#Harrowgate

[stutterhug]

My most recent double page Tooth and Claw spread for the Pheonix Comic 💖🧡

ALSO I am at Thought Bubble this weekend! Come and find me at the Pheonix table on Sunday and loitering about buying too many comics on Saturday most likely!

[tomoleary]

Edward Higgins (1877-1933) Harrowgate

Source

[dean-boese-universe]

Whole lotta love going on in this episode!  Arthur talks being trans in these interesting times in his corner as well as Invader Zim, the Moomans and snow days.  Dad gets so excited he bleeps himself, and he is the only one who knows what a rimshot (hint it's NOT dirty), Laura talks reading smut, we celebrate being a family AND discuss the life of British mystery writer Agatha Christie and her strange 10 day disappearance in this little bit historical and whole lotta family episode of the Family Plot Podcast!

[linovadraws]

Beloved! Beloathed!

[the-squeaky-junk-drawer]

OK, so I've had a realization...

...and I kind of hate it. So, I'm rereading the Doctrine of Labyrinths series, and I'm partway through The Virtu, and I've noticed some things that I somehow didn't the first few times I read it.

I've always imagined it as a sort of generic sword-and-sorcery fantasy setting, kind of like Game of Thrones, or whatever. Melusine is very French-influenced (centimes are a unit of money, the days sound like bastardizations of French days of the week, the name of the main river the "Sim" sounds sort of similar to the "Seine" when said aloud, etc.), but in my head all the Lower City inhabitants sound like Dickensian toughs (basically a Cockney accent, or what have you). They mention a country/region called Norvena, which, from the physical description of its inhabitants sounds kind of Scandinavian (lots of tall blonds). All the names in Troia sound very Greek, as do all the city names. The fall of the ancient cities sound like the fall of Rome, or Babylon, or something. The crew of the ship Morskaiakrov are from the Merrows, which is clearly eastern European (names like Piotr, and Ilya, and things like that; "Morskaiakrov" is literally a Russian word that means "sea blood"). All sort of European-sounding things. But throughout the books, they (specifically Mildmay) makes mention of some peculiar things, considering the European-heavy descriptions otherwise. Specifically -

swamps

rattlesnakes & cottonmouths

skunks

"gators"

buffalo

BARBECUE SAUCE

...and I had a horrific thought. Are they...American??!? As in, are they in North America??? Maybe Canada? Are "the Duchies" the States?? And the French-influence of Melusine is, like, Quebecois? Does Mildmay...sound like a redneck? Because all his I-ain't-this and it-don't-mean-nothing-that can, in theory, work with a Cockney accent, but...it can also work with a twang from the Tennessee mountains. Which is where the author grew up, according to the bio in the back of the book. He doesn't go so far as "y'all", thank goodness. EDIT: He even says "y'all" at one point (repeatedly, about 4 times in 2 or 3 pages). But it just makes more sense to me that, when Felix's "old voice" from Simside comes out in times of stress, he goes from sounding plummy to sounding like a Dickensian gutter-rat.

I don't know what to do with this information. And I kind of hate it. I can't get twangy-Mildmay out of my head, and I want to go back to the Cockney cat-burglar I fell for when I was 14. Help.

[softieghost]

Learning that Felix has dyed red hair and missmatch eyes...I know this bitch did numbers on deviant art

[little-mouse-adventures]

Character asks: Maia - 12; Felix Harrowgate - 31; Butler - 17 and 35 please :D

12. Crack headcanon (Maia)

Boy's tall. Idk if that's canon or not, or how much of a crack headcanon it is, but like. His grandfather apparently towered over everyone, and I think it would be funny if Maia also becomes incredibly tall and no one really notices. He's still very quiet and polite and shy, so he just kind of looks like an awkward and adorable beanpole and no one thinks much of it. And then one day he goes full Edrahasivar VII and just dominates the entire room. Suddenly everyone is very aware that their Emperor is at Hozier-levels of tallness, and can very easily look down on damn near anyone he pleases. (After Maia is done putting the fear of the gods into whomever irritated him, he looks around and everyone is staring at him wide-eyed, suddenly remembering that this is the Emperor and not just some stand-in, and Maia has no idea how to react except to very politely ask Csevet to fetch everyone some calming tea)

31. If the had a tumblr what would it look like? (Felix Harrowgate)

Oh god. At first, before the events of the series, it's a collection of holier-than-thou vagueposts and long essays about obscure magical texts, and some length arguments about how wrong some of those texts are. Occasional vanity selfies, the kind where he pretends it wasn't a selfie and was just a casual picture someone happened to take of his best angle, while he was wearing his best jacket and had his hair just so.

Then shit goes down for him, and while he doesn't use tumblr much during his bout of madness, the few times he does it's to post borderline incomprehensible ramblings about the animal heads around him and what that means and the fantome in the tower and other such things, that those who followed him are all like. "Uh. you good, bro?" (he doesn't answer and disappears for another three months before his next post about the ghosts in the maze).

After the Troia adventure, there's a lot of the same kind of long-winded magical essays and arguments, but now they've shifted from being obscure topics to being slightly taboo topics. Lots of aesthetic pictures where he wonders if anyone else can see the ghosts or the noirance, and people start to think he's trolling.

In exile, again, long bout of ghosting. When he starts posting again, it consists of a lot of aesthetic pics of foxes and the Corambis countryside. There's yet more magical essays (he cannot shut up for the life of him) but they're not nearly as aggressive now, and seem more like someone wanting to share cool information rather than prove how much better and smarter he is than everyone else.

He's blocked anything to do with rubies.

17. Quotes, songs, poems, etc. that I associate with them (Butler)

Honestly it really depends on what AU/ fic I'm fixating on. There's not really a hard-and-fast "oh yes this is The Blorbo through-and-through!" thing for him. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

35. Their idea of a perfect day (Butler)

April 25, not too hot, not too cold, all you need is a light jacket

Sorry. Anyways. Early morning, bit of time to himself to enjoy his coffee while he makes plans for the day. Bit of work to keep the mind occupied, interspersed with some cooking or gardening (or both, getting veggies from the garden to cook with). Someone decides to fuck around with his Principal in the afternoon, so he has a chance to be threatening and punch someone and generally engage in his dramatic side, but nothing that involves actual physical harm to his charge or himself. Then some meditation to calm down, and a chance to read his book before bed.

[kazzle-dazzle-em]

“I really think if he’d thought he could get me to go along with it, he would’ve challenged me to a duel. But I ain’t a gentleman, and duels are just fancy knife fights and just as fucking stupid.”

-Mildmay, Corambis

[mk-scrawlings]

Between Heaven and Her

In the quiet parish of St. Augustine's nestled in the misty Yorkshire moors, Father Anthony Lockwood walked the nave with solemnity and grace, his cassock whispering against stone as he lit the final candle of evensong. Rain traced fine silver lines on the stained-glass windows, and incense curled heavenward like the fading echoes of sung prayer.

He had come to the countryside to seek peace. London had been noise and temptation, the endless ring of sin in gilded forms. Here, he tended to farmers and widows, baptized infants, and buried the old. He lived with clarity—until she arrived.

Blanche Harrowgate was unlike anyone Anthony had encountered. She stepped from the coach with lace gloves and a parasol of cream silk, but her eyes were storm-colored, and her smile curved like mischief. The villagers whispered she was the niece of the late Lord Harrowgate, come to claim the estate at the edge of the forest, long empty and said to be haunted by moor-wraiths.

"Ghosts do not frighten me," she had said boldly at Sunday service, her voice carrying in the stone-vaulted chapel. "It's the living who are the more dangerous."

Anthony remembered how that made the hairs on his neck stand. He had not smiled.

Blanche, however, had.

Their first conversation had been accidental—or providential, depending on one's view. She arrived at the rectory with a basket of elderflower wine and rose-petal marmalade, claiming to thank him for the service. They spoke of theology, of course, and poetry. She quoted Lord Byron with irreverent charm.

"You hide behind doctrine, Father, but even saints have hearts," she said, watching him over the rim of her teacup. "Do you ever wonder what yours beats for?"

Anthony had not answered then. He could not. Her scent lingered—rosewater and secrets—and the silence between them was thick with something neither would name.

Weeks passed. They met again. Always by accident. She came to confession once, though she did not kneel.

"I don't believe in sin," she whispered, lips brushing the edge of the wooden grate. "Only in longing."

He had left the booth flushed, furious, afraid.

She was not proper. She was not godly. She was not for him.

But she was always there. At the edges of his vision. At the corners of his prayers.

And Anthony, oh, Anthony began to falter.

Once, he caught her in the old Harrowgate chapel, long fallen into disrepair, her hands trailing along the ruined altar.

"This place remembers things," she said softly. "Do you?"

"I remember what I vowed," he answered, though it sounded hollow, even to him.

She looked at him then—not coy, not cruel, but with something like sorrow. "Then we are both prisoners of different cages, Father."

It was Blanche who discovered the missing relics—letters sealed behind the pulpit, written by a previous vicar during the Cromwell era. Some hinted at forbidden love, others at blackmail and betrayal. The parish council grew restless; old suspicions about the Harrowgate line surfaced. Whispers painted Blanche as dangerous, a witch in corset and satin.

He defended her. Of course, he did.

And still, he prayed.

"Deliver me not into temptation," he whispered nightly.

And yet, temptation wore her name like a coronet.

The storm broke one night as Anthony returned from a sick call. Blanche's estate loomed, its windows lit like watchful eyes. A lantern flickered on the porch. Something pulled him toward it, toward her.

She opened the door before he knocked.

"I shouldn't be here," he said.

"You came anyway," she replied.

Thunder cracked. He stepped inside.

The fire cast dancing shadows across her collarbones. Her gown was buttoned too loosely at the throat. A single curl had fallen from her pinned hair. He tried not to notice. He failed.

"You're ill, Blanche," he said. "The village has turned cold. Your name is in every mouth."

"They fear what they do not control," she replied, stepping closer. "Do you?"

He swallowed hard. "I fear only God."

"Then you are more devoted than most men I've met," she said, touching the cross at his collar. Her fingers were cool. "But I wonder… if He asked you to give up your heart, would you?"

He could feel her breath. The storm beat against the walls like a warning. He closed his eyes, but it only brought her closer in his mind.

"Blanche…"

"Yes?"

"This must stop."

"Then stop it."

He couldn't.

Their lips met like fire to parchment—brief, blistering, sacred in its blasphemy.

He tore away first, breath ragged. She did not follow.

"This is wrong," he whispered.

“Only if you never return,” she answered.

Anthony stood frozen, her breath still clinging to the hollow of his throat, the warmth of her touch seared into the skin just above his collar. The crackle of the fire seemed distant now, muffled beneath the rush of blood pounding in his ears. His chest rose and fell as though he had just climbed a mountain. For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then, as though awakening from a spell, he turned.

And fled into the storm.

The door slammed behind him, snatched from his grip by the gale. Rain lashed sideways across the moors like a scourge from heaven, cold needles stabbing into his face. The path to the rectory had become a mire, water and earth churning beneath his boots as he staggered forward into the blackness. Thunder cracked like a whip overhead, and the wind howled through the bare trees like the wailing of angry spirits.

His heart thudded painfully against his ribs. He clutched at his cassock as the sodden fabric tangled around his legs. Every breath burned his throat. Blanche’s kiss—her taste—still lingered on his lips, and no amount of rain seemed enough to wash it away.

What have I done? God forgive me. God—why did You let me feel this?

Lightning split the sky, illuminating the moors in stark, silver brilliance. For a heartbeat, he saw the chapel tower rising in the distance, veiled by wind and rain, his sanctuary—his prison. He stumbled onward, slipping, falling once to his knees in the sucking mud. He pushed himself upright with a cry, half-curse, half-prayer.

“Deliver me…” he gasped aloud. “Deliver me from this—this desire, this war of flesh and soul.”

The storm gave no answer.

By the time he reached the rectory door, he was drenched through to his bones, his boots heavy with muck, his hands trembling. He leaned against the doorframe, panting, then fumbled for the key with numb fingers. When the lock turned, he collapsed inside, dropping to his knees upon the stone floor. Rainwater pooled around him.

The crucifix above his hearth stared down in solemn judgment.

He bowed his head and wept—not only for what had passed, but for what he feared he could no longer resist.

The next morning dawned grey and sullen, as though the heavens had wept themselves into exhaustion. Mist clung to the chapel’s windows like breath on cold glass, and the last threads of the storm whispered through the boughs outside, reluctant to leave.

Father Anthony stood behind the pulpit, soaked not in rain this time, but in silence.

His vestments had dried by the fire, but the chill in his bones remained. He had slept little—if at all. What dreams had visited him were wracked with thunder and the fire in her eyes, with lips that whispered verses no scripture had dared pen. He had awoken before the bell tolled, shaved and dressed in ritual motions, but something of himself had not yet risen with the dawn.

Now, he stood beneath the gaze of painted saints and weathered beams, his trembling hands resting on the worn Bible laid open before him. The scripture for the morning was from Matthew.

"No one can serve two masters."

The words blurred on the page.

He cleared his throat, once, twice. His voice caught like a branch snagged in bramble. He tried again.

"'A man… a man shall not live by bread alone… but by every word…'" He faltered, the verse dissolving to ash in his throat.

The congregation sat in familiar stillness—some nodding, some already dozing in the early hour, heads bowed in devotion or sleep. But one figure among them was unmistakably awake. She sat in the very back pew, half in shadow, as if she had chosen the place to hide from God Himself.

Blanche.

Her gloved hands were folded neatly in her lap. Her dark coat hugged her frame, her hat modest and without veil, but her posture regal, unmoved by the chill that lingered in the air. Her face was unreadable—no smile, no scorn. Just quiet observance.

He could not look away.

The chapel seemed to fall into silence though his lips kept moving, mouthing words his soul no longer believed. The air smelled of damp wood, wax, and the faintest trace of her perfume, clinging to his memory like incense to stone.

"Why did she come?" "To test me? To torment me? Or to see if I would falter?"

He tried to meet her eyes—to find accusation or forgiveness there—but she did not offer either. Only that stillness. Only that calm that had once soothed him now stirred him to unrest.

His fingers curled around the edge of the pulpit, knuckles paling.

This place—his sacred post—no longer felt safe. It felt exposed. The altar, once a refuge, now bore witness to his doubt. Every breath he took echoed with the echo of the night before, the warmth of her hands, the tremble of her voice: “Only if you never return.”

And yet here he was.

He lowered his head, ashamed. His sermon was little more than a muttered verse and half-formed prayer after that, and when he dismissed the service, most of the parishioners left without remark, offering the usual nods and polite murmurs.

But not Blanche. She lingered.

When he finally looked up again, she was standing by the threshold, framed in the arch of the doorway, a silhouette against the grey morning light. The soft patter of drizzle outside painted her in a watery halo.

Their eyes met, and in that single look passed everything neither of them could say aloud.

Forgiveness. Regret. Perhaps even love.

But also choice.

And she turned—slowly, deliberately—stepping out into the drizzle. Her figure blurred into the morning mist, her footsteps swallowed by the wet earth.

Anthony did not follow.

He stood alone in the quiet sanctuary, the rain tapping the roof above like fingers urging him to move, to run, to do something.

But he did not.

His hands rested on the altar, and he closed his eyes—not in prayer, but in surrender. Not to God, and not to her, but to the ache of having stood between them, and chosen neither.

Outside, the storm faded.

Inside, the silence remained.

And in that silence, the priest whispered the name he had never spoken aloud from the pulpit, "Blanche."

Then he bowed his head.

And said nothing more.

[not-poignant]

I think it will come as no surprise to anyone that I love gremlin man Astarion (also known as vampire Dorian Pavus no I'll be accepting no constructive criticism at this time) and think about ways to fic him all the time.

It cracks me up that like, Reddit threads are a mix of 'I kill him ASAP' 'I never take him anywhere' and then folks like me who are like 'he's always on my party I would die for him.'

Also it's really not that hard to play a hero, save everyone, have him in your party 24/7 and keep his approval up you just gotta be willing to trick a whole bunch of villains into killing themselves through wordplay and you're golden dsalkjfsa

[leyside]

We need Felix Harrowgate but a lesbian

[just-eyeballs]

I started reading Doctrine of Labyrinths after seeing it mentioned in the TLT sub and here are my thoughts so far:

Overall the vibe is “dark 90s yaoi” (over-the-top Bad Ex Boyfriend with huge hands and all)

Wow, this book has a Harrow and a Gideon AND an Ianthe…?

Wow, this was just re-released for ebook LAST MONTH?

The Tumblr fandom for this is much larger than I expected, how have I never heard of this before?

When will the suffering END?

I need to read this entire thing as quickly as possible and then probably twice.

[guy60660]

Harrowgate Tea Room

[the-squeaky-junk-drawer]

Example re: Doctrine of Labyrinths -

Felix + Malkar = Trauma Bond

Felix + Mildmay = Bonding Through Trauma (and by "Trauma" I mean "Malkar". The man is a menace.)

Just a psa for fic writers who use the “trauma bond” tag, please make sure you’re using it correctly. A trauma bond is not two people who experience similar trauma and bond over it. It’s a carefully curated, manipulative bond between abuser and victim to keep the victim coming back because of the addictive highs and lows that come with abuse.

If you want to tag two characters bonding over shared trauma, a good substitute tag would be “bonding over shared trauma.” Trauma bonding is, by definition, an abusive relationship and may steer people who have experienced it away from your fic. Please spread the word and happy writing!

[linovadraws]

I think about this conversation from Corambis chapter 7 constantly and was sad that I never finished the more detailed version I had planned, so I repurposed it into a cute little experiment.

Please enjoy this bonus Felix face from the first draft. He is my favorite.

[aigisthosia]

“If I went back to the Mirador and walked in on a meeting of the Curia and asked them to tell me what magic is, every wizard in the room would have a different answer. At least two answers would directly contradict each other. And there would be three screaming matches within fifteen minutes. But my point is, every one of those answers would be right. The most important thing about magic is the metaphors we use to understand it, and a metaphor that is wrong is a metaphor that doesn’t work. No wizard who successfully performs any piece of magic can possibly be using a wrong metaphor. There are bad metaphors, dangerous metaphors, destructive metaphors—but no wrong metaphors. Thaumaturgical theory, in the broadest sense, is about manipulating our metaphors and, ideally, making sure that the metaphors we use are good ones.”

— Felix Harrowgate, Corambis (by Sarah Monette)