#this big field of rye and all

[this-big-field-of-rye-and-all]

Depression is over or am I repressing myself as usually?

[this-big-field-of-rye-and-all]

Other day on planet Earth.

On April 22nd, I have a personal interview for the master's degree, and on April 24th, the admission exam takes place. Please wish me luck.

(Also, wish me luck in finding a job to cover the master's degree fees and move out of my parents' house).

tumblr mutual is becoming a scientific collaborator

[bibyvariable]

Salmon Run

A HEFTY VOICE MESSAGE FROM LOUISE CARRIGAN TO HER WIFE, ANNE DAVIS, FALL 17770.

Immortality’s a funny thing. I think—I think I forgot how to struggle. Before us, I mean. You know, back home in Alaska. Yeah, of course there was always some kinda crap, but mostly it was the same stuff day-in-day-out. I’d go to work in the morning and leave work in the afternoon. My job was important, sure, but I’d been doing it so long it just felt like busywork. The day I got my position, though, it felt good. That was what, almost sixteen thousand years ago? Way before we met...

Isn’t that crazy? I lived almost a hundred and sixty lifetimes before I met you.

It definitely didn’t feel like it.

Anyways, on with the message—sorry, this one’s gonna be a devil to listen to. Tell your brother I say hi, by the way! I’m only about 9 hours to Asheville now. Might be a tad more, ‘cause the truck tire just popped. You know, it was just some nail lying about on the road. And the thing is, the roads here are real nice!

ANYWAYS, for real this time, I was finally doing something to give back to the environment. Lord, we really fucked everything up. When I took the job, the chinook runs were really bad. I mean, so many of those salmon were dying during the run or before the run and it was just hell at the fishery. It got better, of course. It all got better, but then there wasn’t this constant stress anymore. After a while they were fine. Still needed management, but it wasn’t as crazy as it used to be. No more fighting with the fishermen ‘cause they didn’t live off of it, you know. Most of the people who fished then were just hobbyists and families—didn’t need much management then. So I went to work and I picked up any book I had lying around the house. This was before I went to college for the first time, so it was just everything I had from high school.

So I started reading Catcher in the Rye, you know, with Holden Caulfield and that hunting hat of his? And I was reading it at work and he said something that kinda snapped me out of everything. He said, “mothers are all slightly insane.” And you know what, that really got me thinking. My mom had been gone a while and I’d been at peace with it a while, too. There were hard days and there will always be hard days, but what I really missed was something she used to do when I was in high school. You know how much of a shit I was then, I took nothing seriously, and you know, she’d always tell me, “God’s watching, Louise.” It wasn’t in too serious a tone, but man, she said it all the damn time. And whenever I fumble one of your absolute dimes, I hear her in my head, going “God’s watching, Louise.” And she had that real thick Appalachian accent too—if you thought mine was bad, you shoulda met her. And I’d tell her right back, “Oh I know he’s watching. Bet he’s cracking up watching me stumble ‘cross the field.”

Anyways, back then when I worked at the fishery, I never did anything that would make her say that. Nothing that was crucial—you know, critical, in-the-moment stuff that God would wanna be watching. I had so much time there. I still have so much time here. And so one day I went out to one of the rivers and I looked at all the salmon, swimming upstream and strugglin’ forever against the current. And I said to myself, I wanna do that. I wanna feel anxious again. I wanna be embarrassed again. I want to trip over my own shoelaces in the middle of the big game.

And it’s kinda funny, cause after that happens, you’re like, “good Lord Above, I never wanna experience that ever again.” But it’s a lie, cause when things get too good, then they’re not good anymore, you know? And I guess that why we do it. Why I keep going back to college even though school’s always my least favorite thing in the whole wide world. And why I keep trying new sports even though the only one I’m good at is that damned football. Hey, I mean, hockey’s fun, but Christ am I a crap skater.

And I guess most important, it’s how I met you—Lord do I remember that! Spillin’ my water and all that fuss. Damn near our whole relationship was swimming upstream, you know that? But shit if it wasn’t worth it. Everything was worth it. I mean, I’ll probably use that radiochemistry knowledge somewhere…

Well, I don’t even know what I’m talking about anymore. I was just thinking and didn’t want to forget anything. But now I’m rambling again. Sorry bout that. Now this thing’s gonna be like an hour long. I’ve gotta quit while I’m ahead. Love you, babe. See you tomorrow.

[itsfunnybcuzitstrue]

in part 1, chapter 10 of 'solitaire' tori falls asleep and says

"in my dreams i'm running around in circles atop a cliff, but there's a boy in a red hat catching me every time i try to jump off."

in 'the catcher in the rye'- the book that alice oseman has repeatedly said 'solitaire' is inspired by- the main character holden caulfield wears a red hunting hat throughout the book. in chapter 22, holden says

"anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around— nobody big, I mean— except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff— I mean if they’re running and they don’t look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That’s all I’d do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I’d really like to be."

it seems that to pay homage to the catcher in the rye massively influencing solitaire, alice oseman wrote that tori spring literally dreamt about being caught by holden caulfield- the catcher in the rye himself

i could write a long analysis on the common themes of the catcher in the rye and solitaire here, but the full post of comparisons is coming very soon

edit: click here for the full post on the catcher in the rye and solitaire <3

[pandafishao3]

TEASER Breeding/Lactation

YOU GUYS I went right ahead and did it, didn't I. I wrote an AU for my Milk Farm AU where Steve has Bucky as a private little cow hybrid in his own farm instead of a big factory and I am NOT SORRY. The full thing will be posted during Kinktober but for now, please enjoy a little teaser! I am seriously so excited to share this with you all, I cannot WAIT till Kinktober!

Steve yawned as he poured coffee into a cup and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. The mornings started early out on the farm. The sun had just started climbing over the treeline across the golden rye fields, and it made the rustic kitchen warm and cosy. The little cottage had been in his family for generations, but Steve really felt like he’d added his own personal touch to it by re-painting the kitchen a soft green and building a proper dining room table out of sturdy oak wood. The clunky ceramic cups and white, embroidered curtains all spoke of the work of his mother, grandmother and great-grandmother, however. Steve liked the reminder of them, especially now that he was left to manage the farm alone.

“Meow?”

The sound of his cat Alpine jumping on top of the counter and chirping as she trotted towards him made Steve smile. He reached out his hand and she immediately buffed her fluffy, white head against it in a friendly gesture.

“Hi Al. Where you’ve been? Out wreaking havoc in the stables?” he winked at her and she promptly sat down and started licking her paw like she’d never done anything wrong in her whole life. In her mind, she probably ran the whole farm.

Steve huffed out a warm laugh to himself and went back to his coffee. But when he reached into the fridge, he noticed that he was completely out of milk. Oh well. He was heading to the barn anyway – the only reason he was up with the rooster was so he could get the milking done. After pouring Alpine some wet food, Steve took his coffee cup and went outside.

The flannel shirt he was wearing over his worn, patched jeans would be too hot in a few hours, but for now it was just perfect. Steve fondly watched his chicken pick at the corn on the ground as he walked past, and made a mental note to himself to go check on the rhubarb after this. He would need to tinker with the tractor too, since it had been acting up lately and it almost time to bring in the very first harvest of the summer. The barley would be done in a week or so.

But before that, he looked forward to spending the morning with his favourite pet.

“Good morning, my little moo. You up yet?” Steve smiled as he walked into the small barn. In the corner, his two goats and their babies looked up at him lazily and then went back to resting. The kids bleated and then ran out of their hatch to play outside, so Steve was in no hurry to take care of them. They pretty much took care of themselves, and he mostly used them for company and as lawnmowers.

But his little moo was a different story.

“Bucky? Where are you, honey?” he sing-songed as he walked further down the aisle. There, in his stall, his beautiful cow hybrid looked up from the mound of straw and blankets where he slept. His pretty little face instantly lit up in a bright smile and he mooed in that adorable way that only he could. “There you are! Are you still sleeping?” Steve teased him softly and leaned his elbows on the wooden door so he could watch Bucky struggle to get up.

Please let me know if you want any more of these teasers! Love you all <3

“Nooo, m’awake!” Bucky insisted with a cute pout and hurried to untangle himself so he could get to his owner. It wasn’t easy with his little hooves slipping on the floor and his tail getting caught up in the blanket, but he managed to get to his feet and tiptoe all the way to Steve. There, he immediately pushed up against the door and buffed his head against Steve’s chest, cooing happily all the time.

🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷

Credit for the header: Evangelitaa on Pinterest

[sir-walton-goggins]

Starry Night

(click on the title to read it on ao3!)

Summary: a peaceful evening in Horseshoe Overlook; two lovers, starry-eyed, just like the sky above them.

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem OC (Kris Blake)

2,397 words

Just pure fluff and a whole lot of pining from both.

Header by @raevennsge<3

The distant sound of a banjo spreading throughout the chilly, early spring evening; an opening in the thick cloud veil revealing the purple, blue and white swirls of the Milky Way, adorned with all its small, shining stars; faint chatter, soft laughter and muffled singing of “Rye Whiskey” coming from the campfire; the gentle wind rustling the bushes and longer blades of grass.

Peace. A rare moment where all seemed right with the world.

Kris’s eyes were glued to the stunning night sky, following the rushed flight of the last birds to their nests, her interest piqued by the sudden, shrill cries of a bat, scouring the valley for a tasty snack.

She sat at the edge of camp, by a sharp cliff overlooking a steep drop. Big, shadowy trees made the already dark night even gloomier. Legs folded close to her chest, she sighed contentedly, resting her cheek on one of her knees. It had been such a long time since she felt this peaceful.

The gentle sound of grass being stepped on, big steps approaching her direction, brought her back to the moment. She patiently waited for the stranger to reveal themselves, her mind whispering one name, a quiet summon.

“May I join you, miss?” the low murmur of Arthur’s words vibrated into the air effortlessly.

“Sure” she smiled, making place for the man to sit in the cold grass next to her.

He did not speak immediately. Instead, he took out a cigarette from his pack, stroke a match against the sole of his boot in a swift motion, and lit it up. Kris observed as the tiny flame shone of his tempered features for a brief moment, warm orange light reminding her of the very warmth that crept inside her chest whenever he was around.

Arthur took a long drag from the cigarette, then offered it to her. She took the stick and brought it to her lips, savoring the smoky taste of the tobacco, Arthur’s lips indirectly touching hers. The thought gave her butterflies in her stomach, and the angles of her mouth curved into a coy smile.

Arthur exhaled the smoke, hands clasped in a quiet search for something to say.

“So,” he lounged back, forearms firmly on the ground, “what are you doin’ here, all alone?”

“Campfire’s warm. Folks are having fun.”

Kris blew some smoke out towards the cliff, peeling at the cigarette butt in quiet introspection. She always found herself most comfortable in derelict, remote spots like that one, for some reason.

“I just like it better here.” she sighed, passing the cigarette back to Arthur.

“It’s peaceful.”

Arthur gazed down at the large valley, so unmoving, so still in the nighttime. It felt like looking at a painting, rather than a landscape. Every now and then, the stillness was broken by a wild animal scuttering through, but it was gone before he knew it, leaving the blue-green fields once again untouched.

He convened, feeling his overworked body relaxing a bit, leaving quite a few sore muscles in its wake. Arthur massaged his shoulder, trying to relieve some pain, swallowing a couple of groans.

Kris’s leather jacket wasn’t enough to keep her warm in the dropping temperatures of the night. The wind picked up slightly and blew against her face, making her shiver and hug herself tighter.

“You’re cold” Arthur promptly noticed. He urged her to move back to the campfire, offering to go with her. But Kris shook her head, as stubborn as ever, insisting she was fine exactly where she was.

She kept trembling, though, and Arthur wasn’t gonna leave a lady in the freezing cold like that, not without a good amount of trying, at least. He picked up on his own hesitation, unsure on how she would react to what he was about to do.

He took one last big drag and threw the cigarette to the side. Then, he carefully and slowly scooted closer to Kris, glancing at her face to see her reaction. In the dark it was hard to see, but she observed him curiously, waiting to see what he would do.

The girl tensed up in anticipation. She usually never knew if touch would feel welcome or like burning lava on her skin, but with Arthur, she’d imagined it would feel different, somehow. She unwrapped her arms and laid them on the grass, her body opening up to Arthur’s as he enveloped her in his own arms, cradling her gently.

Feeling his warmth against her back made her shiver even more violently, her body adjusting to the new temperature. Arthur interpreted it as a sign she wasn’t warm enough, so he wrapped himself even more tightly around her frame, one hand stroking her back energetically to hasten the process, the other one circling her waist.

It didn’t feel like lava. It was… pleasant. It was nothing like curling up in front of a fire: no, she had completely forgotten how comforting and familiar human heat felt like. It stirred up a primal emotion in her, a knot in her throat that made her eyes water. She swallowed it promptly, hoping Arthur wouldn’t notice.

“Is this okay?” he felt how tense Kris was still, her back muscles stretched thin against his torso. She hadn’t uttered a word nor a sound since he embraced her.

Kris cleared her throat, washing the vulnerability away from her voice. “Yes, thank you. I feel warmer already.”

Arthur hummed, satisfied. His heart fluttered when, after a good while, the girl’s muscled began to relax against him, and she rested her head on his shoulder. They shared a long silence, one full of romantic tension and questions.

“How was your day?” Kris broke the silence, a relaxed question murmured near Arthur’s ear. Hearing her voice so soft, unguarded, and so damn close to him, Arthur hesitated.

“Uh… T’was alright. I helped Hosea hunt this huge grizzly bear… A thousand pound, he said it was. It was fun. Was nice spendin’ some time with him.” Arthur recalled, smiling at the memory of Hosea running away from the beast that approached them. He would’ve killed him if he told her about his cowardice, proud as he was. Man had a reputation to keep, after all.

“Funny idea of fun you have, mister” Kris chuckled, amused by his peculiarity. It was one of his most endearing traits to her. Big, tough outlaw, with a rather strange way of acting sometimes. Almost childlike in a way. It made her feel a lot more at ease with her own oddity.

Arthur echoed her laughing. Suddenly, the wind blew some of Kris’s hair strands in his face, tickling his nose and cheeks and, before he knew what he was doing, he was smelling her hair, taking in the clean, personal scent the top of her head emitted. He wouldn’t forget that smell in a heartbeat…

“Guess that’s why you were missing for a couple of days…” she remarked. Arthur could swear there was a bit of melancholy in her tone, an almost imperceptible note of nostalgia dripping from her words.

“You noticed I was gone?”

Kris stammered, unsure on how to answer. She felt her face heat up uncomfortably, embarrassed by her slip up.

“I mean- yeah, no, of course. I return to camp everyday... so I notice these things.” she explained, a bit too frantically. Arthur found that extremely endearing. He never thought he’d be missed when he was out in the wilderness for days, weeks at a time.

Kris readjusted herself in Arthur’s arms, trying to regain her composure. She thanked god he couldn’t see her face.

“I’m sorry I’m gone a lot...” he murmured. “I’d love to spend more time with you.”

Arthur’s vulnerability surprised her. A big grin crept on her lips, her heart filling up at the thought of him liking her enough to tell her that.

“I’m glad you’re here, now.” she whispered, and for a few minutes, she wondered if Arthur had even heard her, because he didn’t reply.

Arthur did hear her. He was just busy basking in the happiness he felt, such a rare emotion for him those days, so filled with such uncertainty, such longing, such disappointments and things going wrong. He reveled in feeling wanted, needed by the woman he loved. Those five words meant everything to him. So he held onto them for as long as he could, resting his chin on top of Kris’s head, eyes closed.

In the silence that followed their quiet love declaration, the banjo strings stopped vibrating, the voices extinguished like the flames of the campfire, one by one. The entire camp was enveloped in the dark now, the moon stretching highest in the sky as the singing was replaced by the soft snoring or their gang mates.

Neither Arthur nor Kris seemed to want to move from their spot. They had melted into each other, glued together indissolubly by their love, despite the cold, the dark, the silence. The two stared ahead at the panoramic view, each thinking of a way to keep the conversation going, the soft voices now turning into whispers, careful to not awaken anyone.

Arthur told her about the pact Hosea and him had made with a man named Seamus, down at Emerald Ranch. The spot had become the gang’s newest spot for fencing robbed stage coaches, jewelry and various objects.

“That’s convenient,” Kris observed, “I have a few watches and trinkets I’ve picked up lately I’d like to sell.”

“Atta girl,” Arthur praised her, nodding and smiling with his teeth. “You’re doing a fine job.”

“Thank you” Kris whispered, flattered. His approval meant a lot to her, and not just ‘cause he was the gang enforcer. He was smart and resourceful, and she admired him and his skills. Of course, she also had a soft spot for him, ever since he’d helped her pick her own horse…

Arthur squeezed her tighter, and she felt his heartbeat clear against her back.

“I’m glad you stayed with us.”

Kris stroked his arm, lovingly tracing the veins on his forearm with her fingers. “I’m glad I did, too.”

Suddenly, the silence went from comfortable to unbearable. It was as if something in the air had changed, and now the tension between them could be cut with a knife, the thinnest of strings, ready to snap. They both felt hot, their chests heavy, their limbs numb and tingly, their breaths short.

Kris turned around to face Arthur for the first time that night. His heart dropped when he gazed into her eyes, almost forgetting the way they’d made him feel. It felt electric, almost painful, to stare directly into them. So, he shifted his eyes down to her lips.

They were so close. Barely an inch apart, feeling each other’s breath on their skin, almost hearing the thumping of their hearts racing in unison, their blood rushing to their faces, painting their cheeks pink.

Kris’s hands cradled Arthur’s neck, her fingers pricked by his coarse stubble. Arthur cursed himself for forgetting to shave after his trip, a common courtesy he’d only reserve to her.

He hovered closer to her face, and Kris’s eyes instinctively fell shut, her breath hitching in anticipation. Her lips, slightly parted, trembled slightly to the rhythm of her shaky breath. Arthur opened his own eyes slightly to savor her expression, to take in how beautiful she looked as she waited to be kissed by him, shaking with thrill.

Arthur tucked her hair behind one ear, caressing the soft skin under her earlobes and the tip of her jaw with the back of his hand. He smelled of smoke and leather, with a touch of wet grass. Kris let out a shaky breath, feeling close to bursting as she waited, and waited, and waited for him to kiss her. Arthur, however, wanted to take his sweet time, to savor this precious moment before it vanished.

Everyone else was asleep. They were the only two people there, and the world around them was getting smaller and smaller, until it simply ceased to exist, and all they could perceive was the person in each other’s arms.

Arthur tilted his head slightly and parted his lips, closing the inch gap between them with the softest, quietest kiss. He savored his love’s lips, one hand cupping her cheek, the other firmly on her waist, rubbing and digging into her clothes. He took in her sweet perfume, locking it into a box into his mind that was never to be opened again, lest the perfect scent escape its confinement, and thus his memory.

Kris hands, on the contrary, were restlessly clinging to him. She cupped his face and neck, then clasped her hands around his neck, then again she touched his waist and ran her hands along the width of his back, eager to memorize every single inch of him. Eyes closed, she read his body with just her sense of touch, committing it to memory. Her lips moved almost as incessantly, but softly, the sensitive skin around them lightly scratched by Arthur’s untrimmed beard.

As Kris’s fingers tangled into the man’s hair, Arthur lips began to travel away from hers, nibbling and tasting every inch they found, down towards her jaw, chin, only to then return upwards to her upper cheeks, cheekbones, upper lip, in a passionate wandering, exploring deliberately as Kris’s lips fell empty in search for his skin, gasping desperately for the air he stole from her with each kiss.

“Arthur…” she called, an enraptured whisper. He hummed in response, continuing to leave kisses all over her face and upper neck. She stopped to enjoy his full attention, rocking her body with his every movement, exhaling as quietly as she could, a question on the tip of her tongue.

“Yes, sweetheart?” Arthur answered, voice all breathy and low, stopping for one second to look at her, taking note of her hesitance. He caressed her cheek, chest rising and falling from the unspent adrenaline of finally getting to touch her, to love her, to worship her as she deserved.

She looked into his softened gaze, and she knew that was just for her, a special side of Arthur that was only hers to witness and enjoy. The question died on her lips, replaced by a toothy smile, and a firm request.

“Kiss me again.”

[mavigator]

“Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around—nobody big, I mean—except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff—I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's crazy.” <- 😂

[thatswhywelovegermany]

Die Roggenmuhme

The Rye Aunt

The Rye Aunt is a female cereal demon and children's fright of German folk tales, who lives in grain fields.

The Rye Aunt wanders up and down in the fields, feeds on the grain and tears out the immature ears. If she is angry with the farmer, she punishes him by drying out his fields. In general, however, the appearance of the Rye Aunt in the fields is a sign of a good harvest. During the harvest, she flees into the last truss. The Rye Aunt receives a share of the harvest, which is either left behind or thrown into the field. This custom is to propitiate the Rye Aunt and bring about a fertile next year.

The Rye Aunt is generally thought to live underground, in the empire of the roots or in a cave.

The Rye Aunt punishes lazy maids, who have not spun off their spinning rocks in the Boxing Week. The breath of the Rye Aunt brings illness and death.

Appearance

The Rye Aunt is often described as completely black or snow-white, and of superhuman size. Her arms are long or made of iron. Her fingers are fiery or iron. It is also said that the Rye Aunt has claws on her hands, which may also be made of iron.

The Rye Aunt has unusually large breasts that are so long that she can fold them over her shoulders. She also has more than two breasts. These can be black, iron, wooden or silver. They are pointed and hard, have glowing iron tips or are fiery. The breasts are filled with tar, poisonous milk or blood.

The Rye Aunt is described as an old womanwith a wrinkled face featuring stinging awns, a crooked nose, and wears glasses. She is sometimes even described as headless or said to have an iron heart.

In addition, she can change her shape, for example into a turtle, a snake, a frog, a wolf, a black cat, a horned animal or a dog with a blanket.

The Rye aunt is often dressed in black, but has also been seen dressed entirely in gray. Her clothes are ragged. Sometimes the Rye Aunt also wears a red skirt, or she wears a red dress and a red cap. Sometimes, she wears blue coat and wide flowing skirts. Often the Rye Aunt wears a white headscarf like a reaper. Sometimes she walks on crutches.

The Rye Aunt is associated with several weather phenomena. When the wind blows through the cornfield, people say that the Rye Aunt moves over the grain. She is also traveling with the whirlwind.

The Rye Aunt appears in particular at midday between 12:00 and 13:00. If she encounters someone in the fields at midday, she kills them or frightens them, casting spells. If she finds women who have recently given birth in bed between 12:00 and 13:00 and between 18:00 and 20:00, she does the field work for them. If she does not find women in childbed at the specified time, a misfortune will happen to the mother and the child.

The Rye Aunt is often seen as a child scare. Her activities as a child-scaring figure are extremely varied.

In their tale no. 90 The Rye Aunt, the Brothers Grimm tell that the Rye Aunt swaps human children with changelings, but brings back the right child if the changeling is not suckled. Elsewhere it is said that she steals illegitimate children at midnight.

The Rye Aunt lies in wait in the field for all those children who want to pick cornflowers in order to scare and punish them. She also lures children into the field by waving her arms. She abducts children by putting them in her big bag or basket, of by taking the children under her wide flowing skirts to bring them to the empire of the roots. She may also pull children to her with an iron fireplace poker and has them guarded by a toad. She leads children astray in the field and lets them starve to death, or she comes with her flock of elves and lays the children on cushions of flowers, whereupon they fall asleep and never wake up again. The Rye Aunt appears as a witch when she casts spells or the Evil Eye on children, She may also appear as a nightmare when she sends evil spirits to disobedient children at night.

Children often have to suck on the breasts of the Rye Aunt. Sometimes, disobedient children get the big breasts beaten around their ears. The Rye Aunt is said to, hug children so tight that they are pressed against her breasts die as a result from suffocation or getting crushed in her embrace. The Rye Aunt also crouches in wolf form, hiding in the grain, and is accompanied by small dogs that lure children into her iron embrace. She is also regarded as the mother of the rye wolves, who eat the children.

The Rye Aunt chases children on horseback or runs as fast as a horse herself. In the latter case, she chases children to death in races. She can also fly and takes children to the sea to drown them there. If she accosts children, they must die.

The Rye Aunt demands that children eat a slice of bread spread with tar. If they do not comply, she cuts off their heads. She also smears children with tar from a bottle or covers their eyes with tar. She also scratches out children's eyes or blows out their eyesight. The Rye Aunt strangles children, twists their necks or cuts off their heads, and also cuts off their necks, noses, ears, or fingers. She also beheads children with a sickle, a knife or a saw. She cuts off the children's legs with a scythe. The Rye Aunt also tears off children's legs.

The Rye Aunt binds children into a bundle with a thread or ties the children to a thread and then beats them up. She pinches children with iron pincers or uses a pinch. She stabs children with pikes, of which she has three, one by the head and one in each hand. The Rye Aunt also stabs children with stalks or drives nails into their heels.

In her hand, the rye maid carries a rod or whip, which is to be regarded as a lightning rod. She also has a sceptre or an iron scourge, which she uses to beat children. She puts children in a nail barrel and rolls them around in it or drags them into a cave and crushes them there with a giant meat grinder. Otherwise, she also crushes children in an iron butter churn.

The Rye Aunt also bites and eats children. To get hold of children, she sets out traps. She slaughters and eats the children or kills and roasts them using her burning breasts and fingers. The Rye Aunt also throws children into a cauldron of hot water or sucks their blood.

All these stories were told children to deter them from wandering through the fields, which posed several dangers, including getting lost and freezing to death at night, encounters with dangerous animals, suffering injuries from farm equipment used on the fields, or merely the destruction of crops and yield loss by walking over the fields.

[xxdoubledaisyxx]

"But we can't hang the president!?"

... 👈

alright team huddle up.

(the shadow masters in real life around the world making this possible with me in total anonymity that will never be illuminated)

It's looking like our time is almost up, so I think we ought make one last score and put anything we've been saving left over on it before they get wise to the time.

If I'm right, then this will be the last time anyone will ever score big with the "xTTx" -- the maidenly secret.

I'm calling an audible to whatever else we had planned because of the positions of the players on the field and the looks their making like they want to move, and it's called Uncle Rico's flapjack double flipped on rye. Jake, I know you are here, and you too Peter, and that's all I will name, because I don't want them getting wise to our plans.

Here's the moves. I'm gonna hand off to Sophie in the screen and she's gonna make like a boot out right to the head side frontways like she's going around the outside to take it up the line and score. That's what they expect most because it's their favorite move and they didn't know I was good at it too. They also are going to somewhat expect something else without being too sure and that's you Doom Girl.

Doom Girl, at the snap of the break, go straight for the score like you are going to catch it deep in the heart of the end zone where the points are scored when you make it with the ball for your team. That's what's going to happen and they will not be able to keep up with your speed because they do not yet know about Sophie's new talents on the field, and she's gonna send that treasure all the way into your delicate maidenly hands with perfect accuracy and grace like the amazing maidenly maiden she is herself.

The moment you score, they will have destabilized the contextual visuals of the created realm with a void anomaly using chaos they sort of adapted a way to do from my ambient aura and resonance. You know what to do, but here's the thing-- keep an eye out for steam on the horizon zeroing down.

we are the superbread diversity maidens, and this world is ours. We have claimed it as our own. Let's kick off this apocalypse with style and the show the future how its done so they don't make us look bad to the cute girls from Neptune when they finally meet.

Victory on 3.

1

2

3

[this-big-field-of-rye-and-all]

I'm reporting from planet Earth, an obvious statement perhaps, but it never hurts to specify.

Things have been a roller coaster in the past few months. Today wasn't particularly tough, but I'll blame any melancholy on the fact that it's Sunday, even if it's about to end.

I embrace people, but I don't feel satisfied. Why? Am I perhaps being too ambitious?

[esraabelal]

"I was thinking about something else—something crazy. “You know what I’d like to be?” I said. “You know what I’d like to be? I mean if I had my goddam choice? . . . You know that song ‘If a body catch a body comin’ through the rye’?

“It’s ‘If a body meet a body coming through the rye’!” old Phoebe said. “It’s a poem. By Robert Burns.” . . . She was right, though. It is “If a body meet a body coming through the rye.” I didn’t know it then, though. . . . “I thought it was ‘If a body catch a body,’” I said.

Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody’s around—nobody big, I mean—except me. And I’m standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff—I mean if they’re running and they don’t look where they’re going I have to come out from somewhere and  catch them. That’s all I’d do all day. I’d just be the catcher in the rye and all."

[adelaidedrubman]

wip wednesday..... reader’s choice round-up edition

tagged by my dears @g0dspeeed @simplegenius042 @socially-awkward-skeleton @direwombat @galaxycunt for the wip title game!

Rules: Post the names of all the files in your wip folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it! Tag as many people as you have WIPS.

(stealing wombat’s “all” omission, and organizational system.) below cut because fair warning some of these are nsfw (with descriptive enough titles). (throwing in an extra no pressure due to that) (fics containing nsfw content are italicized) (asterisks = not all of it, feel free to specify sfw or nsfw snippet requested if you’re interested in those titles)

active wip docs (i have worked on some time within the past couple months, there is a reasonable chance these will get finished):

what if the strap could prematurely ejaculate

jestiny’s perfect day

19. a very uncomfortable dinner.......... 2

have faith in christmas

hallmark 2: electric boogaloo

america's sweetheart epilogue

hank meets the man from the big pictures

4. hooked on a feeling

pseudo-abandoned/dead wip docs:

mae'zel post-creche unpleasantness

play stupid games, win stupid prizes*

jenna’s day off*

footnotes to an inferno

field notes

nick rye talks to the union*

JENNA we need to COOK

i was working in the lab late one night*

beach episode

it's joseph's turn to have a bad day

other manner of documence:

my master document (wildfire stray scenes/notes)

hl&s outline + stray scenes (what it says)

darlings graveyard (not wips but deleted or reworked wildfire scenes)

ah dang now there’s counting. no pressure tags out to @henbased @florbelles @lordundying @belorage @theresaruggedroad @derelictheretic @cassieuncaged @schoute @dickytwister @vasiktomis @chickenparm @delicateweapon @corvosattano @jackiesarch @starsandskies @shallow-gravy @nightbloodbix @strangefable @quickhacked @captastra @8bitpizzacoupons

[khelinski]

Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody;s around - nobody big, I mean - except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd like to be.

J.D. Salinger

[yohohonabottle]

Memento - In memorial. Smiling sun-Weeping sun

A sunny day, the charming knight and his former charge taking a stroll. Then the "moon" grows abruptly distant, and Valen gets a tour of the sun's memories through him.

Trigger Warning: Depictions of loss, passing of pets and grief, minor violence (smacking into a shelf). I wrote this to process my feelings and honor the memories...and to tell their stories, our story. I posted this, to leave their marks and.. in a way, make them immortal through this fiction-fanfiction. This is not intended for shock value.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a normal pleasant day in the serene picturesque cottage of Golden Wheatshire, nothing amiss. The sun's warm rays shine on the fields of golden wheat and rye, the air slightly humid and cool as a breeze blows from time to time making the fields gently sway. Valen was enjoying the leisurely, more easy-going day-- Whistling a cheery tune lightly with a content smile as he calmly walks by Pirin's side with steady unhurried strides, hands behind his head.

The Heroic Order knight has no idea why the Magister wanted to go back to the Sun and Moon temple ruins, or at least it seems this way to him, but he didn't mind. And who's he to question the mage, anyway? Besides, they'd pass through Northville and Southville on the way, a little detour from their 'pilgrimage' so to speak.

The talking hamsters of his had brought it up as a suggestion, saying something along the lines of how it'd be nice to check up on some old faces and the magister had agreed (or more like caved in). However judging by the way the ginger knightly-dressed hamster salivated, big bright auburn eyes sparkling with giddy excitement at the prospect of stopping by that sweets shop the four of them had passed by the first time while running around Southville....

Valen simply knew the little acorn-knight's actual intentions about the trip and couldn't help but smile a little, clearly amused as he watches the two hamsters interact with Pirin as the four of them saunter the cobblestone streets of Holistone.

They took a quick stop here and there. Which happened to easily turn to more little detours.

Funny how I've gotten used to those two and their squeaky little voices by now from all the adventures I've had with them and the 'Magister'. In a way, Chippy and Hammie are endearing--The orange and white-furred hamster knight reminding him of a little kid while the white hamster mage was more level-headed... When she's not fawning and squealing over Pirin that is, taking every opportunity to constantly point out how great, all-knowing and mighty Magister Merlin is. Even if it isn't the real Merlin.

Suddenly Hammie stops in her tracks, pressing a pink-gloved paw to her mouth, eyes wide in alarm as if having just remembered something crucial.

Glancing down over at the chubby-cheeked familliar with a slightly puzzled look on his face, the Solitaire pauses in his tracks.

—"What's wrong?"

The white hamster slightly shrinks in on herself, fixing her blue hat and cape, a bashful pout on her face as she admits. And Valen internally heaves a sigh of both relief and slight exasperation. Not sure whether to laugh or facepalm. Really, now-- You'd think a group of Adamant Syndicates had snuck-up and were about to jump them with how she gasped.

—"I forgot to my staff at home.. I'm sorry." Sweet Dura above, this hamster. And just like that, the four of them took yet another detour from their journey to one of the Cassolot's posts, or however the tavern-like spire mounted on a giant long-necked llama is called. Merlin's home. The creature arrives slowly and settles down, and Valen decides to wait for them outside. Once the two pip-squeaks and the magister were done preparing and step out of the spire, ready to head out for the trip-- The swordsman moves to join them.

And so the four of them set out on their journey to their destination, the acorn knight and mage chattering away happily. As for his part, Valen is more than content to simply listen while keeping up with the pace, nodding along from time to time somewhat absently. He wasn't particularly paying much attention to them, drifting in his own mind, keeping an eye on their surroundings and planning ahead. Everything was as usual.

Nothing could possibly ruin this fine clear sky, sunny day.

Casting a sidelong glance down at the quiet star beside him, the dazzling undercover knight's casual smile falters. There's something off...Sure the 'Graveborn' is the quiet and somber type, not for idle talk, but today he's.. Not quite here. Observing the shorter man's profile and slowing his pace to be in-stride, the swordsman creases his coarse brows. Staring ahead with unseeing, listless gaze, the false Merlin keeps mechanically walking. A sense of cold, hollow grimness exuding from his slim form like a heavy billowing cloak. Amidst it, his own irritation etched subtly onto the doll-like pale features of his soft triangular face. The feeling continues to pulsated dully and throb, ripping and rippling through him from the very core. Breathing a sharp exhale through his nose, the felled star stubbornly marches on--Wrestling to shove the sensations off and raise a mental barrier to keep them out.

And yet that chill refuses to pipe down and settle, ebb away from him. The landscape seems muted and shallow, meaningless blur.

Why do you have to always let your emotions rip through me as though they're mine? His lips press into a taut line. Sighing internally. This is nothing new. It's always been this way since his Director and 'half' 'met' him, by allowing his genesis. Willed it--with all the fleeting good and spiraling, lingering bad, and atrocious. Every joy, anger, fear, hope and sorrow... gain, triumph and loss... she'd go through her burst of emotions, that would inevitably seep right into him and rip through from the very core to the whole in full drowning and scorching or elating intensity, sight shared. And he'd be there, in the end, to collect it all and 'archive' it in coalesced memories somewhere in the nexus point of their consciousnesses.

Etch each fragment into the overarching mural, allowing the Player to 'forget' and 'reset' in symbolic 'rebirth' by taking away her pain to shoulder, filter it, himself. One phase or the Sun burns to ash, another rises after time and he's merely the prism, catalyst or conduit for the metamorphosis. The middle point bridging the past and future.

Like extracting a curse from a patient, taking it on his own body and letting his organism neutralize the negative energy by processing it. Leaving the neutral and good energy free.

So the 'Sun' may be vibrant once more. To rediscover the times by looking back upon the mural of highlights, pick up the memory fragments, when ready to face them. Healed fully.

Thus the cycle repeats itself infinitely. That shadowy menace has put it best back at the chance 'meeting': Two sides of the same coin, always in conflict yet can't without one another.

The pulsations get interrupted by a sharp pang, like a spark suddenly lit again. And sets everything to zero.

Halting in his tracks and shutting his eyes tight with a grimace, Pirin distantly registers the trio's voices call in worry. ("Vanya.? Are you alright?" Concerned, Valen. "Magister!" Alarmed, Chippy and Hammie) Standing completely still, the mage stiffly lifts a hand. Wait. Quiet down. Staring listlessly at the ceiling, lying on the bed in the dining room as a way of connecting with a loved one in search of solace, hugging a shark plushie tightly-- Tears well at the corners of his eyes, jaw clenching as knees feel weak and threatening to give out. The urge to howl at the top of his lungs like a wyvern's shrill roar or scream of a banshee surges hotly in his veins.

Warm, lean and strong arms carefully wrap around his shoulders. 'Merlin' leans on his companion. Loss. Deep, gripping, abyssal. At last the magister finds his voice, keeping it stead, even. It quivers a little. Something bubbles, boils within. Fights to break out. —"My half. She's mourning a loss--I can feel her emotions like mine. I...also see and hear what she does. It's not for the open." In private.

—"...Let's go to the Mystical House, we should have privacy to talk and can get a drink later." Merlin's familiars stay oddly quiet, allowing their presence to be anchor rather than ruining the moment with chatter. Merlin could have a solution, no doubt, too. It almost sets on the tip of their tongues but they refrain from blurting it.

----------

The bell on the doorway of the Mystical House sings merrily, announcing the arrival of people.

Sprawled on the sofa on the lower balcony of the tavern's lounge, the brown-haired archmage lifts her head from the page she's reading. Her features pinch into a puzzled frown, sensing something is wrong. The way her adorable hamsters, so energetic, simply pad over and hop onto the couch by her side without a word only confirms it.

—"What happened?" Looking between her trusted companions, stand-in and the uncharacteristically serious Solitaire, Merlin's confusion grows to mild worry. And a hunch stirs. This can't be related to the--

—"Pirin is experiencing the Sun's grief. We brought him back so he can go through it more peacefully. ...And perhaps find a solution, hopefully." Grim understanding settles on the Arch-magister's visage. So it is. There are no patrons at the House. Standing up languidly from the sofa, Merlin holds the grimoire she's been reading under her arm, speaking in a measured tone. Her steps are quiet as she descends the stairs to the lounge, main room of her home. Matters connected to the Sun and Moon aren't to be taken very lightly. Although this is more about the disgruntled 'Helper' not burning out than his Director.

—"No one will be coming over soon, so we've got the lounge all to ourselves. Go crazy, as they say. And--I've heard oftentimes that sharing a burden helps. Or simply getting it off your chest." You look on the verge to break. It looks like the anguish will turn physical at any moment, the cup overflowing. Poor thing looks like Carolina.

Casually settling down onto the ground, the legendary magus places the tome next to herself and waves a hand to both men to sit down as well so the three of them form a circle. "In all seriousness, there's only so much one can bear. And, selfish or greedy as it sounds from me, I can't run the risk of letting you spiral until reaching metamorphosis...or not emerging from that spiral at all." A pointed look of 'light-hearted' sternness is sent in the vampire's direction. The lost descendant makes a pained grimace in a wince, still remaining standing. Doesn't need to look down at his former escort to know the suave solder echoes this sentiment.

Or that Merlin is voicing a lot of people's collective thought with this line.

With a soft sigh, the stoic and dutiful Moon relents, lowering himself on his knees. Casting a look at the pages of her spellbook, the Magister looks back up and slowly extends a hand. Valen wordlessly clasps it, his other held up for the last person in the link on his left. An ice-cold palm grasps it with a hesitation, eyes closed. Reluctance.

Well turns out Merlin lied. It's not just the three of them. Only muted the bell so it doesn't ding whenever someone enters the spire. Or teleports in the lounge. And had the audacity to somehow snitch. Merlin. I know you're my boss, but I will snap your neck.

A warm, weathered hand takes his, a familiar presence of a certain Captain. The presence of two chieftain siblings, an Earl that perished too young due to chronic incurable illness, a Witch of Flames, a sinister jester that harbors no laughter in the moment. An aspiring scholar, a breezy god of banquets and a determined gem-magic dancer. All people linked to him more than most--Partners, family, friends, nemesis that somehow can't do without him, admirers;

Two opposing elements of light and darkness, for once align to form a strong, sturdy node for a grounding anchor. A protective measure to the circle and a safety net to mitigate damage without taking away intensity. Guidance.

I need every person in the circle to speak in turn along with me second time chant. First time I go alone, third time goes the person sharing with us. The faint hum of magic. Merlin begins first.

Μεμοριες οφ τηε παστ, (Memories of the past, Μεμοριες οφ τηε πρεσεντ, (Memories of the present,) Σπιριτ οφ μομεντς παστ, (Spirit of moments past, Σπιριτ οφ μομεντς πρεσεντ, (Spirit of moment present,) Ρισε φρομ ψουρ δεπτης ωιτηιν. (Rise from your depths within,)

Ρεσυρφαξε το ουρ ξαλλ, (Resurface to our call,) Λετ υς πεερ ατ ψουρ δεπτη, (Let us peer at your depth, Τηρουγη υς εββ ανδ φλοω, ( Through us ebb and flow,)

Σηοω υς ψουρ τρυτη ιν φυλλ. (Show us your truth in full.)

As instructed, each person in the circle uttered a line from the incantation- One starting it and the other echoing it with the next line of that 'excerpt'. The magic, invisible, rises gradually and the world around falls away. Their mind, spirit pulled into a new space slowly beginning to take 'form' with each passage said, bodies remaining still in the Mystical House. Each line tinted by each person's individuality and cadence unique to each and every one of them. From closest to furthest.

"Μεμοριες οφ τηε παστ," (Valen, quietly spoke in careful neutrality) "Μεμοριες οφ τηε πρεσεντ," (Sinbad echoes in low, somber tone.) "Σπιριτ οφ μομεντς παστ," (Alsa murmurs in solemn reverie, a spark of her sunny cheer still resonates. Followed by her brother calmly echoing her verse in grim, carefully kept neutral tone that sounds like a mutter, giving her hand a brief squeeze.) "Σπιριτ οφ μομεντς πρεσεντ." "Ρισε φρομ ψουρ δεπτης ωιτηιν." (Ludovic voices quietly, tone soft yet firm in willing the spell, closing the first passage. A dull, weak pang at the subconscious of the gathered, the very vague outline of images. Like wisps in a fog veil, the blurry distant fragments flash into vivid visions for a second then blur once more.)

"Ρεσυρφαξε το ουρ ξαλλ," (Fay whispers in a solemn murmur of subdued and suppressed excitement, nervousness. Her right hand gripping onto Cassadee's left briefly tightens, body staying stiffly still.)

"Λετ υς πεερ ατ ψουρ δεπτη," (The devoted mage mumbles in reverent serenity of her soft, timidly quiet voice. Restrains herself from shuddering or recoiling in any manner when the clown of Fay's left takes his turn to carry on the spell.)

"Τηρουγη υς εββ ανδ φλοω." (The normally impish Hypogean utters in somberly lowered tone, voice tapered to a near 'listless' whisper. Firm, reinforcing the spell and sealing the second verse. His own magic coils but he wills it to stay aside, not interfere and collide with the Celestial on his left nor taint the incantation. Courteous, serious, for once.)

...Maybe, as much he'd despise to ever admit it--This Merlin, fake as he is and merely contractually playing along with the real one-- has managed to crawl his way and chew out, carve a spot for himself. Not only because it's easy to annoy the huffy little bat, get a good laugh at the blood-sucker's expense or because he stands out as a pawn playing on a different board--But also, because he keeps things here interesting.

Out of all the Merlins to have walked this dull little world, from the Divine war good old days of chaos, the Scuffle with those glowy pomps that're the Celestials, to present days--Pirin, Ioan Hestopeous of the Eclipse bloodline, is the most intriguing by far. For many reasons. The firm neutrality and morally grey approaches being one, fiery, defiant and unbreakable spirit another along with walking on the tight-rope of calling out Celestials and Hypogeans. Worships, bows, agrees fully or disagrees with neither, facing both with a straight face despite his own inner conundrums. A witness, overseer and performer into one. A masterful actor in his own right, something the clown can respect- in his own wicked ways.

And Berial, begrudgingly, gives credit where its due.

It's been a long while since any burning star has been brought to Esperia, be it through getting called down or reincarnating as their real self out of their own volition. Most have either moved on to other realms, or chose to forsake their core-- melted to be like the factions known on this world and into plain regular animals, plants.... Pity.

"Σηοω υς ψουρ τρυτη ιν φυλλ." (The gallant deity of indulgence resonates, sealing the spell in full. The blurry, outlines of memories flare into the forefront on the circle's mind, sharpening into cohesive forms. Flashes of fragments stitching together to form a vivid vision within the void they are in.)

And Pirin echoes the incantation from beginning to the end hollowly, voice strained. Exhausted from the agony viciously ripping at him now finally flooding out in the open, swirling together with the magic--

Walking over to the tall cage sat on the guest bed, Rila lifts the gate and puts the green clothespin to keep it secured open. A tiny thrum of uneasy worry pangs when her bird stays on his perch. He's been quiet for a month now, not his usual energetic self. Normally he'd bolt out the door right away... The intuition gets dismissed. Going about her routine, the Sun watches her familiar settle onto her laptop's monitor, ready to hang out with her while she types, watches or plays on it. Moving to briefly leave the room, no call or whistle follow after her back. (Something's wrong... gamma said he stinks earlier.) The thought quickly gets pushed aside, stamped down.

Coming back, her smile of endearment turns mildly amused at finding the parrot perched onto her chair. Padding over to him, she bends down to give him a kiss on the head like usual after cheerfully murmuring his name. A stab of surprise and alarm pierce in the brunette's heart as the bird suddenly jumps on her with loud squawking, quickly climbing to her neck and beaking her fingers as she tries to lightly, gently keep him back a little. Then darts to land between her shelves, standing stiffly at the edge for a moment before shuffling over to the tall photo frame with a picture of her... pausing to gaze at it. At his loving friend in her younger years at a ceremony.

And then turns, sits down on the shelf like a plush toy or as though taxidermized. Standing by the shelf with a worried, strained light frown, Rila hesitates-- then gently taps him on his wing. Unsure of what's wrong, what's happening, what to do. Taps him again....then slowly, reluctantly reaches to wrap her hand, pick the animal up to move him away from there. Something stops her.

If a bird is too stressed, it will die.

I don't want to stress him out more... Catching him will stress him out, he's already in distress..

Reluctantly with heavy heart and sigh, Rila moves away and sits on the guest bed, watching him warily. Fidgets with her phone, mulling over whether to call the shop owner and ask for advice or not. Will he even have anything helpful? Will his advice even hold water? Probably not...

The fiery rosella sits between two shelves completely still, breathing shallowly. Eyes wide, small sounds flitting from its open beak rapidly. His owner eyes him with grave sorrowful anxiousness from her seat on the bed with phone in hand. Scared. Scared for her companion, scared of stressing him out even more and causing his heart to stop, debating if calling the shop owner she bought him from is a good idea. If the man would even be able to help at all-- But I can't just stand and do nothing! ...But what can I- What should I even do? Helplessness, mounting tension of dread, sorrowful frustration bubble, warily watching her poor bird sit on the shelf.

Should I grab him? Move him out of there..? What if I scare him? I can't do nothing..! i can't do anything... please no.. (A small voice wanly reminds of grim reality-- "There are no good avian vets in town. You can't get a proper diagnose and medicine to treat him. Even less afford any of it, your family struggling to make ends meet. Even your firebird was a hefty toll by himself. There's nothing you can do.")

There has to be something I can do. There has to...

A dream creeps itself back to her mind's eye, blending with intuition insisting something very, very bad is imminently to come. A dream of the same rosella standing before her, looking up at her while her quivering and desperate voice endlessly weeps. "Don't die! Don't die! Don't die, I'm begging you! I'm begging you..!"

There is no judgement in the bird's innocent dark, adoring eyes as he continues to look at her, listening to her devastated pleading, her anguished sobbing. The animal seemingly not understanding why his friend is so distraught...or maybe does and wants to tell her 'Don't cry. It's okay.'

---Merlin hugs Chippy and Hammie, watching the viscerally realistic vision mutely. It seems this isn't the first time the Sun had had a prophetic dream warning her of impending danger or loss. Nor the first time her intuition has told her the same, if more vaguely. Judging by the Player's reaction, understanding and knowing what that dream she had not too long ago nor too recently meant. And knowing it's true, it's only a matter of time it inevitably happens.

The acorn mage and knight watch the scene with baited breath, dread, in their Magister's arms.---

The woman's heart thunders, lurches, sinks and clenches. A dream she had vehemently denied, refused to accept holds full weight and had wishfully dismissed as just that--A weird, unpleasant but ultimately baseless dream randomly cropping up some days after the parrot has entered her home and life.

A warning.

A prophecy that Rila kept stubbornly ignoring, fully focusing on bonding with the animal.

Enjoying each day to the fullest--Whistling melodies, talking and larking with the fiery-plumaged bird, laughing at his silly antics as he flies around her room with a squawk or chirp.

Fondly rolls her eyes in feigned irritation as she gets up from her chair to briefly leave the room for a snack, the rosella calling out after her back the name she has given him with proud joy, love-- 'Zhar! Zhari!'-- whistling and squawking. (Where are you going? Come back! Don't leave me alone!) Chuckles at the sight of him gripping the bars of his cage and trying to push his beak through them, colorful wings half open and 'fluttering' in happy excitement--Waiting her return. So happy to see her return, whistling right away when she answers his whistling call.

Something the two of them had sort of established--Whenever Rila leaves his sight, he'd whistle from her room and she would whistle or call back in answer. As if to tell him 'I'm here!' or 'I'm coming!', resulting in a back and forth. When his friend is mad at him, she would leave the room and not answer his calls or whistles for a moment then come back. (And he'd flit around the room restlessly, searching for her. Immediately land on her head when she comes back. Happy, calm and content to be perched atop the 'watchtower', his human back. Rila whistles, and Zhar happily whistles right away from his 'nest'.)

Warmth fills the heart of the 'giantess', watching her 'firebird' hop back on his perch and stand by his water tube, neck craned. Lively, happy, curious, energetic ball of mischief and devious playfulness. A little rascal always up to no good.

Walking over to the side of the tall cage, she sticks a finger through the bars--And Zhar immediately runs over to playfully beak it, puffed up. 'Te-tee!' Waits, following the finger closely as it draws a circle quickly then gets close slowly-- Zhar's beak hits the bars with a 'clang!', trying to catch the finger before it could withdraw again-- Fails. Makes an 'Uh!' noise, the strange giant giggling. The finger comes back, and this time he catches it, squawking and squeaking in triumph as he grips it hard..but then the finger escapes his grasp.

And the looming thing gives kisses, cooing his name warmly with endeared cheerfulness. "Zhari~! Birdy! Who's a pretty boy? You!"

It's been a week since he was brought to this home. But his bowl is always full of food, his water fresh and cage kept clean. The giants have even given willow leaves and vegetables and fruit!

(But it's so much better when the giantess holds the slice or piece through his cage's bars. Always.

Tomato, watermelon, peeled seedless grape, apple, cucumber-- She had cut them up, once, put them in his other food bowl. Said she can't hold them up through the bars while he munches away. Well those pieces were swiftly taken out, and chucked on the newspaper floor!)

A month passes. And then it turned to two--July--August. Almost every day, after noon classes (that he diligently chimed in, whistling the tune he's partially learnt from the family, cheerful or squawks and calls out his own name, makes kissing noises.) his door is lifted up and he'd dart out to do circles around the room, squawking happily. Hang onto the curtains, peer down at what his owner is doing this time on her device, zip to her bookshelf, to her tall chest of drawers and land on the small mirror to play with all the trinkets she's got--And then dart to land right on her head. Hop onto the laptop's monitor, and chew on the wooden Asian dragon on the smaller chest of drawers on the desk. (For some reason she keeps saying not to toy with it, inching her finger to his side as if to give a small 'boop'. And he'd quickly walk away to the other side of the monitor or sometimes puff up and 'Te-tee!' in protest then get gently, playfully booped on the beak. His feathers ruffled affectionately with mumbled 'I love you, you know that?' Followed by larking 'You gypsy.' It was never out of malice.)

The brown-haired giant would have caught, hurt him long, long ago if she wanted to. On the very first day she first let him fly free and attempted to get him off from the curtain-- He'd bit her hand as hard as possible in anger while climbing down onto it. She didn't yell or hit, only grit her teeth in pain but murmured calmly "Come on, boy. There, wasn't so scary and bad. Was it?" No anger or contempt. Humorous, maybe bit unhappy at having been bit. But not angry.

At most only threatened, once, sternly "I won't be nice anymore if you keep this up. I will be mean. I will catch you.", exasperated with him continuously darting away when it's time to go back so he can eat and drink. But it only stayed as a bluff. Patient. It's obvious she loves, adores him so deeply-- And Zhar knew. Could sense it, and loved the human in turn tenfold. She still mistook his hard beaking, kisses, as angry bites from time to time because it hurt. But it's love!

Sitting on her device's monitor and watching her play, he sees Rila pause to look up at him, eyes full of fondness. Warm, tender, unconditional and unwavering, endless love and smile soft. Leaning forth, she gives a kiss to the top of his head--Zhar ducks down, but allows it.

Listens to her loving murmurs, praise. "Handsome, pretty boy. Zhar, pretty boye. Beautiful birdy." Sure, it's not scary to sit on her hand or arm, but perching on her head or monitor is the best. Or on her knee, when she lays down, one knee always drawn up for him to land and perch on, play with the sleeve of her pants or simply rest and gaze out the wide window.

Life in this home isn't bad at all, turns out. It's better than at the shop, stuck in a cage 'underground' with other birds.

Good food, treats, veggies and fruits, toys to play with, fresh water, freedom, warmth and company, love all around, fresh air (when taken out with the cage on the balcony) and many new experiences, sights. ...if the illness that's been nagging him is set aside. It's nasty, but the family is doing their absolute best to make sure he's never neglected, unhappy or uncomfortable. Happy memories...

Suddenly the fiery-feathered bird jumps up to take flight while sitting between the two shelves (Rila's dread spikes, flares into horror, jolting)-- smacks his head on the upper shelf with a loud squawk of distress and flies low, crashing on the ground next to the balcony's door roughly. Rila's alarmed, horrified, voice echoes sharply with the bird's crash, yelling his name. "Zhar!"

The woman immediately rushes to his side, runs to pick him up from the floor- the bird squirming one last time with a squawk then goes limp in her hands.

Rila collapses on her knees, clutching gently her beloved familiar in her palms-- And lets out a loud, wailing cry. Pauses in shock, refusing to believe he's dead as she waits for him to move. "Zhar...? please say something... please move, wake up!" No response to her shaky, tearful plead. But the young woman keeps trying, hoping in vain that somehow her begging the bird to move, to wake up in rapidly deteriorating, quivering voice of desperation.. would revive him.

Five months. Almost six, since he choose her, 'called out' to her at the zoo shop and she took him home. Almost six months of hanging out, whistling, playing together and bonding. Another cry tears itself out the Sun's throat, piercing and riddled with pure anguish. The woman cradling her pet in her arms and slumping. The howl is followed by another, between sobs that sound like laughter-- A wail, a yowl raw with pure grief. As she hugs her parrot to her chest, rocking and running a hand through his feathers. ("Zhar!")

The devastation rips through the spectators' very core, watching the memories unfold in fully vivid detail. Each agonized howl is like a stab. The fiery rosella wasn't just some pet. He was a most closest companion for the Player, a familiar that she loved, adored with all of her heart and soul.

"...gamma...I killed him. I killed Zhar..." Sinbad winces. So much self-blame, self-loathing and misplaced guilt. Believing she had stressed the bird and caused or sped up his passing, added to his pain. None of which is true at all. The little 'firebird' adored her far too much to be scared of her. You didn't kill him. It's not your fault. You gave this bird the best life he could ask for.

Fay hugs Cassadee tightly, misty-eyed herself, the urge to sing and dance-- cheer the weeping catalyst-- flares. But the Hail moon star knows it's futile, this is only a memory. Rila won't see or hear her. The white-haired apprentice quietly hugs her, consoling. Alsa looks over to the duo, tears running down her cheeks, and gently hugs them, murmuring words of comfort. Ludovic stays mournfully silent, closing his eyes.

And this is still relatively subdued thanks to Dionel, Berial and Pirin's magic. The anchor the jester and Celestial set, linking each of them to it so it helps mitigate the damage. Keep them grounded from getting lost by the maelstrom of raw, crushing emotions billowing at them. A fraction of what the Sun is going through.

Pirin stands in place, distantly watching all unfold, arms limply at his sides. Empty. Exhausted. A warm, clawed furry hand lands on his shoulder offering wordless comfort and strength. Stoic as ever. The blazing star leans into Soren's side listlessly. Standing next to the archon, the shadowy clown absently plays with his top-hat, feeling the torrent of grief as if his own. It's....strange, foreign, this searing agony and chilling, cold emptiness. Profound loss. Just as the love--Rila's love-- for Zhar flowed through his being as though the emotions are his own.

Merlin hugs his hamsters tightly, jaw set. Mirael places a hand on her Magister's shoulder, sullenly watching the memory sequence. Merlin's squared shoulders slump, swallowing down the lump in his throat.

The two truly, indisputably, loved each other.

The vision gets mixed up for a brief moment with old memories of another bird's final moments--A violet budgie slowly dying out of old age, ailed by the pains in his infected feet. The little parakeet snuggles up in Rila's cupped palms as though getting ready to sleep or nap, always turning his head to look up at Rila with...love, utter adoration and serene, peaceful calmness in spite of his pains torturing him. As if telling her not to cry, or 'I'm okay.' It's this memory that haunts her still. The memory of the previous bird's peaceful death is contrasted with the new parrot's abrupt passing.

Suddenly Rila is a kid again, coming home.. The second the bird heard the front door open and shut, senses his owner's presence, excited chirps, incessant chatter fills the air. He sounds... younger, too. Restless, flitting around his cage, as soon the girl shows up--He calms down. The memory shifts to a few years later, both little older, with Rila returning home from school and sitting down at the dining table to eat her lunch--A violet little rascal quickly pads over to her.

Scowling, the student gently pushes the budgie back from her bowl but he keeps trying to hop or climb on it. Absolutely trying to eat from it, too, however his owner keeps pushing him back. Warding her lunch. Doesn't deter the lil menace though. (The scene makes Valen smile with a suppressed chuckle. Whatever Rila eats and drinks, her feathery scamp simply has to share too. There were no negotiations about it allowed, it seems. And the parakeet always goes to her plate or bowl specifically, no one else's.) Played 'stylist' with her hair, and looking dang proud of himself, played with cards, stole notes, nibbled at her pen, pencil or paintbrush whenever she writes or draws--And Rila would tense up, hurry to get him away from it. His little feet were smeared with colors, that she washed off. And so many more antics. A fiery, cheeky little hooligan.

The memory shifts to when the rascal is old, resting on his owner's stomach and napping contently under her hand. To when he grumbles in protest at being taken out of the cage but then sleeps soundly in her palm, 'snoring' quietly. If he could purr, he no doubt would be. The time he was out and snuggled up to the woman's hip, angrily grumbling whenever someone tries to disturb him...When the old champ climbed up the big donkey plush and settled into the crook of Rila's neck, tucking his head under his wings.

Almost fifteen years old. Would have turned. Whatever wrongdoings Rila did to him as a kid, he has long forgiven her for. Even though she has not forgiven herself, gnawed by guilt. The vision shifts once more, showing Rila walking out on her balcony with a makeshift coffin in hand and face stained by dried tear tracks. Tired.

Lowering herself onto her knees in front of the tall cage and opening its door, the brunette murmurs soft words in her native to him, to the parrot, as she reaches in and gently picks the lifeless fiery rosella parrot. Holding him in her hand, about to lower him into the shoebox. Voice less raw but having gone listless.

("Come my boy..."), pausing in her movements to lower him into the casket. ..And cradles the parrot close one last time, running a hand through his feathers. Tenderly, lovingly. Soothing, murmuring to the deceased animal in sweet, sorrow tinted voice.

("My firebird...Zhar, my beautiful firebird..."), hugging him for a long moment. Before finally lowering the dead bird into the improvised coffin, still speaking to him.

"Thank you, for coming into my life and being with me. For choosing me. May your next lives be the best, happiest."

A reflection of self-blame in her last words of blessing, for 'not doing enough' and 'not giving a good enough life', as though she could've done so, so much more. As if Rila feels like she wasn't a good enough owner. Devastated frustration at being powerless to help, do so much more for her bird both current and previous.

The vision morphs to showing a shoebox closed and sitting atop the tall cage the bird resided in. The box is lined with colorful tissues inside, a blue paper rose and a big, round owl made of salty bread sit inside by the body. The cold night wind blows on the balcony.

The scene in the vision morphs to Rila, wearing a fur vest, walking out in the night and holding the makeshift coffin as though cradling the bird itself-- most precious treasure. Strides solemn, somber and head held high, dried tear tracks on her face, ignoring the November chill biting her skin. Searching for a place suitable to bury the casket... the young woman picking up nearby heavy, large, stones and roof tiles with unwavering effort. Struggling to carry them back to the chosen spot but refusing to give up, setting them down over the filled in grave with a determination.. like creating a monument. And a way to discourage cats and dogs from digging as it would be too much work. A way to keep the parrot's rest undisturbed by unwanted 'visitors'.

Slowly the vision fades away, the Sun weeping over the two graves and hugging her father. "My boys, my beautiful boys.." One last dream, the same as in the prophecy warning of Zhar's passing. This time, her devastated voice sobs to him, to Rio, to both of them "I love you!" through tears. And just like last time, there is no trace of judgement or accusation in the eyes of the 'firebird'. Nor the budgie's. Both look at their owner with the same deep, profound, unwavering love, longing and adoring affection as in life.

"We know. We love you too."

The vision ends, the void dissipating and the world comes back into focus. What sits on the ground at the heart of their circle, are tiles like stained glass, the happy memories from Zhar's short life. The emotions of the Sun vanished, leaving the group as they slowly move to get up and shuffle around the lounge. To share a drink, shake off the tragic memories. Move on with their own routines, the 'crisis' averted.

Pirin remains kneeling on the ground, taking a deep shuddering breath and slowly exhaling, carefully picking up the tiles. The transition won't be long--The next day after the funeral, that version of the Sun would've died away with the grief and a new, 'blank slate' reincarnation will take her stead. 'Reset'. 'Reborn.' Still will love her familiars will her whole being, every single ounce of her soul... But will no longer weep, rather smile. Like nothing ever happened.

As she picks up the tiles of her bright moments with them.

Merlin watches the dutiful, sullen Moon pensively for a long moment.

"Will this cycle repeat? Get a bird, bond then weep and go through symbolic death-rebirth?"

"Yes."

"Why..?"

"Only the Sun knows for herself."

---

Somewhere, out there, a bright phoenix flies freely--Whistling a half-learned merry melody, calling his own name like in victory. Proud and happy, accompanied by a smaller bird made of stardust. A little 'stray' star, soaring alongside the bigger one of eternal flames, chattering and snickering.

Unbound, happy and healthy as they can be, forevermore. Two companions that would soon join the Moon, watching over their Sun vigilantly. Just as she watched over them. Forevermore. Together, never to be separated again.

[sapphobolide]

FFXIVWrite Day 6 — "Halcyon"

Mor Dhona turned cold with the season, but inside the Rising Stones it was warm. Laughter and eager talk bubbled in the soft lantern light, free chairs were in short supply. Food was not, however. The air swam with the scent of apple tarts and squash soup, their ingredients fresh from Gridania, mashed popotoes and butter from Thanalan, and hot La Noscean spiced wine. Bowls came empty to a cauldron of Coerthan mutton stewed with lemon thyme and left full, and a crate of Lominsan blood oranges sat open for any and all to take. The headquarters of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn had never seen such a celebration.

And there was plenty to celebrate, to be sure. The Doman refugees, who had arrived in Revenant’s Toll well after planting season when every other state in Eorzea had turned them away, had successfully pulled a risky buckwheat harvest out of the rocky soil of Mor Dhona. According to the skywatchers, they would have just enough time to sow their crystal-studded fields with rye, barley, and winter wheat before the frost came. The seed, along with many of the foodstuffs that went into the Scions’ feast, had come from Gridania and Limsa Lominsa—shipped to the Scions in thanks for the slaying of primals that had threatened each land. Not to be undone, Ishgard had sent shipment after shipment of wood and stone to see Revenant’s Toll through the winter, so grateful were they to be relieved of the primal threat. Gifts even came from the Sultana from time to time, priceless bundles of pepper, ginger, anise, and cloves.

But for all those victories, it was the newest excitement that seemed most infectious—Moenbryda’s plan to slay an Ascian. She was the most recent arrival to the Rising Stones, but Moenbryda had fit in the way that a bow fits a quiver of arrows. The big woman filled the room like air, her voice the wind, the avalanche of her laugh so transfixing none could run from it. The other Scions orbited her like a host of blushing Dalamuds, the red in their cheeks not entirely from the wine.

Caswyn watched it all from afar, a mug of mutton broth in her hands. Behind her prowled the cat-sized vessel of Midgardsormr, a spectre only those with the Echo could see. Her thoughts wrapped around her like a cloak, sheltering her from the squall of merriment blowing through.

The scrape of a stool woke her attention. Tamsyn sat beside her, a cup of her own in hand. There was space enough between them to fit the things they did not talk about; the bitter fight they had had over letting Lady Iceheart go, the sobbing breakdown that had overcome Tamsyn in the boat back from the Keeper of the Lake. The secret they had kept from all but Minfilia—that the father of dragons had stripped them of Hydaelyn’s blessing. And yet, for all that had come between them, there was a surprising comfort here, at the edge of the festivities. They were alone, together.

Tamsyn nodded at the giant in the room. “They’re all a little bit in love with her, aren’t they?”

Caswyn pondered her for a while. She smiled, and followed her gaze. “Save Papalymo, perhaps.”

“Thancred’s going to make a fool of himself.”

“He already has, he and Hoary both. It’s only a matter of time for Yda and Y’shtola and Urianger, if Moenbryda stays.”

“Urianger has it the worst of all, though they’d hate to hear me say it. At least Minfilia is smiling again.”

Caswyn looked at the Antecedent, laughing at one of Moen’s boasts and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. Too much had weighed on Minfilia of late, from the invasion of Elidibus into the Waking Sands to the disappearance of the Isle of Val. The latter had driven a friend of Caswyn’s to imprison himself in magical slumber, for a number of ages only the Twelve could know. “It is good to see,” she agreed.

Tamsyn appeared to make up her mind. “I hope she stays. I think she’s good for them.”

“We will have broken hearts eventually,” Caswyn warned.

“There always will be.” Tamsyn smiled at her, sadly. “But for now, things are good.”

[hidden-clue]

I was looking up poisonous mushrooms, for foraging purposes, and I stumbled into one called 'Ergot fungus', and I thought, wait, I know this word, I've heard it somewhere. It went on to say it causes 'ergot poisoning' and it clicked - ergot poisoning from Midnight in Salem!

It turns out ergot fungi is a fungus that infects rye, wheat, barley and other cross-species of cereal, it grows inside of them like a little black worm. Then if the cereal is consumed, it poisons people. It does cause psychosis, seizures, migraines, nausea, vomiting, but the long term effects are as bad as gangrenes - skin falling off, loss of body tissue, limbs rotting and falling off, and in the end, death. Midnight in Salem did NOT impress just how intensely deadly this is.

There were outbreaks of ergot poisoning in the middle ages, and in the 19th century, and the effects were horrifying. People eventually figured out that ergot can be sterilized by placing the yield in a brine solution, deep plowing the infected fields and rotating crops.

There's an interesting article on wikipedia discussing whether the symptoms of ergotism were blamed on the witches during the witch trials in Salem, all of the symptoms were mentioned in the records. However it was concluded that the symptoms were already known by then, and would be recognizable as ergot poisoning, so it was not the case. It was interesting to find Salem directly on the 'ergot poisoning' wikipedia page!

It's making more sense now why Nancy was asking around who was eating cereal-based products and why ergot was used as a plot device, it was after all, connected to witches and to the history of Salem, and also a big problem in the middle ages.

Now would ergot also infect water from some infected plants being put into the water supply? I have no clue, that part is a bit far-fetched, but I am glad the poisoning wasn't as extreme as it could have been. Insane to want to revive such an awful plague.

Sorry for talking about Midnight in Salem! I still play it for Halloween so I wanted to share the extra knowledge I just gathered, getting real-life knowledge from Nancy Drew games still is one of my favourite things.