crcwdaddy

[crcwdaddy]

IN THE DARK TIMES WILL THERE ALSO BE SINGING?  YES. THERE WILL ALSO BE SINGING ABOUT THE DARK TIMES.     /     fantasy oc multi- muse as written by emily

[crcwdaddy]

sooo I’ll be working on my Magnus Archives & Original Characters multi today, oops.

[crcwdaddy]

wow making a carrd for the first time is willld. and made me feel old. asdfghjkl

[crcwdaddy]

archiveye​.

                                 ❝     this is a game.   no wrongs.   no rights.    ❞

                           (   .. *  @crcwdaddy​​    &     lyric starter call.   )

there’s a gleam in this man’s eyes that Crow knows not to trust ( that a simpleton would know not to trust, even before all of this, Crow hadn’t been lacking in the brains ––and self-preservation–– department). 

     “ call me crazy, ” he says in jest, and the words roll lazy smoothly over his tongue, their cadence lazy.   “ but you seem the type who’s used to winning. ” there’s no challenge to that, no boastful little ‘and so am I’ degenerating into comparing whose cock was bigger or who could piss the farthest. it’s not the type that Crow is. actions and words and all of that. and he wasn’t in a particularly antagonist mood ( he never is ).

instead, he exhales, and tendrils of blue smoke escape his lungs ( half poison, half chills; Crow takes another hit from the cancer stick, and politely offers another from a silver case ).

[crcwdaddy]

@shinedied​ ( Dan ) said: “ my head is throbbing. I think I have a concussion “

Crow’s smirk stretches wide from behind the cheap styrofoam cup. All teeth. The coffee tastes like mud stirred in water, microwaved for ten seconds until it’s barely warm and somehow even less palatable. There’s no milk in sight. Fortunately, Crow’s not prone to gagging, a neat little circumstance that has served him well, in its many ways. Anyway. The words (complaint) light up his eyes with warm amusement. It’s probably the only friendly thing in the beige-tinted room ( a beige tomb, where old people come to die under the pretense of being cared for in their old age. but it’s just a ticking clock until six feet underground, even if everyone pretends otherwise. )

       “ Yeah? ” the question is rhetorical. “ Well, you do look like shit, if you don’t mind me saying. ” and this isn’t commiseration, but fact. Kid does. Crow is half-tempted to ask him how many he’d had last night, but he doesn’t care enough to do so. Not his business. Not what he set up to do, raising people’s shackles like that, when it might not even be true. Instead, he tips the cup to indicate the old man in the wheelchair across the room, “resting his eyes” and throwing his life away ( what remains of it. which is a long, long time. long enough, as long as he eats well. and Grandpa Flick is very, very good at locating food. this place is awful enough for a little snack, truth be told. if you’re not picky. old people don’t age like raisins, delicious and sweet. more like a fermented mess, and not the kimchi sort. )

       “ Don’t suppose you’re the one giving my old man and I the tour, are you? ” Granpa’s skin,  beaten and pulled taut by the hand of time until it was as cracked as dry leather,  hardly contradicted the idea of them being family. And anyway, who except family would put up with his shit-stinking ass?

[crcwdaddy]

@autumnwept​​ ( Rose ) said: “ you’re dripping blood on the carpet. “

Crow meets the words with a lazy blink, unhurried by the instructions in Rose’s voice that masquerade as an observation. a rough rumble throws itself against the back of his throat. acknowledgement. but he takes his time, movements heavy with contentment. ( it isn’t that he likes doing this. but it isn’t as if he minds. animals or humans, in the end it is all just flesh and butchery and corpses six feet under. when it comes down to it, very little differentiates one from the other. we share a hell of a lot of DNA both with a dog and with corn. 

it’s the age-old hunt and the age-old ending. through the window, the stars shiver blue and cold in accord. )

Crow doesn’t watch them. instead, he watches his own hands as he meticulously wipes them clean with an old-fashioned handkerchief. finger by finger, rubbing the colour in until it fades into his skin.

            “ shame, ” he jokes, and he doesn’t sound sorry. “ send me the cleaning bill, will you, Rosie? ”

[crcwdaddy]

for my Magnus Archives pals - just know that Crow would be an entity at the perfect crossroads between The Hunt and The Stranger, and that honestly gives me the chills.

[crcwdaddy]

I want to remind everyone that in the True Knot, Rose is the matriarch and leader of the group, while Crow is basically The True’s.... Mom Figure. thank you for coming to my TED talk. 

[crcwdaddy]

lamentedhope​

You need to make amends, Albus, his mother wrote to him in his fourth year at hogwarts after she received word of percival’s worsening condition in azkaban. dementors do that, suck the life and spark out of everything, and, for all of his faults, percival had plenty of both  —  he must have seemed a feast to the dark, hungry creatures of azkaban. when albus was younger, and still fretted over his father, he consoled himself by thinking of percival conjuring a wandless patronus in azkaban to keep the dementors away. his wand was taken away, but not his inherent magic, and dementors don’t have eyes, so who could stop him ?  but the thought always then trailed into albus thinking, being convinced, that percival would break out, return to them, and everything would go back to how it was meant to be. that never happened, of course, and then the dementors finished their feast on his father… .

you need to make amends, kendra said, and albus refused. he hadn’t been writing to percival since the conviction happened, why should he start now just because percival was reaping the full rewards of his actions ? it was percival who needed to make amends with him ( with them ), not the other way around !   …  and then percival died. he was buried at azkaban. and nothing in albus’ life changed in the slightest. so it goes.  

he shuts his eyes.  “ No. ”  his voice is a ghost of itself, more air than substance. “ It was a – a sudden event. ”  a thump, then a scream, but that does no good in describing the gut-curling sound that erupted from aberforth’s core that startled, then paused, albus and _ _ _ _ _ _ _ out of their duel. then albus was being shaken, then  …….  was leaving, then aberforth was leaving, and albus was alone, in the house, with the body. there wasn’t even any blood; he thought there should be blood, if only a small trickle from her mouth or nose or eyes. instead she looked like one of her dolls … then albus was retching in the kitchen sink. 

his eyes open, blinking like an owl before glancing at the man.  “ I cut my hair. ”  you seem like you will know what that means.  as if self-conscious, his free hand brushes through the mahogany ends at the nap of his neck. he cut it after the funeral, then couldn’t tolerate it growing to any significant length. he took scissors to it, cutting haphazardly, wishing he could take it to his skin instead, peel the flesh back like a scab until he was left with nothing that tingled with memory. out, damned spot; out, i say !  ashamed, voice tethering on the edge of trembling:  “ It was the only thing I could think to do besides bury them. ”               

speaking of this, to this kid, sinks a hook deep into his brain, and slowly ( almost without his conscious acknowledgement ) pulls forth all the gruesomely mushed up parts of his history he spent years trying to forget ( mushy because they were chewed up, spit out, then swallowed back up again. over and over, day in and day out, until they were blurry and soaked in bile. there’s a deep-seated hatred in him for those times. for all the people that populated them. and for his own past self included. a convoluted web making up a past he had taken a knife to. he’d bled a little from it, sure. but then he was set free. )

          “ yeah, I see. ”   

Crow sighs, and his eyes press shut. ( in the blur that follows when he opens them again, he isn’t sure if he is looking at his own skin or the kid’s. maybe that is the problem. that’s definitely the problem. the past always chases at your heels like a rabid dog, huh? )

he could deny it, but. . .. it’s strange. words form on his tongue in a manner he hasn’t used in years.  a tone that used to be natural, words that used to be deep-seated and familiar. do you wish to speak to someone? lay down your burden on a stranger and leave lighter? training reasserts itself, hard and cold like a sinking stone. a perfect New Yorker accent, down to the last reverberation.

           “ you wanna talk about it? ”   

( but Crow’s eyes are dark with understanding, and the syllables are quiet. he doesn’t smile. )

[crcwdaddy]

𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 & 𝐁𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐒

                                                     𝐀𝐍 𝐈𝐍𝐉𝐔𝐑𝐘 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄                                       

“You’re dripping blood on the carpet.” “When I said scars are kinda sexy, I didn’t mean you should get one right away…” “Press that against the wound, I’m going to get the med kit.” “It’s bleeding quite badly.” “Oh God, what happened to you?!” “You’re covered in blood! Is it yours?” “Your head looks pretty bad. I’m sure it’ll need stitches.” “It’s going to hurt for a moment, but I’ll need to clean the wound.” “I’m so sorry this happened to you. But you’re safe now.” “That’s a pretty nasty bruise. Want some ice?” “Does it still hurt?” “I don’t think a band aid is gonna fix this…” “Whoa, hey, stay with me! You’re as white as a ghost. Don’t pass out.” “Damn, that must hurt. I’m sure there are some painkillers around here.” “You have to be seen by a doctor. This isn’t going to heal on its own.” “It looks broken. Can you move it at all?” “Here, lean on me. I’ll support you.” “I’m not going to leave you behind. If need be, I’ll carry you.” “I’m going to pick you up now, okay? Just hold on to me.” “Everything is going to be okay. Just hang in there.”

“I don’t feel so good.” “It’s seeping through the bandages.” “My head is throbbing. I think I have a concussion.” “I can barely breathe, it hurts so bad!” “It looks worse than it is. I’m sure it’ll be gone in a couple of days…” “You should see the other one.” “Don’t look at me like that. I don’t want your pity.” “It was my fault, really. I wasn’t paying attention and got hit in the face.” “Getting stabbed wasn’t really on my bucket list.” “I don’t think I can walk.” “Leave me behind, please. I’m just going to slow you down.” “Am I going to die?” “I can’t stop the bleeding.” “I think the bruise matches my eye color.” “Don’t touch it, please! It hurts.” “I don’t want to go to a hospital. I hate doctors!”

[crcwdaddy]

 low activity.  crossover & original characters friendly. bring your own steam.

[crcwdaddy]

.

[crcwdaddy]

fighterwheeler​

She’s always been good at reading people, feeling the way the air shifts, and now that she’s seeing it all through different eyes, Nancy swears it’s electric.  It’s the way the second the words leave her lips, the brunette regrets them, reminding herself suddenly who Rose is exactly, Nancy’s posture suddenly perfecting itself. 

A smile would normally tug at the corner of her mouth in amusement at the ultimate Mom Comment, but as Nancy does genuinely fear her life (in a sense of the word), she forces it down.  Any slip out of line from her in plain sight, she knows Rose will have no problem making her… disappear, rather easily.  It isn’t as if Nancy’s Shine is truly anything spectacular, but there is an aspect of her character she hasn’t shown them yet, one that Nancy herself had chalked up to pure talented and skill.

Rose’s tone reminds her of a mother scolding their child, and in a way, is that not the roles they will eventually play?  Down the line, perhaps posing as mother and daughter, their features similar enough; Nancy remains almost doe-eyed in fear as the woman speaks.  Hardly visible, her head nods in understanding, taking Rose’s change in tone as her cue to hesitantly take a danish herself, hunger becoming the new forefront of her brain, popping a piece of it into her mouth, swallowing it down quickly, before she nods.

“Yes, ma’am,” it comes out soft, but clear, Nancy finally able to really find her voice.  She doesn’t even bother to look to Crow yet, having a feeling some kind of gentle reprimanding will ensue after this little breakfast.

be careful where your thoughts bring you, lest they bloom into reality. Crow wants to laugh, just a little ( he had predicted this happening, but not quite so soon ; he stares down, and the scone stares back at him as if sharing in his amusement. it’s the sort of humour that Rose clearly does not mean to acknowledge, if the piercing icepicks that are her eyes are to serve as a barometer. Crow sighs, a short exhale of exasperation slithering out long and slow from his lungs, and meets her stone-sharpened gaze, even as she continues berating the kid. )

and KEEPS berating him, too, somewhere between the lines. without protest, Crow watches her talk, lets them sort it out between them, and busies himself with reaching up to let his hair down ( literally ), running a hasty hand through the wet locks. ( as if he didn’t have a care in the world. the elastic band joins the bracelets around his wrist. he stares at the scone. the scone stares back. Rose throws more insulting insinuations his way, and he takes another blueberry-filled bite, an easy excuse not to answer. an easy excuse not to openly sigh her way, pin her down with too knowing eyes. that’s too far, and you know it. what is TRUST, Rosie darling? not regarding this child, but regarding–– )

and why should he not? why should his stomach do summersaults, his pulse become uneasy? the results of this ‘conversation’ were writ large, right in front of them, from the beginning. it isn’t as if he expects the kid to be dumb enough to stir shit up with Rose over breakfast. she will at least delay it until lunch.

                                    temper, temper. . . .

            “ Rosie. . . . ”  he finally says, tone lazily casual in the aftermath of Nancy’s quietly spoken words ; one of his fingers circle the rim of the cup in an unspoken acknowledgement ( it’s fucking tea, not coffee, Crow doesn’t DRINK TEA–––– ) before bringing the cup to his lips and taking a sip. ( with that much amount of sugar, it manages to taste a little like hard candy melting on his tongue. he can stomach it. )

           “ no need to worry about it. Nancy just woke up and is still adjusting. we’ve yet to go around or have a chat. ”  ‘I’ll take care of it’ is what he means between the lines, the words painted with large brushstrokes. taking care of it could mean many things: showing the kiddo the way to get in touch with what the True really were, helping her to understand. . . .. . removing her vocal cords from her throat as she tried to scream, and burning the clothes that remain as she turns to steam blow apart by the wind. it could mean many, many things. and he means all of them. but even if his words are smooth, tiptoeing the line towards complacent, he’s certainly been rubbed the wrong way. ruffled feathers feel usual to him, and he has no object to peck at as an outlet. so the irritation rests on his shoulders like an invisible lead blanket. but that is something to sort out much later. 

@intelwon​

[crcwdaddy]

lamentedhope​

burned the man says, and albus’ mouth twists in ironic amusement. how fitting of an expression; it’s only once phoenixes burn that they then can be reborn. he supposes this, right here, is his ashes. how long did it take phoenixes to return to their adult state — weeks, months, or years ?  the answer flutters in the forefront of his mind without solidifying until, finally, dissipating altogether.

his head aches, a pulsating, deep echo of a throb. if this is rebirth, it seems to be going rather poorly.    

he didn’t mean to say anything, but, like how he didn’t intend to come to america, the words ended up outside of him anyway. it’s been too long since he’s properly spoken to someone. between new zealand ( the year of empty snow; when he tried to reach out to grasp it, he felt only cold ) and the poisoning in peru, he can’t recall the last conversation he was fully coherent for and that wasn’t asking for directions to the nearest, most dangerous mountain side. well, there was……but that was different and certainly not what he meant.

his hand tightens around his glass — his wrists have always been thin, delicate, particularly when in comparison to the size of his hands, but now as he observes, he fully expects the bone to puncture the parchment-thin skin. the injury might even be welcomed, should it succeed in puncturing the hazy snow that still clogs his senses. 

“ quite. ”  where your treasure is, there be your heart also.  he sips his water then wipes his left eye, his glasses becoming askew. he rights them before continuing.  “ though i can hardly take heart when it’s buried six feet under the earth. ”  the characteristic lightness falls flat, his voice edging close thick.  “ i suppose i could dig it up, but what a mess that would be ! ”                     

I am sorry for your loss, his tongue wants to say. for once, the words do not taste like him, but taste wrong, taste of lead and copper on the tongue. it causes Crow to frown ( because it’s the him he had wanted to shape himself into, for so very long. ) in their stead, he lets his eyes fall on the young man, gaze like a woolen blanket. heavy, but warm.

it’s an odd feeling that sits ill on his shoulders. as if he somehow feels responsible for this lost kid, in some sort of way. as if pulled by a red string. as if tugged by what binds everything together. it’s uncomfortable ; he’s not the right man for it. most of his life, he hadn’t been responsible for anyone ( except for his childhood, and the uncertain age that tumbled between its brink and that of adolescence ; after that, he’s ran and ran and ran from any responsibilities towards others, and for ONCE turned to the responsibilities he had towards HIMSELF. and then there was a girl. . .. .  of course there was a fucking storm of a girl, uprooting everything. )

Crow chugs down two large mouthfuls of fanta, and considers the bottle in his hand. the modern age at its finest  ( he knows it will all go tumbling down from here, and that he’d be one of the few ones to see it change. )

I am sorry for you loss. ( as if we were not always on the brink of it. ) I am sorry for you loss. ( as if it was a catastrophe. ) I am sorry for you loss. (  I, the stranger. )

          “ have you made amends? ”   he says, instead, and that finally feels right.

[crcwdaddy]

mostsavage​

red   &   raw .   [ 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕   𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛   𝚐𝚞𝚝𝚜 ! ]   heart’s   blood   steams   in   the   chill   of   the   air .   𝚒𝚏   𝚢𝚘𝚞   𝚐𝚘   𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗   𝚒𝚗   𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚜   𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢 ,   𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎   𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎   𝚘𝚏   𝚊   𝚋𝚒𝚐   𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎 .   now   it   is   time   to   feast :   now   is   the   hour   of   the   wolf .  

death   fills   his   mouth   as   the   moon   smiles   down ;   a   cheshire   cat   grin ,   silver   &   sweet .   soft   skin ,   hot   blood .   he   bites   &   tears   &   savours   the   taste .   the   hunt   is   over ;   it   is   time   for   him   to   claim   his   spoils .  

[ grunt ,   growl ,   swallow ,   groan :   the   sounds   of   a   hunger   satisfied . ]

someone   there .   𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬   𝐡𝐚𝐳𝐲 ,   𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 - 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐤 :   he   looks   up ,   jaws   &   chin   painted   red .   ❛ what   do   you   want ? ❜   𝚊   𝚠𝚘𝚕𝚏   𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗   𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 ,   a   challenge   spat   through   pointed   teeth .   ❛ piss   off . ❜

meme   /   accepting

the hour of the wolf, the tear in reality between midnight and dawn ( usually cited to unfold between three and five AM. illusion’s hour. why aren’t you SLEEPING? why aren’t you ASLEEP? or is it the sleep of the DEAD that you’re seeking? ) ; careful, careful, that’s when the wolf is pawing at your window, prowling ‘round you door.  it’s also an hour when Crow is asleep ( he’s not the nocturnal type, not really, unless he’s busy. it’s an old myth that everything frightening in the world occurs under the cover of the dark. at midnight, Crow is likely asleep, but almost always lying on his back on a mattress. )

the screams wake him ( soundless reverberations across his consciousness. expanding circles rippling across the surface of a deep lake. ) leave his throat dry. not too far off, not too close. his guts turn in anticipation ( he’s into his jeans and out of the scruffy little motel in less than two minutes ).but by the time he reaches it, the kid’s dead. ( the air is heavy, silver with a light fog, and Crow inhales deeply. the feeling rushes through him like a shot of whiskey. )

                      [   he stares ahead into too much red and at the fangs of a beast.                           but he doesn’t look perturbed. not in the least.   ]

            “ well shit. fuck this. ” ( priorities. the kid is dead and that’s a fucking shame, so fuck is the only appropriate answer. if he wanted to, he could count the pearls of red dripping from those fangs. that doesn’t perturb him in the least. there’s a HELL lot of UGLY in this big, wide world, and he’s seen much of it. instead, Crow licks his lips. had there only been one of them? or two? he cannot tell, but he inhales deeply, deeply. deep & slow. )

          “ I want what you have but can’t use, pal. so don’t you mind me and we won’t have a problem. ”

[crcwdaddy]

:) (threateningly)

[crcwdaddy]

my favourite part of roleplay ——besides the obvious writing & the psychological exploration of the characters—— is having intertwined, connecting storylines with various other writers. so if you're ever vibing with that, HIT. ME. UP.

EDIT: for all of you who liked or commented on this post.... YOU DO REALIZE THAT I WILL NOW FIND A WAY TO INTEGRATE ALL OF YOU INTO MY MAIN VERSE AND WITH EACH OTHER, RIGHT???? RIGHT?