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⏾⋆.˚ 𝔉ranklin O'Murphy ⭒⁺࿐࿔ ⤷ vassal to Shoney, Terrapin's Lord of the Sea.

an irishman, franklin was not among the original settlers of terrapin, rather a late arrival, literally washing ashore in 1888 at the age of 29. an irish fishing vessel had capsized during a particularly bad storm and franklin, days later, half drowned, miraculously appeared on the sands of terrapin. the islanders were quick to take him in and nurse him back to health despite the cross around his neck... as terrapin had no means to return franklin to the mainland, it was there he was now forced to call home. it was not an easy transition, nor a quick one. a non-practicing christian, pagan practices were alien to franklin, and it wasn't long before he turned to the drink, lost and lonely until harlon took him under his wing. franklin has since found his place on the isle. he spends his days on the coast alone with his dog lachlan, a shaggy tweed spaniel, in terrapin's one and only (and broken) lighthouse. here he studies the sea, the coast, and the isle's weather while tending to the lord of the sea as needed. like harlon, he has not physically aged since he hit 55, however he does not share redsun's "clairvoyance."

name. franklin o'murphy; 'murphy' being an irish surname meaning 'sea warrior.' alias. the sea's son. gender. cis man, he/him. sexuality. bisexual. date of birth. 09/24/1859. ♏︎ scorpio. age. physically 55, mentally 114+, as of 1973. occupation. vassal of the sea. birthplace. waterfoot, ireland. current residence. terrapin isle.

persona. a bit of a night owl. kindhearted & wild; ultimately a good man, once you get past his irksome & often difficult attitude. positive. energetic, passionate, resolute. neutral. loud, headstrong, busy. negative traits. abrasive, impatient, stubborn, resentful. likes. smoking, spending time on the beach with his dog, bothering harlon. dislikes. the heat, sunburn, sweets. hobbies. fishing, writing, meteorology & coastal research.

eyes. grey-brown. hair. brown, partially thinning. spots of gray in his beard. skin. sun-kissed & worn. smells of sea salt. height. 6'1" / 185 cm. build. tall & lean.

faceclaim. joe flaherty. voiceclaim. tba.

inspirations. franklin's tower by grateful dead, down by the seaside by led zeppelin, the rain song by led zeppelin, enys men (2022).

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Open Fields, Gueillaume Amat

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The Count of Monte Cristo, Alexandre Dumas

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and ofc it goes without saying that i mii’d him💯💯💯

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-`𖤓´- ❝ 𝖔𝖈𝖍, 𝖜𝖊𝖑𝖑, 𝖎 𝖉𝖔𝖓'𝖙 𝖒𝖊𝖆𝖓 𝖙𝖔 𝖕𝖗𝖞... ❞ his smile shifts into something apologetic, sheepish, like he's been caught red-handed. it's too hard to play dumb. ❝ i only noticed... the scar there on yer back, peering out of yer shirt. ❞ that, and the vague shape her past has now taken up in his mind. jenna's is a unique sort of pain; a wicked, many-handed thing. it makes his stomach turn, his brow pinch-- ❝ i've never seen anything quite like it before. but i suppose we all have scars to bear. forgive me, lass. ❞

❝  how did you know that? ❞

@soursoil & jenna knight.

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The Wicker Man (1973)

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Antique Ram Vesta, with Glass Eyes, Match Safe, Silver Plate

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Camera obscura, Sylvia Galbraith

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-`𖤓´- ❝ 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖎𝖘 𝖓𝖔 𝖊𝖉𝖊𝖓, 𝖒𝖞 𝖋𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖓𝖉. you won't be cast out, for simply living as you were meant to. though if you want nod, london isn't too far off. ❞ harlon's smile is ever-present, a gentle, shining thing. terrapin shines right alongside it; the garden seems to be in full bloom just for them. ❝ .. i know enough. i know, what i should to know. avellenau guides my steps, nuada, my path, and for that i am grateful. but, i don't think i would be wrong in saying we are from two very different worlds. mine, a paradise, yers... well, purgatory. ❞

a mere observation; he means no insult. in fact his expression sours at the taste of his own words.

❝ it must be a terrible burden, knowing all that you do. a punishment. i cannae begin to imagine why you bring yerself such torment. ❞

but the pain, the violence, works the back of his mind like a worm. it holds to lemuel; a second skin. redsun has a sense of it-- rather, a sense of something, a vague and angry shape that all but refuses to take form. and a name: verónica. lips purse, his brow furrowing in concern. his voice softens further, ❝ but who is it helping, to dwell on this? yer miserable, my boy. that much is plain. ❞

@soursoil

He turns the fruit in his hand. Large, heavy. Skin thick and deep red, speckled with flecks of sun. Its surface shines clinging tightly to fibers of juicy flesh rippling like waves. 

“Parenchyma.” Lemuel mused. “Succulent cells enough to turn Adam and Eve to sin. Original sin – the pursuit of knowledge. To know as God knows. Tell me, do you wish to know as God does? Does your God allow it?”

“I had once supposed the temptation could never reach me. There is no corner of this world to which I could not go. No piece of information I could not come to learn.”

Lemuel raises his gaze to search the Prophet’s. Dark sunglasses reflect only Lemuel’s own figure. “But I have come to realize,” He swallows. “The more I learn, the more I seek to know. The more I learn, the less I understand. There are some things…” 

His brows knit together, his image flickering a moment. Fleeting images of clover blossoms, dark mussed hair reel through his memory. Curls caked in red. Open palm, facing the moon. Verónica. “There are some things I don’t want to ever understand.” Lemuel eyes the apple in his palm.

“But even you, a man living in the Garden of Eden, has surely come to understand the men of the Land of Nod too haven’t you?” 

There’s blood on your hands too.

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by Caitlin

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Margaret Atwood, from "February"

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Hares by Leszek Woźniak

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-`𖤓´- ❝ 𝖒𝖞, 𝖞𝖊𝖗 𝖆 𝖘𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝖔𝖓𝖊, 𝖆𝖗𝖊𝖓'𝖙 𝖞𝖔𝖚? ❞ it's hard to tell with outsiders. too often they come here seeking only to pick him and his people apart. percy has proven to be a pleasant surprise. it would seem there's something special about this one. the garden sees it too; it shines, it beckons, singing its sweet cicada song in the late afternoon heat. gentle hands work the soil as he speaks.

❝ yes, there is a sort of romance to those old tales, isn't there? a pageantry, not unlike old pantheism... all the music and the drama. the life-denying god-terror of the kirk makes for little fun. and don't get me started on their attempts at melodrama. 'tis a sad thing, really... but nothing they haven't brought upon themselves. they seem to just love shooting themselves in the foot whenever they get the chance. ❞

redsun's smile turns sly, playful. he laughs, ❝ but i digress. let us not ruin our glorious day with talk of christians. they've enough people talking about them as it is. now hand me that trowel, will you, dear? ❞

❛ your priest’s bedtime stories cannot account for us. ❜ @soursoil

what a funny phrase: your priest. percy's parents have always disdained religion, both mainstream & the occult; her father believes only in science's empirical facts, and if janice has any philosophical bent she's never shared her thoughts with her stepdaughter. still, percy knows what he means. she isn't any creature from the bible, though some might point at her abilities and cry witch! but witches of christian tales make deals with the devil, and percy's powers aren't from anything so intentional. whatever she is, she was born to it.

maybe they're alike, in that way.

"no," she agrees. "but there's many things those stories don't account for. i've always preferred the older tales." she'd fancied herself a faerie-child for a while, a changling; some attempt to rationalize her inability to fit in, her stepmother's disdain. "there are more things on heaven and earth, horatio, than are dreamt of in our philosophy, right?"