farrellchilde

[farrellchilde]

[farrellchilde]

“tell me, what have you done?” - from asa!

hasil stands where the trees thin out, boots sinking into the damp earth. the wind presses against his back like a hand shoving him forward, but he doesn’t move. not yet. the weight of asa’s question hangs in the air between them, heavy and sharp like the axe hasil’s got strapped across his shoulder.

‘ what have i done? ’ he echoes, his voice low, rough from the night before. he spits to the side, clearing the copper taste from his mouth, and turns his head just enough to glance at asa out of the corner of his good eye. there’s no softness there, no apology. just the sharp edge of someone who’s been cut too many times to bleed easily anymore. his cousin of all people, should understand. asa, who walked away from this mountain like it was a burden, who should know better than anyone that the cost of survival doesn’t leave you whole. the underground fight was brutal, left him with a busted cheek and a darkened eye—evidence of a deal sealed in blood and fists. he won. him and sally ann can pay next month's rent. his back tooth feels loose.

‘ you leave a place like this, ’ he starts, his words deliberate, slow like the draw of a blade, ‘ you learn quick that what you do don’t matter as much as what you gotta be to make it out there. you do what they tell you, you fight when they push, and you take what you can when they ain’t lookin’. ’cause if you don’t? you’re done. ’ you know that better than anyone on this mountain. he wonders, not for the first time, what asa had to do to survive down there, out in the world, all those years away.

his jaw works, tight like he’s holding something back, then he lets out a breath that feels like it’s been sitting in his chest too long. hasil turns, shifting the axe against his shoulder as his eyes meet asa’s, dark and steady, the kind of look that presses harder than any words could.

‘ so, what now? you askin’ ’cause you want the truth, or ’cause you already made up your mind? ’

[farrellchilde]

smoke curls thick in the air, clinging to the damp night like it doesn’t want to leave. hasil watches it rise, dark against the pale glow of the fire, his hands resting loosely on his knees, fingers caked in the kind of dirt that doesn’t wash off easily. he doesn’t say anything at first, just lets her words sit there between them, heavy as the logs she keeps tossing into the flames. the fire snaps and pops, eating up every bit of kindling like it’s starved. fires like this—you don’t keep ‘em burning too long when the sun is down. they’ve got a way of calling out to things that don’t knock before showing up. things with teeth.

hasil lets out a breath, slow and steady, his eyes flickering to hers for half a second before settling back on the flames. there’s something almost alive about the way it moves, twisting and reaching, sparks spiraling up into the dark. he can feel the heat on his face, the sting of it in his lungs, but he doesn’t mind. it feels honest, in a way most things aren’t outside his clan. outside the mountain he grew up on.

‘ don’t reckon my word means much, ’ he finally says, voice low, rough at the edges like gravel underfoot. life outside the mountains taught him that—scuffling to pay bills, pay debts, keep his head above water long enough. but still, he tries. tries to keep his word, no matter what. ‘ ain’t ever thought on it long enough to pin it down. good or bad—it’s just a word till someone else decides what to do with it. ’ his jaw tightens for a second, not long enough to notice if you weren’t looking close.

‘ but if you’re askin’, guess i’d say good. not the kind that talks pretty. the kind that does what it’s gotta to keep things right. sometimes that looks the same as bad, though. you ever noticed that? ’

a man's only as good as his word ( hasil farrell ) @farrellchilde.

good  men  are  few  and  far  between    –    she’d  say  these  days  but  she  fears  that  they  always  have  been.    as  scarce  as  hen’s  teeth is what her auntie would say.    she  know it's true  because  her  daddy  was  a  mean, lying,   old  mister  and  his  daddy  before  that.    vivian  hopes  that  her  brother  isn’t  but  she  wouldn’t  know  would  she?    hadn’t  seen  the  boy  since  she  was  eleven  years  old.    so  she  doesn’t  have  much  to  go  off  of,    doesn’t  have  many  men  to  compare.   

smoke  billows  in  the  air  around  them and she  adds  another  piece  of  wood  to  the  fire,    brow  raising  in  quiet curiosity.    ❛  yeah?    and  what  do  you  reckon  your  word  is,    huh?  ❜    she  swipes  her  palms  together  to  rid  herself  of  ( most of ) the  dirt  that had accumulated before taking  a  seat  on  the  log and grabbing  a  long  stick  from  the  dirt beside her feet. she begins to poke the fire until it's full and bright, a golden tapestry woven with sparks,    the  warmth  instantly reddening  her  cheeks.    ❛  good  or  bad?  ❜

[farrellchilde]

aesthetic profile.

body build: wiry and lean. the kind of build that comes from hauling, climbing, and scrapping for survival. muscle clings tightly to his bones, defined. shape of face: oval with sharp edges. eye color: dark blue, the kind of shade that fades into black when he's angry, upset. eye shape: narrow and slightly upward-tilted, giving him a fox-like sharpness. eye setting: deep-set, shadowed under a prominent brow. eyebrows: thick and unkempt, arching naturally with a slight asymmetry. ears: medium in size but slightly uneven, one bent outward like it’s caught too many fights. nose: long and straight, with a subtle bump from an old break. cheeks: hollow but prominent, tanned by the mountain sun. skin tone: weathered olive, marked by the outdoors, with freckles and the occasional scar. distinguishing marks: a crescent-shaped scar above his right eyebrow. faint claw-like marks trailing down his forearm from a close call with a coyote as a child. predominant features: wild, untamed hair and sharp cheekbones. hair color: dark, dirty blonde, bordering on brown. appears lighter when the sun catches strings. hair texture: thick, long, and curly—wild, untamed. hairstyle: left to its own devices, falling past his shoulders. sometimes it’s tied back, but often it spills free. voice: low and gravelly; he speaks with an unhurried cadence. slow. deliberate. accent is thick and heavy. physical disabilities: none, though he bears the wear of years of rough living. aches that never quite go away, scars that tell stories of survival. usual fashion of dress: practical and rough-hewn—flannels, patched jeans, and sturdy boots caked in dirt. often carries a leather belt with tools and knives. favorite outfit: worn leather boots and a flannel shirt layered over a plain cotton tee. a fitted black tank top, worn and slightly faded. loose-fitting, well-worn pants, patched in places. fingerless gloves. accessories: a carved wooden pendant around his neck and a utility knife tucked into his belt. raccoon tail tied to his belt (harkens back to the idea of flea furs, where the pelts of small animals were worn to draw fleas away from human skin). smells like: fresh pine, woodsmoke, and the faint tang of moonshine. hands: calloused, with dirt under his nails and scars from carving and fights; his knuckles bear permanent marks of underground battle rings.

[farrellchilde]

“trouble’s always gonna find you.”

the air bit at his skin, cold and sharp. familiar. blood trailed sluggishly from his temple and warmed the side of his face in uneven streaks. he didn’t bother wiping it away—didn’t see the point. the sting of it, mixing with sweat, was better than stopping. stopping meant breathing, giving those bastards behind him even a second to catch up. his ribs ached something fierce like a crowbar had found its mark. hell, maybe it had. the fight itself was a blur now, all fast fists and that raw, seething anger he carried everywhere. but his body wouldn’t let him forget who came out on top. every ache, every bruise—proof. he’d won a match he was supposed to throw, and the crumpled hundreds, now soaked in his blood, and sweat, stuffed in his pockets served as the prize.

boots pounded against asphalt, somewhere too close, closing in. he risked a glance over his shoulder, shadows stretching and folding under the streetlights, closing in like a pack of wolves after prey. his breath tore out of him, sharp and uneven, each inhale scraping against the bruising in his chest. the copper taste in his throat thick, metallic. the knife on his belt sat heavy and almost comforting in its weight but pulling it wasn’t a decision he wanted to make unless he had to. not tonight. not if he could help it. he promised sally-ann.

the alley stretched out before him, another stretch of shadow and cracked concrete as far as he could see through his one good eye. the other swollen shut. a place trouble liked to sit and wait, quiet and still. he slowed for just half a second, instincts pricking like needles along the back of his neck. that’s when he noticed it—someone. like his cousin always said, he had the senses of a fox when it came to things—always catching what others missed, always knowing when to run before trouble sank its teeth in.

hasil stopped short, boots scraping against the ground, the sound loud enough to feel like a mistake. the blood on his face felt heavier now, dripping down into the edges of his vision. his hand hovered near his knife, fingers brushing the hilt in a gesture that was more habit than intention. he didn’t draw—not yet. he stood there, chest heaving, his head tilting slightly as he squinted into the dark.

there was a figure there, still as stone. hasil hated stillness—hated the way it could mask intention, the way it could go off like a trip wire at any second. in the woods, in the mountains, stillness meant trouble. meant danger. his gaze narrowed, searching the shadow, every nerve in him pulled tight. on edge.

‘ yeah, alright, ’ he muttered under his breath, rough enough that his voice scraped as it came out. ‘ reckon trouble ain’t got much else to do but follow me around. ’

[farrellchilde]

LYRIC SENTENCE STARTERS,  ETHEL CAIN.

“how funny, i never considered myself tough.”

“say what you want, but say it like you mean it.”

“god is telling you and i there is death.”

“jesus can always reject his father, but he cannot escape his mother’s blood.”

“i’ve killed before and i’ll kill again.”

“you know i raised you better than this.”

“sing it to me all day long.”

“hey, do you wanna see the west with me?”

“i am poison in the water and unhappy.”

“head full of whiskey but i always deliver.”

“trouble’s always gonna find you.”

“i followed you in.”

“i feel so alone.”

“i tried to be good. am i no good?”

“tell me a story.”

“they say heaven hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

“all that’s left are your walls and you’ll die there.”

“i’d hold the gun if you asked me.”

“i’m tired of you still tied to me.”

“a nd if you hate me, please don’t tell me.”

“end of the line. we finally hit the edge, after all this time.”

“baby, don’t run, i’ll take you anywhere.”

“you love blood too much.”

“found you just to tell you that i made it real far.”

“and know that one day, you and i could be ok.”

“it hurts to miss you. but it’s worse to know that i’m the reason.”

“he wanted to go, so maybe it was his fault.”

“even the iron still feels the rot.”

“we had nothing except each other.”

“i just wanted to be yours.”

“he’s cold-blooded so it takes more time to bleed.”

“tell me, what have you done?”

“you can’t hide from me forever.”

“blessed be the daughters of cain, bound to suffering eternal through the sins of their fathers committed long before their conception.”

“there’s nothing you can do, it’s already been done.”

“i hate this story where happiness ends and dies with you.”

“don’t talk to strangers or you might fall in love.”

“then the day came and you were up and gone.”

“you know, i still wait at the edge of town.”

“just know that i love you.”

“in these motel rooms, i started to see you differently.”

“i’m doing what i want and damn, i’m doing it well.”

“i feel it there in the middle of the night.”

“i am no good nor evil, simply i am.”

“hiding from something i cannot stop.”

“i didn’t find my love but i still made it this far without it.”

“i haven’t spoken to my dad in a long, long time.”

“don’t think about it too hard or you’ll never sleep a wink at night again.”

“just give it one more day, then you’re done.”

“i’ll see you when you get here.”

“love’s never meant much to me.”

“i invited you in. twice, i did.”

suffer does the wolf, crawling to thee. promising a big fire, any fire.”

“i’ve killed before.”

“hell don’t scare me, i’ve been times before.”

“dad’s left and mama won’t come home.”

“love’s out there and I can’t leave it be.”

“i cry every day, and the bottles make it worse.”

“these dirt roads are empty.”

“trouble’s always gonna find you, (name). but so will i.”

“i’m so alone out here without you, baby.”

“i don’t need anything from anyone.”

“your mama calls me sometimes to see if i’m doing well.”

[farrellchilde]

KYLE GALLNER as HASIL FARRELL Outsiders | 1.12 "All Hell"

[farrellchilde]

found file.

name: hasil farrell. age: early 20s. birthday: he doesn't know his day of birth in a traditional sense. knows it was during winter’s harshest month, his naming day was a few days later, given to him by the elders of the clan. sally ann informed him he was born in january, the word means nothing to him. gender: male. place of birth: morgan county, kentucky. orientation: heterosexual. affiliation: farrell clan, shay mountain dwellers. relationship: verse dependent. occupation: hunter, gatherer, occasional moonshiner. underground fighter. parents: deceased. silas farrell, fell to his death, and rowena farrell, died during childbirth. appearance: lean with long, dark, dirty blonde hair often tied back; rugged and weathered from a life in the mountains; dark blue eyes— intense, often reflecting a mix of curiosity, and wariness. tattoos are a cluster of celtic-like symbols, lines imperfect. deer antlers, circular knotwork symbol. soft spot:  pretty smiles. anything weaker, animals. is the soft spot obvious?:  somewhat, depending on the sociological view of the person who's around him. he's been known to shoot suffering animals between the eyes. when asked why he would do such a thing, he says, 'it was goin' to die, anyway. might as well help it along.'

in the pines, where the sun doesn't shine.

his style is utilitarian—he wears rugged, durable clothes that have seen better days. flannel shirts, well-worn boots, leather belts, and patched jeans or work pants are staples of his wardrobe. his belt often holds a hunting knife, small tools, and occasionally, items tied in leather pouches. scars scattered across his arms and hands from hunting and fights. he has a small, simple necklace made from leather and bone, passed down through his family as a symbol of protection.

hasil moves with quiet grace, always aware of his surroundings, like a hunter stalking his prey. he’s quick on his feet but never seems hurried, always maintaining a deliberate and steady pace.

temper is like a slow-burning fire—rarely does he explode in a sudden rage, but once ignited, it’s fierce and dangerous.

fighting style is raw, instinctual, and deeply connected to his survival in the mountains. one of the smallest of his clan members, he often had to hold his own against family that are twice, or thrice his size. hasil excels in hand-to-hand combat, often preferring to fight up close where he can use his strength and agility. his movements are precise, with quick strikes designed to disable an opponent before they can react. he’s unpredictable, combining elements of brawling, grappling, and striking. he adapts to his environment, using whatever is at his disposal—sticks, rocks, glass bottles, even the terrain itself—to gain the upper hand. he’s not afraid to play dirty if it means surviving, but he’s also not reckless—each move serves a purpose.

[farrellchilde]

DO NOT WHISTLE IN THE WOODS.

AN INDEPENDENT, SELECTIVE HASIL FARRELL OF OUTSIDERS (2016). A CASE STUDY IN: APPALACHIAN GOTHIC, GENERATIONAL TRAUMA AS THE WEIGHT OF BLOOD, NATURE'S WRATH, ALIENATION, SURVIVALISM, LOYALTIES, COLLECTIVISM, RURAL CULTURE, ANTI-GOVERNMENT, OLD-WORLD MAGIC, ECONOMIC AND ECOLOGICAL ISSUES, GRIEF AS GROWTH, ISOLATED HOLLERS, SPILL BLOOD ON SCARED LANDS, CYNICAL NATURE OF VIOLENCE. WRITTEN BY KAI, SHE/HER, BLACK. ICONLESS. 21+.

001. PROFILE. 002. PINTEREST. 003. KILLMONGER.

ONE. my name is kai. my pronouns are she/her. i’m of legal age / 31. central standard time. mun=/=muse, that typical statement.

TWO (FOLLOWING) mutuals only. 21+. PERSONALS DO NOT REBLOG MY HEADCANONS OR CONTENT.

― this muse is quite plot-heavily and this blog will reflect that. i personally prefer character development and my level of selectivity will reflect that. i will mostly follow those who post role-play content, head-canons, etc. i’m here to write. i’m opened to following canons and ocs. i will love on them all. i love ocs so much.

― i would love to write with everyone immediately, but that’s also not very logical. i’m a professor in university AND studying for these dumb LSATs. i will probably be slow at time, but i will WRITE with you. shoot me a message and we can cook something up. mains get priority as far as replies and edits go. guilt-trips don’t work on me. i really don’t care about your drama or other people’s drama if i don’t like something, i unfollow or block. if its something completely horrifying, i’ll probably report it to tumblr if it violates their terms of services. i participate in block culture. simple as that. and that goes both ways. if you don’t like what i post, unfollow please. make yourself comfortable.

THREE (ETIQUETTE) follow all the basic rules of roleplaying: no godmodding, metagaming, etc. my asks are always opened. if you think my characterization or portrayal is inaccurate, then that’s you.