmas feast. Yes, indeed, he thought: it would be no great hardship to him to spend as much of the Christmas season with Henry and Elizabeth as possible.

XXXX

The crew gathered on the bridge, standing or sitting in uneasy silence. They had all known, every one of them, that the man they called Rex Tyler was actually an android, and that they could not tell him until the virus struck. They had not known why. Matthew Tyler stood on the steps of the office, looking down at them all. He knew why. He also knew it was time to share that secret, and that so much more might make sense to them if he did.

As always, Mick was the last to shuffle through the doors, a bowl of popcorn in one large hand. "What? It's late, I'm hungry and this is the sequel we've all been waiting for since we first found out about the Tin Man!"

A look of understanding passed across Matthew's face. "That's why I never heard you use a nickname for me."

"Called you 'Doc', Doc," shrugged Mick, dropping down into a chair, a few scattered morsels of popcorn bouncing out of their bowl with the movement and pattering away across the metal floor of the bridge. "Well, get to it Tin Man: we're all ears."

Tyler nodded, as much to himself as to Mick. "You all know what I am: that I'm an android. You knew even before I did," he began, glancing warily from face to face. "What you don't know is who I am. You know me as Rex Tyler, and I thought I was, but it now seems that's not the truth."

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ofcourtfables · 11 months ago

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𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒏𝒐 𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒍. 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒏𝒐 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏. welcome B & KAU, you have been accepted into ofcourtfables. please have your account in within the next 24 hours or you risk your roles and face claims. also take a moment to look over our checklist.

‘ lee soo-hyuk, cis man, he/him, 36 / 360 , illyrian ’ ― cauldron save you. it seems IM DAEHO has been teleported to the dusk court, the GENERAL from THE NIGHT COURT is said to be STEADFAST and is said to describe themselves with WINNING THE BATTLE BEFORE STEPPING INTO THE FIGHT, WHISPERS OF OLD WOUNDS UPON YOUR SKIN AND EMBRACING THE DARKNESS TO BECOME LIMITLESS and with all of this in mind their RUTHLESS nature always seems to get them into trouble. may the mother hold them as they navigate this unthinkable time. ; written by b

‘ matthew broome, cis man, he/him, 25/250 , fae ’ ― cauldron save you. it seems CYRUS MOORE has been teleported to the dusk court, the GAURD from THE WINTER COURT is said to be LOYAL and is said to describe themselves with ANOTHER DAY PRETENDING TO BE OLDER THAN YOU ARE, CLOTHING SPECKLED IN PAINT STAINS AND AN EMPTY BIRD'S NEST AND A BROKEN WING and with all of this in mind their RETICENT nature always seems to get them into trouble. may the mother hold them as they navigate this unthinkable time. ; written by b

‘ anya chalotra, agender, they / them, 29 / 290 , high fae ’ ― cauldron save you. it seems IMALDA THAKKAR has been teleported to the dusk court, the MASTER ARTIST from NIGHT COURT is said to be DETERMINED and is said to describe themselves with THE RESONANCE OF WIND CHIMES ECHOING BEHIND SOFTENED STEPS ; THE SMEAR OF OILS AGAINST CANVAS OVERNIGHT TO DRY ; THE COOL WHICH APPEARS AT THE EDGE OF THE WOODS, RIGHT BEFORE RAIN'S FALL and with all of this in mind their FIXATED nature always seems to get them into trouble. may the mother hold them as they navigate this unthinkable time. ; kau, taking up the second wc for kalore's spy! ; written by kau

‘ theo james, demi man, he / him, 38 / 380 , high fae ’ ― cauldron save you. it seems ROLAND ACHESON has been teleported to the dusk court, the HIGH RULER from SPRING COURT is said to be CLEVER and is said to describe themselves with GOOSEBUMPS THAT RIPPLE ACROSS BARE ARMS WHEN THE NIGHTS ARE COLD AND THE DAYS STILL WARM ; DIFFERENT SMILES PUNCTUATING SENTENCES WITH FINALITY TO DETERMINE TONE ; SOFT TOUCH TO STEM OF ROSE, ONLY TO JERK BACK WHEN THE THORN PRESSES TO THE THUMB and with all of this in mind their TEMPESTUOUS nature always seems to get them into trouble. may the mother hold them as they navigate this unthinkable time. * since he is the high ruler, also taking this wc off the main! ; written by kau

#mumu rp #appless rp #fantasy rp #period rp #oc rp #active rp #mature rp #ofcourtfables:accepted

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hphmmatthewluther · 3 years ago

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Threads of Silver: Prelude - The Family Tree

Here we go!! The beginning (well, not exactly) of Threads of Silver! This little introduction features @nikyiscreepy ‘s Persephone Palerosine, as well as a mention of @the-al-chemist ‘s little gremlin...

***

“Hey, Matt!” Mayson Kowalski exclaimed, smiling. “How’re you today?”

“Mayson.” Matt said, clicking his tongue. “You need some of my notes again?”

The younger cousin’s cheeks went pink. “I…uh…” He stammered, before quickly regaining his composure. “Can’t I just say hi to my favourite cousin?” he asked innocently.

Mayson’s eyes widened. “Aw, c’mon, man…I’m getting help with my broom-riding from her, ya can't…”

“Agree to disagree.” Matt said, pushing the hair out of his face, “so, what do you need?”

At that point, the brown-haired girl yelled out for Mayson, and Matt noticed her socks, which had cat faces, were starting to hiss.

***

“What?!” Mayson exclaimed later that night in the Slytherin Common Room, with most of the rest of Slytherin up in their dorm rooms. “You’re the “resident history expert”?!”

Merula Snyde huffed, placing down a large collection of notebooks and parchments . “Is that what you called me, Luther? Really, you’re too kind…”

Mayson looked up at her, a little confused. “I…I thought I was just gonna take the notes?”

Merula scoffed at the suggestion. “Nonsense. I’m not just going to let you copy my notes, you’ve got to have the full understanding. This is our history, y’know. Literally.”

Mayson raised an eyebrow. “Whaddya mean, “literally”?”

Merula nodded. “See? And he only knows all of that because I explained it to him so brilliantly.”

Mayson shrugged. “...It’s either this or meticulously copy the notes, I suppose…alright. Let’s do this. We…don’t have to do it all tonight, do we?”

Matthew shook his head. “Nah, we’ll space it out. Your assignment is submitted in chunks anyway, so this’ll help.”

“Right!” Merula exclaimed. “If you’re both ready, I’m going to start…now…let’s see…Ah ha. Perfect. We’ll start with The Dream.”

#hphm #hogwarts mystery #founders' era #threads of silver #matthew luther #merula snyde #mayson kowalski #artemis hexley #persephone palerosine #lachlann doherty #gabriel osada #rousalie osada

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nolimitsongrace · 5 years ago

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The Birth of Bulldog Faith

5 Characteristics of Bulldog FaithMarch 14, 2018Do you have bulldog faith? You can! Learn the 5 characteristics of bulldog faith and start pursuing what belongs to you today!Bulldogs have a reputation. Sure, they have cute wrinkles on their foreheads, but it isn’t their appearance that draws the most attention. Bulldogs are a breed of remarkable ferocity, courage and tenacity of grip. They are stubbornly aggressive, persistent and determined. If something that belongs to you gets in a bulldog’s mouth—don’t plan on getting it back! He’ll hold on, lock down and stand his ground much longer than you’ll want to hang around. That’s tenacity!As Christians, we need to be just like the bulldog when it comes to the promises of God. We need to have bulldog faith.Why do we need bulldog faith?We have an enemy who doesn’t want us to have what Jesus paid to restore to us. The devil knows we can have anything and everything we need and desire simply by having faith—so his plan is to drain, weaken and wear down our faith through continual pressure, disappointments and discouragement. He wants us to back down and give up. He wants us to live in a constant state of retreat. He wants us to lose.If you’re fed up with the devil stealing your blessings, and you’re ready to claim what is rightfully yours in Christ, it’s time to develop these five characteristics of bulldog faith.1. Bulldog Faith Is Aggressive “The kingdom of heaven has been forcefully advancing, and forceful men lay hold of it.” –Matthew 11:12 (NIV-84)Faith is more than believing. The very nature of faith is aggressive, persistent, determined, tenacious, confident and commanding. It is always moving forward and continually reaching for its goal. Faith is not passive, retreating or moving backward. Like a bulldog, it seizes with a grip that cannot be shaken off.So, where is your faith today? Take a moment and consider the following.Are you maintaining or pursuing?Are you holding the fort or taking new ground?Are you settled into the status quo or reaching up to the next level?Are you throwing in the towel or going in for the next round?Are you settled in to what you already have or aggressively possessing all that is rightfully yours?God has given us everything by His grace, but we must take it forcefully with our faith. It won’t just fall into our laps. Just as you had to have faith to take salvation, you must also have faith to take every other blessing available to you as a child of God. But, you’re going to have to be willing to fight for it.Why is faith a fight?When we “fight the good fight of faith” (1 Timothy 6:12, KJV), the Greek translation describes this as fierce combat with an adversary. If a parent hands his child lunch money, it is a gift meant for that child. On the way to school, the boy may face adversaries who want to take the gift from him. He will have to fight to keep it! The same is true with the blessings of God. He has freely given them, but we have an adversary who wants to take them from us.That’s why you need to seize your blessing with a grip that can’t be shaken off. Weak faith isn’t going to produce. That’s why Gloria Copeland says, “If you let it go, it’s gone. If you don’t let it go, it’s still operating.”In other words, aggressive faith doesn’t draw back. Hebrews 10:38-39 (KJV) says, “If any man draw back, my soul shall have no pleasure in him.” Does that mean God doesn’t like you if you draw back? No. It means it is His pleasure for you to have what He’s promised you, and when you draw back, He knows you are drawing away from THE BLESSING.That’s why you need aggressive, bulldog faith. The kind of faith that is never passive. Don’t ever let the devil catch you being passive!There was a time when Brother Copeland’s mom needed to get the devil out of a situation in her life. When he told her to take authority, she gently and quietly said, “Now Satan, now in the Name of Jesus….” He stopped her and said, “Mama, if a big, muddy sow came walking through the back door of your spotlessly mopped and clean house, what would you say?” She said she would chase him out swinging a broom! Then he said, “Mama, there’s something a whole lot more dangerous than a sow hog that has come into this place.” That’s when she got aggressive in kicking the devil out of her territory—God’s territory.You can’t afford to be passive about anything where the curse is concerned. You can’t afford to be passive about the Word, you can’t afford to be passive about any attack in your life. No. It is time to take up arms and fight the good fight of faith—aggressively!Learn more about Bulldog Faith from Gloria Copeland and Pastor George Pearsons in this video.Want to get notified the next time we upload videos like the one above? It’s easy, simply subscribe to our YouTube channel2. Bulldog Faith Bites Down and Won’t Let Go “Let us hold fast the profession of our faith without wavering.” –Hebrews 10:23 (KJV)If you take a good look at the face of a bulldog, you’ll notice his jaw protrudes, while his nose is indented. This allows him to bite down and hold on to something almost indefinitely. Bulldogs are stubborn—refusing to let go once they’ve locked on. You can try to pull something out of a bulldog’s mouth, but it won’t let go. It will not give up.That is a picture of you as a believer!You have to bite down on the Word of God—who you are, what you have and what you can do. The devil will try to take it from you, but don’t give up, don’t quit. Be a bulldog where the Word of God is concerned.The Bible is full of examples of bulldog faith. In Luke 18, Jesus shares a parable that illustrates this type of faith in the persistent widow. She needed justice from a judge, so she pursued it relentlessly, and she did not stop until she got what she wanted. She refused to give up; and she tenaciously, stubbornly and persistently kept coming and would not quit.That’s how you need to be in your faith. Don’t let go of your dream. Don’t let go of your passion. Don’t let go of your faith. Don’t let go of your hope for restored family relationships, your dream home, your dream job, healing and freedom from debt. Don’t let go!How do you not let go?Keep talking it. Keep speaking it. Keep believing it. Keep it in front of you. Develop your ability to see things that be not as though they were. And don’t let situations put constant pressure on you—you keep the pressure on your situation.It takes aggressive action to get aggressive results. But, in due time—you will reap. You’ll see it come in. You’ll see it become reality. It will manifest.Bite down on the Word like a bulldog, and don’t let go until it is yours.Click here for a Confession of Determination you can recite today.3. Bulldog Faith Never Takes No for an Answer“This is the victory that has overcome the world—our faith.” –John 5:4 (NKJV)The doctor says, “No, you won’t get better. No, you won’t walk again. No, you can’t have a baby.” Your employer says, “No, you can’t have a raise, and no, we don’t have room for promotion here.” The world says, “No, you can’t enjoy that kind of prosperity without the right degree or climbing the ladder for 30 years.” But what do you say? What does Godsay?Every opportunity before you is an opportunity for either faith or failure—the choice is yours.In the book of Mark, blind Bartimaeus chose faith and persisted until he got his healing:When Bartimaeus heard that Jesus of Nazareth was nearby, he began to shout, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” “Be quiet!” many of the people yelled at him. But he only shouted louder, “Son of David, have mercy on me!” (Mark 10:47-48).The world was telling him to be quiet and stop claiming what belonged to him, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer.The result?“What do you want me to do for you?” Jesus asked, “My Rabbi,” the blind man said, “I want to see!” And Jesus said to him, “Go, for your faith has healed you.” Instantly the man could see, and he followed Jesus down the road (v. 51-52).He was fed up with being blind. He got persistent with his faith, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer.The persistent widow and Bartimaeus both applied nonstop, constant, continual, steady, relentless pressure on their covenant and on the devil. They did not let go, and they got what they were after. So can you.Don’t let what others say or the passing of time affect your faith. Bulldog faith never quits. Bulldog faith says, “God’s Word is mine now. Devil, you can’t take it from me. Just be assured—when this is over, I win!”4. Bulldog Faith Is Fully Persuaded“And being fully persuaded that, what he had promised, he was able also to perform.” –Romans 4:21 (KJV)At 100 years old, you would have to be fully persuaded to believe you would be the father of many nations! And that’s exactly what Abraham was—fully persuaded.What does that mean?Fully persuaded doesn’t mean hoping something is true, wishing to believe it’s true, or liking the idea. It doesn’t even mean thinking it could probably happen. No. Being fully persuaded means you are completely convinced, without a doubt, that what God has said will absolutely come to pass.How did Abraham stay fully persuaded in spite of an impossible situation? He focused on God’s Word and refused to pay attention to natural circumstances. He wouldn’t allow himself to waver, hesitate or doubt. He didn’t flip-flop back and forth from faith to fear. He stood firm.You can develop the same kind of fully persuaded “bulldog faith.” Start by confessing the following:“I heartily agree with everything God has said about me in His Word.”“I heartily agree with God’s Word that I am healed.”“I heartily agree with God’s Word that I am prosperous.”“I heartily agree with God’s Word that I am redeemed.”When you become completely confident, you will dare to believe God instead of natural circumstances. You will come to expect those promises to come to pass in your life. You can walk in the same fully persuaded “bulldog faith” that Abraham did and receive your promise, just as he did.5. Bulldog Faith Takes It“How long are you going to sit around on your hands, putting off taking possession of the land that God…has given you?” –Joshua 18:3 (MSG)How long have you been waiting for a promise to manifest in your life? Those promises already belong to you (Ephesians 1:3), just like the Promised Land already belonged to the Israelites. All they had to do was take it. But they let fear stop them and cause them to postpone and put off taking what was rightfully theirs.Bulldog faith doesn’t waste time. Bulldog faith takes it.Second Peter 1:3-4 says, “His divine power has given us everything we need for life and godliness through our knowledge of him who called us by his own glory and goodness. Through these he has given us his very great and precious promises…” (NIV-84).Whatever you need already belongs to you. How long are you going to wait to possess it?You can claim what is yours—NOW!How do you possess your land? You claim it by faith! For example, if you need financial provision, take these steps:Say, “I claim the money I need as a child of God, according to His promises.”Say, “Satan, take your hands off my money.”Say, “Ministering spirits, go, and cause the money to come.”Bulldog faith commands what rightfully belongs to you to come to you. It calls into existence the things that do not exist.Bulldog faith commands things desired from out of the spirit realm into the natural realm. That’s exactly what the centurion did in Matthew 8:8-10. He said, “Speak the word only, and my servant will be healed” (KJV). In other words, he was telling Jesus, “Your Word is the only evidence I need.” Jesus took notice of this kind of faith. The greatest faith is faith in God’s Word and its authority alone, not demanding any physical evidence.Bulldog faith is not afraid to put pressure on the Word by making a faith demand on your covenant and expecting what is already yours. God will always supply as long as there is a demand. “Take it when you pray! Then you can drive it, live in it and spend it.” –Gloria CopelandWhen you get aggressive, bite down on the Word of God, refuse to take no for an answer, and are fully persuaded when you take it, you will develop a bulldog faith that will defeat the enemy every time. You will reap a harvest if you don’t let go of your bulldog faith. You can live and walk in everything God’s covenant promises—just don’t let go!Related Articles:A Confession of Determination© 1997 - 2020 Eagle Mountain International Church Inc. Aka Kenneth Copeland Ministries. All Rights

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blackburnianmorning · 8 years ago

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As It Began to Dawn

Sermon Preached Easter Sunday, April 20, 2014

There’s a story making the rounds about a woman who looked out of her kitchen window one day to see her German shepherd shaking the life out of a neighbor's rabbit. Her family did not get along well with the people next door, so she knew this was going to be a disaster.

She managed to distract the dog with a broom until he dropped the now extremely dead rabbit. She panicked. She did not know what to do. So she grabbed the rabbit, took it inside, gave it a bath, blow dried it to its original fluffiness, combed it out until the rabbit was looking good, snuck into the neighbor's yard, and propped the dead rabbit back up in its cage. An hour later she heard screams coming from next door. She called over the fence, "What's wrong?" and the neighbor said, "Our rabbit! Our rabbit! He died a week ago. We buried him, and now he's back!"

People in the ancient world knew dead rabbits tend to stay dead. They also knew that dead rabbis tend to stay dead, too. The theologian N. T. Wright notes that there were many messianic movements in the first century. And in every case, the would-be Messiah got crucified by Rome just as Jesus did. But not in one, single other case do we hear the slightest mention of the disappointed followers claiming their hero had been raised from the dead. They knew better."

That’s what makes our story different. It is so implausible that it has to be true…you couldn’t make it up! We know the end of the story of Jesus’s death on the cross. We’ve had the spoiler alert. And yet, we come back again and again…we LOVE the story of Easter.

On Good Friday, I got a facebook message from my friend Mary, sending all her colleagues in ministry a prayer. She prayed that we would just simply and faithfully tell the story: Of women in the dawn hush ...of men running half-believing ...of rolled stones and folded grave-clothes ...of a supposed gardener saying the name of a crying woman ...of sad walkers encountering a stranger on the road ...of an empty tomb and... of overflowing hearts. We’re here to hear the story again.

Many people go to extraordinary lengths to avoid hearing the end of a story — films they haven't seen yet or books they haven't read yet. They get very upset if they learn the ending. The famous movie reviewer Roger Ebert once warned his fellow critics that they don’t have the right to play the spoiler. But there was an interesting study a couple of years ago from two researchers at the University of California, San Diego. The study suggests that spoilers don't spoil stories. Instead, contrary to popular wisdom, they might even enhance our enjoyment of a story. The study ran three experiments based on 12 short stories. Each version of the story was read by at least 30 people. Surprisingly, the researchers found that the participants preferred the "spoiled" versions of suspenseful stories. For example, in one case, participants were told before reading the story that a condemned man's daring escape is all just a fantasy before the noose snaps around his neck. That spoiler alert helped people enjoy the story more.

One of the researchers had a theory about why people liked getting a spoiler alert. He said, "It could be that once you know how [the story] turns out … you're more comfortable processing the information and you can focus on a deeper understanding of the story."

We hear the Easter story, again and again every year. We love the story, and it doesn’t hurt at all that we know the ending…in fact I think it’s true: It helps us enjoy it more and maybe, if we allow it to, it might lead us to a deeper understanding.

Because that’s what I want to uncover this morning. I want to uncover what impact the Easter story has on your life. How does the resurrection shape and form the way you live? And do you really know the story for yourself? I wonder if we might just accept it as we’ve been told it, without really experiencing resurrection ourselves? I’ve been thinking about these things for some time now. And I found an image that I think captures the conundrum.

This is a painting by Frank Wesley. I found it in a book by Naomi Way called Exploring Faith with a Brush. I’ve seen two names attributed to the painting. On Frank Wesley’s website it’s called "The Two Marys and the Tomb." In the book, it’s called“As It Began to Dawn” - I like this second title much better. I came upon the image about six months ago while I was on retreat in TX and I was immediately drawn to it — I adopted it as my personal icon during the retreat and used it to guide my prayer time. When I came home, I made it the wall paper on my computer, so I’ve seen it hundreds of times. And every time I do, I find it to be a striking image. It’s a moment within that first verse of our reading from Matthew: “Early on Sunday morning, as the new day was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went out to see the tomb.” I believe the painting captures the precise moment, when, the tomb first comes in to view. It’s just barely getting light, perhaps misty fog was hanging in the air.

It’s a captivating and haunting image, all at once. The Mary in the foreground is the older woman. She is bent with grief; beyond consolation. Her gaze is blind, downward, she is not open to any other answer than what she knows in her pain. The other Mary, the younger woman, has her arm protectively around the older. She’s looking up, perhaps at something that surprises her. It is the moment when suddenly, there is a new possibility — that there may be a different ending to the story. Her faces registers confusion, but there’s a flash of hope there too.

Two Marys, and two very different ways of experiencing the moment of possibility. For me, they have merged into one person, representative of myself perhaps — two sides of the same person that lives and experiences life and faith in very different ways.

There are well-known theories in psychology that suggest we all hold differing images of ourselves. How you understand yourself or yourselves affects the way we live, make choices, and choose pathways for ourselves. The past decade has had an explosion of research into this from the fields of psychology, neuroscience and behavioral economics. The traditional model of how we make choices is centered around psychic conflict, warring parts of the mind, instinct vs. reason, id against ego, unconscious motivations avoiding conscious recognition that sort of thing. It sounds like a lot of psycho-babble if it weren’t also true to our experience. We have two-sides to ourselves. Maybe it’s the inward and outward self, maybe it’s the physical and spiritual self. If you dig deep enough, you’ll uncover this incongruity — where something doesn’t match up. The research paints a picture of human intellect or reason as fighting forces within us that lead us astray. But there has always been an optimism about overcoming these influences through self-awareness and discipline. I will add one more reason to have confidence that we can introduce the two sides of ourselves to each other, and in the process become a whole person. Easter is what gives me this hope.

Let me give you a very simple example. I have two selves that often butt heads in the morning. I sometimes have trouble getting myself to do the things I love to do, like taking an early morning walk. I love to walk, I really do. So why don’t I do it all the time? When I take a walk, I experience both ups and downs. I love the early morning before the sun comes up, it’s a great time for thinking and praying, this time of year the birds are singing – which is an added incentive. These are the reasons I love to walk. But there are also down-sides to taking a walk, like getting out of bed (I’ve been known to have a bad snooze button habit). I also get painful shin splints sometimes, and blisters on my feet and if I push myself into a jog as I know I should, I get really winded. So when I think of taking a walk, my two selves argue about it all the time. Which will win? The self who treasures life-giving, pleasurable activity of walking? Or the self that indulges the sleep-inducing, lethargic choice of staying in bed?

Now let’s be clear…I don’t think it’s supposed to be this way. It just is this way. It is a consequence of our human condition. Our fate was sealed back in the Garden of Eden – our two selves: the life receiver, obedient to God, and the death-receiver, the one who turns away from God to serve his own selfish desires. There are parts of ourselves that are glorious — we soar above the angels when we have it all together. Our best selves are creative, caring, vital and thankful — all the time. Our worst selves are full of doubt, driven by fear, stooped by pain and struggling just to put one foot in front of the other much of the time. Who wins for you most days? Is it your best self or your worst self? I think at best I’m usually trying to strike a balance between the two. But even that isn’t as God intends it. God intends that we be wholly and completely alive.

In his book, A New Harmony, John Philip Newell talks about this problem. The problem of our fragmented selves. He quotes the famous psychologist Karl Jung, who said that wholeness in a person is about “integration . . . but not perfection.” Newell goes on to say that wholeness is about bringing into relationship again the many parts of our lives, including our brokenness, in order to experience transformation. It is not about forgetting the wound or pretending it didn’t happen. It is about seeking a new beginning that grows inseparably out of the suffering. It is not about returning to Eden, an unblemished state of innocence within us or between us. It is about bringing our origin in Eden, the root that connects us still to the sacredness of our beginnings, into the depths of our exile from Eden, including all of the woundedness that false decisions and wrong turns have created within us and between us in our lives.

This painting tells the beginning of the story. The two women and the way they met the dawning of the new day. But after the earthquake, after the stone is rolled away, after the angels tells them the amazing news, Verse 8 says: " They left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy, and ran to tell his disciples.” Their sorrow, their grief, their brokenness was made whole and turned to joy. They were transformed...the resurrection made them new.

If we are to take the Easter story and own it for ourselves, Christ’s resurrection means that new life is available to all. Easter is a dying and rebirth — a chance to move forward with a wholeness that has eluded us until now. Christ died so that all that is broken in us may die with him. Christ rose so that we might be wholly alive. Knowing the end of the story helps us to own it and take its meaning into our own lives.

That is our story, and when we live it and experience the resurrection with Jesus Christ, we truly own the good news ourselves. Allow that which is life-draining to die on the cross. Allow that which is new and life giving to be reborn from the empty tomb.

Because death is not the last word. Grief is not the last word. Brokenness is not the last word. Fear is not the last word. Violence is not the last word. Hate is not the last word. Betrayal and failure are not the last word. No: each of them are left like folded grave clothes in a tomb, and from that tomb, arises Christ, alive. May we arise this day with Him.

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