#North east atlantic pack

[northsalpha-archive]

the mark!! is that a tattoo or does the whole pack have it? would niklaus have one? hope? I HAVE QUESTIONS

𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊   𝐎𝐅   𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐋     /     𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇   𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐓   𝐀𝐓𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐂   𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐊   𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍.

this   is   a   really   interesting   question!!!      and   i’m   so   glad   you   asked   because   i   do,      in   fact,      have   a   lot   of   thoughts   around   the   mark   of   the   pack.         i’ve   always   kind   of   run   with   the   idea   that   it   is   inked      /      tattooed   into   the   skin,      but   through   magic   rather   than   any   other   method.         it   appears   when   somebody   pledges   their   loyalty   to   the   pack      &      truly   means   it,      allowing   it   to   act   as   both   an   initiation      /      acceptance,      as   well   as   a   test   as   it   will   not   appear   if   you   say   you’re   loyal   with   no   more   than   empty   words.         this   was   important   to   ansel   as   though   he   isn’t   picky   about   who   enters   the   pack;         it   is   there   for   all   wolves   who   need   a   home,      however,      as   their   protector,      he   must   be   reassured   that   those   he   allows   in   do   not   join   with   ill   intent   or   selfish   priorities.         it   was   created   between   him      &      the   witch   who   cursed   him,      who   became   a   great   ally   to   ansel   once   he   embraced   his   inner   nature   and   chose   to   be   the   wolf   rather   than   tame   the   wolf.         he   owes   her   for   the   gift   bestowed   and   she,      in   turn,      found   she   owed   him   also   as   penance   for   punishing   him   for   his   parent’s   sins.         so   that’s   kinda         .   .   .         my   little   origin   around   the   mark.         i   don’t   like   to   think   of   it   as   a   mark   that   is   just   given   because   you   asked   for   it.         it’s   a   mark   that’s   EARNED,      as   is   your   place   among   the   pack.

the   hope   and   klaus   question   is         .   .   .         such   a   fun   concept   to   consider.         i   don’t   think   i’ve   ever   said   yes,      absolutely   they   would   have   it,      because   they   aren’t   my   characters,      but   i   believe   the   mark   is   in   them   as   their   birthright.         they   are   alphas.         they   are   the   next   natural   -   born   pack   leaders   and   ansel   expects   the   wolves   to   hold   that   in   the   highest   regard,      but   he   doesn’t   expect   klaus   or   hope   to   step   into   the   role   unless   they   choose   to,      given   how   history   has   unfortunately   played   out.         i   think   maybe   i’m   leaning   towards         .   .   .         should   there   come   a   time   when   they   acknowledge   the   north   east   atlantic   pack   as   theirs,         the   mark   would   appear   as   if   it   should’ve   been   there   the   whole   time.         i   think   it   kinda   seeps   through,      a   subtle   scratch      &      burn,      similar   to   how   the   hunter’s   mark   might’ve   appeared   to   the   brotherhood   of   the   five.   

that   said,      it   could   also   be   fun   to   toy   with   the   idea   that   it’s   a   mark   they   would   be   born   with   because,      as   mentioned   before,      it’s   their   birthright.         they   are   from   ansel’s   line   and   the   mark   is   rightfully   theirs.         they   do   not   need   to   earn   it   in   because   they’ve   already   earned   it   through   ancestry.         if   that   was   the   case,      i   imagine   klaus’   would’ve   been   somehow   removed   or   disguised   by   esther’s   magic   when   he   was   born,      much   like   she   will   later   repress   his   werewolf   abilities   completely.         perhaps   it   would   reappear   after   his   transition   to   hybrid,      thus   reactivating   his   inner   wolf   or   perhaps   not,      perhaps   it   stays   hidden   until   another   moment.         same   with   hope’s;         it’s   possible   the   mark   may   not   have   appeared   until   her   wolf   was   activated.         there’s   genuinely   so   many   ways   to   come   at   it   and   if   you      /      anyone   wanted   to   incorporate   this   into   their   character,      i   grant   full   permission   because   i   would   love   to   see   that   sm      &      so   would   ansel.

@tricursed

[mysticlivesmoved]

𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆      .  .  .      BRIDA.

𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗧𝗦.              𝗣𝗜𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗧.              𝗣𝗟𝗔𝗬𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧.

[bennettmaximoff]

One of the reasons why the “First born witch” thing, Dahlia, and Inadu were created was to give Hope more legitimacy as a witch through Klaus and Hayley. Esther stole spells and siphoned another bloodline’s magic. She couldn’t even create her own fertility spell. People argue that her magic was strong enough to pass to Hope, despite Klaus not being a born a witch himself. Only two out of seven of her children were born with the capability to practice magic.

Dahlia, Freya, and Inadu were created to explain away why a mainly werewolf child is able to be born a witch despite neither of her parents being one. Inadu was specifically created to give Hayley, and by proxy Hope, a strong connection to witchcraft and prop up the Labonair bloodline.

If they weren’t so heavily invested in pushing for Hope to be this almighty witch hybrid who’s destined to be the destroyer of all witches, they could have explored more of her wolf lineage and her connection to two of the most prominent packs. TO only mentioned the North East Atlantic Pack in two episodes and they completely abandoned the Crescents after two seasons. In Legacies neither are mentioned whatsoever.

[scotianostra]

On December 2nd 1971 the last two permanently resident families leave the island of Scarp, off Harris in the Western Isles.

It was 52 years ago this week that the last native residents evacuated the island of Scarp with a family leaving on a small boat packed with furniture as their two cows swam behind them. The departure of Mr and Mrs Angus MacInnes and their two sons marked the end of an era on the island which was home to more than 200 people in the late 19th Century.

A newspaper report documented the exit of the MacInnes family, who came ashore half-a-mile away at Hushinish Beach on Harris before settling on a croft at Govig.

The article, printed in the Press and Journal, noted how the island was then “left to the Old Etonians” given its remaining residents were Andrew Miller Mundy, whose father once owned the North Harris Estate, and his school friend Andrew Cox, who temporarily moved to the island earlier that year with his wife and their baby, India.

After the MacInnes family left, life on Scarp continued for several more weeks until a heavy storm cut the island off with provisions running ‘dangerously low’. Mundy, in London at the time, sent a helicopter in to rescue his girlfriend, a model who he later married, with food also choppered into Scarp - just in time for Christmas.

Mundy later relocated permanently to Harris, trained himself to catch lobsters and worked the waters around St Kilda for a decade. He became a popular figure to many, representing Harris at council level for many years and was admired for his dedication to wildlife and conservation. Scarp, meanwhile, has seen little human life since the early 1970s. Those who inherited the island’s crofting rights still keep sheep on Scarp with rams taken over for tupping and lambs returned to Stornoway for sale in September.

The ruins of several old buildings remain scattered over the island with a handful of holiday homes bringing in visitors from time to time.

From a high of over 200 the population of Scarp was still a relatively healthy 100-150 at the turn of the 20th Century. The island is rocky and the north part is over 300m in height with a steep drop to the sea. The village, which is now in serious disrepair is located in the south-east corner where it is partly sheltered from the Atlantic winds. The only land capable of cultivation is near the village on the east coast. The local economy would have been very basic - potatoes, cabbages, oats, milk, fish. Billingsgate market in London would have been the destination for much of the lobster caught by the Scarp fishermen.

The village on Scarp had no electricity and the only means of illumination would have been oil lamps. There was piped water and the village did have a small shop. The telephone line was installed in 1947. Despite these few basic comforts Scarps population like so many other small islands around Scotland continued to decline. In 1966 the Church of Scotland refused to replace the lay preacher and a year later the village school closed. Two years later it was the Post Offices turn to close its doors for the last time and with it so ended all mail deliveries to and from the island.

As the islands infrastructure continued to deteriorate the next thing to go was the telephone cable. This was severed in a storm and the GPO simply refused to repair it. This was just about the last straw for the remaining islanders.

The people may have left but Scarp still gets mentioned in many a conversation to due the adventures of German rocket scientist Gerhard Zucher. The German boffin attempted to develop a rocket which could 'fire' mail from Scarp to Harris and vice versa. Unfortunately the first launch simply exploded on the spot. A second firing from Harris to Scarp was a success but the project was quickly forgotten....but still very much lingers in the legends and stories of Scarp.

Although there are no permanent residents, a handful of holiday homes still welcome visitors

[instructionsnotincluded]

Gorgeous - Sneak Peak (JJ Maybank x Original Female Character)

This is part of the first chapter to a new fic I'm working on, featuring a different character that is outside of Audrey's universe. I'm planning on this beginning in the lull between seasons 3 & 4 of Outer Banks, but we'll see how this develops and what actually happens in season 4. It will eventually be posted to AO3 (if we like it) but for now we can have a sneak peak on Tumblr.

Pairing: JJ Maybank X Original Female Character

Warnings: References to smut; shameless flirting; Gorgeous by Taylor Swift stuck in author's head.

Length: 2335 words

Gorgeous (working title)

The first time Scarlett spotted him was at some random wedding reception she stumbled into. There was a live band, a buffet of food, and a cash bar with a cute bartender who wasn’t checking ID. Nursing her drink, Scarlett stood somewhere between the bar and buffet, leaning against a tall table just people watching. He was tall, with a head of effortlessly messy blonde hair, but it was the broad shoulders that really caught her attention—the way his button down shirt strained when he would shift or reach for his drink made the back of her neck warm slightly. She had yet to see his face, but she kept checking back in between casual glances around the rest of the party to see if he turned. 

She wound up in the OBX about a month ago. After dropping out of UCLA after one year in college, Scarlett packed her car with her dorm room items, only to pause in the parking lot outside her residence hall. She was supposed to return home, head hung, having failed her way out of college, where she’d undoubtedly be forced to work in her father’s law office filing papers the whole summer. But as she sat there, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles turned white, Scarlett decided to drive. She hadn’t necessarily intended to drive east, but before she knew it she hopped on the 101 and found herself on interstate 40, crossing the California state line about seven hours later. 

Scarlett drove until she was tired, pulling over, she dozed in her car a few hours before continuing on, eventually stopping somewhere near the Arizona/New Mexico border to rent a motel room and sleep the rest of the night and early morning. Her phone started going off in regular intervals sometime after midnight, and after confirming that all of her locations were turned off, Scarlett passed out in the motel bed and didn’t wake until her stomach demanded food. 

It took another two days of straight driving to reach the Atlantic, and briefly Scarlett considered scraping enough money together to buy a one way plane ticket across the ocean and start over completely in Europe, but as she boarded the ferry for one of the islands just off the coast of North Carolina, she finally allowed herself a moment to breathe in the salty, humid air. 

She was free. 

“Smoked salmon, miss?” 

Scarlett found herself back in the present, staring at a rather handsome young man dressed in all black. Judging by the way he eyed her, Scarlett must not look too terrible in the simple black dress she’d hauled out of her suitcase. She lifted a hand to the tray to grab a salon and cream cheese cracker and he gave her a nod before continuing on his way around the party.  

“Ok—so I scoped out the buffet line and the dessert table,” Scarlett was met with the face of her only friend in North Carolina, Whitney Pool. She met Whitney on her first day working at the Island Club Hotel, Whitney was assigned as her trainer and together the girls restocked and made up all the hotel rooms on the first three floors. It wasn’t long before they were fast friends, Whitney even letting her crash on her couch until she decided what to do with her life. “They’ve got a carving station and everything—but if you wanna skip right to dessert, I’m right there with you.” 

Scarlett laughed, nodding as Whitney glanced over her shoulder at the many different deserts. “Do we think the cake is real or fake?” 

Scarlett looked over at the five tiered white wedding cake, the icing piled high as it towered over the rest of the deserts. “Fake,” Scarlett said as she bit into her cracker, the salmon and cream cheese mixing well together, having been to many of these types of events in her life she was well aware of the tricks, “the sheet cake’s in the back, they’ll cut one piece and then take it away.” 

“Love the theatrics,” Whitney leaned forward to squeeze her forearm. “Ok, I need another glass. You want one?” 

“No—I’ll switch to something else in a bit. More than one glass of champagne gives me a headache.” 

“Things rich people say.” 

Scarlett laughed, hiding her smile behind her glass as she sipped the champagne. The first time she had the sweet bubbly drink she was thirteen and hiding from her parents in the hotel bathroom during her grandmother’s funeral. In true WASP style, they had the reception in a massive hotel ballroom, complete with glossy portraits and a swan ice sculpture, just as her grandmother requested in her last wishes. 

Scarlett and her older brother, Liam, snuck a few bottles of champagne when no one was looking and quickly found out how easy it was to get drunk on Dom Perignon. That was the night of Scarlett’s first kiss, when her brother’s friend, Seth, had kissed her sloppily against the door of the men’s room, drunken hands fumbling to touch her breasts. Scarlett didn’t remember much from that night, but she did recall throwing up all over Seth’s shoes. 

Scarlett’s eyes swept the party once more, taking in the older couples swaying to the music on the dance floor, the bride and groom, happy and in love, moving from table to table greeting their guests and thanking them for attending. Scarlett made a mental note to keep far away from the two. Rule number one of wedding crashing was to stay away from the newly married couple. 

Scarlett hadn’t expected anyone to notice her, no one aside from the male server had anyway, so when her eyes lifted and met those crystal clear eyes, she thought her heart stopped. 

He was half turned, leaning against his own cocktail table, his gaze trained fully on her. When his eyes met her own, every thought vanished from her mind, and instead all she wanted was to drown in those blue eyes. 

A slow, small, half smile lifted from the corner of his mouth as he reached for the short glass on the table in front of him, two ice cubes clinked in the glass as he took a long sip from it, draining the light colored amber liquid before he pushed himself away from the table and crossed the grassy area to greet her. 

His tie seemed out of place as he smoothed it down, and it didn’t match his shoes the way someone who frequently wore ties would, and based on the way his collar sat, the buttons at the points remaining unbuttoned, told her he wasn’t used to wearing button down shirts either. Scarlett guessed it was a slim cut shirt, based on the way it fit him well around his waist, but his shoulders were too broad for it—and as she eyed the French cuff she was left with even more questions. A girlfriend had most likely purchased or recommended it, but she’d been watching him on and off all evening and had yet to see him with anyone other than a curly haired brunette, and while the boys could be a couple, they didn’t appear to act like one. 

Fuck—Scarlett really hoped he liked women. 

“I had the entire walk over to come up with a line,” his voice was playful and teasing, his eyes glinting as he smiled fully now, “but all I could come up with was hi.” 

“Hi,” Scarlett responded with her own smile, her weight shifting from one foot to the other, “and I think that’s a decent enough line.” 

He glanced over his shoulder at the bride and groom before looking back at her, “how do you know Shawn and Andy?” 

“Um…” Of course they would both have those names…how was she supposed to make up a story now? “Well, I’m Andy’s second cousin…mom’s side.” 

His eyes swept over her, sucking the inside of his cheek as he looked back over his shoulder once more, “that must’ve been an exciting childhood,” he said as he studied her. 

“Oh—you know…” Scarlett coughed softly, “how do you know…them?” 

“I used to work with Shawn,” he said, “back in high school, plus he basically invited the whole damn island.” 

“Ah well…”

“I’m JJ,” he leaned his side against the table, the smile still across his face making her stomach flutter. 

“Scarlett.” 

“Scarlett,” she really wanted to hear him say her name again, watching as he tasted it, the way he drug the r and l together made the butterflies in her stomach go insane, “I like that.” 

“Is JJ short for something?” 

“Sometimes,” JJ lifted his shoulder, “nothing interesting though.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Scarlett wanted to reach up and smooth his collar down, but she forced her hands to remain on the table, “you’re from Kildare?” 

“Mhmm,” JJ glanced around, taking inventory of the party and who was there, “born and raised. What about you?” 

Scarlett hesitated, part of her, the part attached to the butterflies wanted to tell him the truth, but the part attached to her brain told her to deflect so she and Whitney wouldn’t get caught. 

“Oh—uh…”

JJ leaned across the table, motioning her closer to him with his index finger, “you know…if you’re gonna crash, you need to keep your lies simple and not at all attached to the wedding party.” 

Scarlett blushed, her face heating uncomfortably, “when’s you figure it out?” 

“Oh, at the beginning,” JJ grinned at her as they both stood back up straight, “Andy’s adopted and doesn’t know her family.” 

“Fuck.” 

JJ only laughed at her expletive, “like I said…” he shrugged, “keep it simple. Too much and it’s not believable. So, Scarlett’s your real name?”

“It is,” she nodded, “I just got off work and my friend begged me to sneak in with her, she promised me cake if I did.” 

“Cake’s worth it,” JJ said, “I’ve never seen you around though…do you live here in Kildare?” 

“I just moved, actually,” Scarlett lifted her arm to scratch along her shoulder, “arrived about a month ago.”

“Ah.” He nodded, as if he’d just solved an ongoing mystery, “that’s it—I would’ve remembered you.”

Scarlett blushed again and based on JJ’s easy smile she assumed he knew it too. “You’re doing ok on the lines.”

“Good,” JJ shifted, “I’ve been out of practice, so that’s good feedback.”

Scarlett laughed and JJ reached up to scratch behind his ear, his eyes lifting as the server from earlier walked by, his eyes trained directly on Scarlett as he passed. 

“I’m sensing some competition,” JJ joked lightly, but Scarlett could hear the nervousness in his voice, “friend of yours?”

“Never met him before,” Scarlett shook her head, “he’s cute, though.” 

“Got the tall, dark, and handsome thing going,” JJ nodded, “you gonna play that one out or…?” 

“Hmm,” Scarlett lifted a shoulder, watching the server disappear into the white tent, “maybe…do you think he looks like someone who gives good head?” 

JJ choked on his spit and Scarlett smiled, sipping her drink, pleased that she’d made JJ blush. “I don’t know,” JJ coughed lightly, clearing his throat, “a toss up, probably. Young enough to know that’s what you’re lookin’ for, but the good looking ones sometimes don’t know what they’re doing.” 

“So you must be downright terrible then, huh?” 

JJ ran a hand over his mouth, his blue eyes twinkling as he looked across the table at her, but before he could say anything the crackling electricity between them was doused by the frantic red head running up to the table, “they have two cakes!” 

Scarlett had to take a moment to take in her friend, watching Whitney set her glass on the table, “umm…”

“JJ, hey.” 

“Whitney,” JJ’s eyes skimmed the area surrounding them, “is Ricky here?”

“No, you know he won’t crash with me,” Whitney rolled her eyes before looking at Scarlett, “you’ve met Scarlett?”

“Mhmm.” 

“JJ is Ricky’s cousin,” Whitney explained, referring to her on again, off again hook-up. Scarlett labeled them as dating, but Whitney assured her time and time again it was just sex. But Scarlett didn’t think cuddling on the couch every Tuesday night watching movies and walking by the docks on Sunday afternoons could be considered just sex. 

JJ glanced over his shoulder after hearing his name, looking over to see the brunette from before waving him over, the bride and groom beside him. “I’ll let you ladies get back to your evening,” he ducked his head before sending Scarlett a soft smile, “I’ll see you around, Scarlett.” 

When JJ was across the lawn and out of ear shot, Whiteny turned her full attention to Scarlett, “did I interrupt something?”

“I’m not sure,” Scarlett finished her champagne, looking over at Whitney, “you know him?” 

“He’s Ricky’s cousin, I’ve seen him from time to time. Cute—a smart ass.” 

“Is he attached?” 

Whitney took a lengthy sip of her refilled champagne, “he was—but I haven’t seen her around lately. Do you want me to ask Ricky?”

Scarlett shook her head, even though Whitney already had her phone out, thumbs moving frantically as she no doubt sent a text off to Ricky. “I’m going to get a refill.” 

Whitney nodded and Scarlett left to wander to the bar, asking for a vodka soda with lime, watching as the server from earlier emerged from the tent, their eyes meeting a moment later. His were a dull brown, but his face was cute and his nose was promising, so Scarlett let him approach, watching as he gently slid a napkin towards her before wandering off with his tray of appetizers. Scarlett thanked the bartender before walking back to Whitney, her eyes flickering over towards the table JJ returned to, except this time she didn’t see him or his friend. 

“They took their seats at the table,” Whitney sipped her drink, “finish your drink and then we’ll grab cake and bounce before the toasts begin.”

[ltwilliammowett]

The Gjøa

The Gjøa was the first ship to sail through the heavily iced Northwest Passage between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans in Canada's far north.

She was a herring jakt built in Norway in 1872. She was 21.3 m long, 6.1 m wide and had a speed of 7 knots. She was built of Norwegian wood and named Gjøa after the wife of the first captain Asbjörn Sexe from Haugesund. She was used as a herring trawler on the south-west coast of Norway until 1885, when she was sold to Captain Hans Christian Johannsen from Tromso, who used her as a seal trawler in the Berents Sea.

The Gjøa (x)

In 1901, the inexperienced Roald Amundsen set out to find a cheap but robust ship with which he could launch his ambitious attempt to cross the Northwest Passage. His choice fell on the small but ice-tested Gjøa. Aware of his inexperience, he hired the previous captain and his own Johannsen and sailed with him on a seal hunt to test the Gjøa. After returning to Tromsø, a paraffin engine was installed at the Tromsø shipyard in the winter of 1901/1902, which powered a small propeller. In addition, the hull was further strengthened against ice pressure and the ship was better insulated. In 1902, the ship went to Trondheim, where a fuel tank was installed and finally transferred to Christiania, where she was equipped for the expedition, so that supplies and spare parts were packed for 5 years. On 16 June 1903, the ship finally set sail for the Davis Strait west of Greenland. The crew consisted of six men: Roald Amundsen as expedition leader, 1st officer Godfred Hansen, as 1st mate Helmer Hanssen, as 2nd mate Anton Lund, as 1st engineer Peder Ristvedt, as 2nd engineer Gustav Juel Wiik and as cook Adolf Henrik Lindstrøm. 

The Gjøa (x)

After crossing the North Atlantic, she sailed north along the west coast of Greenland, crossed Baffin Bay at Cape York and entered Lancaster Sound. Ice conditions were good and the ship was able to sail swiftly through the sound and the subsequent Barrow Strait. The pack ice to the north of Prince of Wales Island then prohibited further westward travel, so the Gjøa sailed south through Peel Sound east of Prince of Wales Island to King William Island. In September 1903, ice conditions became increasingly difficult, so wintering took place in a natural harbour on King William Island. In 1904, the ice conditions were far worse than the previous year and so the Gjøa was unable to free herself from the ice that year. The crew used the forced stay to explore the surrounding area.

Gjøa during the wintering 1903-1905 in Gjøahavn, King-William-Island (x)

It was not until 1905 that the voyage continued westwards south of KIng William Island and Victoria Island, reaching the Beaufort Sea north of the mouth of the Mackenzie River. In October 1905, ice slowed down the expedition and made it impossible to continue, and the Gjøa froze them again at Herschel Island. On 11 July 1906, the expedition continued west to the Bering Strait and reached Nome, Alaska on 31 August 1906, crossing the Northwest Passage for the first time and arriving in San Francisco as a hero in October 1906. Amundsen and his crew returned to Norway, only the Gjøa the little hero stayed behind. She was acquired by the Norwegian-American Citizenship there and displayed at the Golden Gate Bridge as a museum ship.

The Gjøa in transit (x)

Gjøa in the Fram museum (x)

In 1972, she was returned to Norway and has since been housed in the Fram Museum in Oslo.

[morningstargirl666]

WIP WEDNESDAY #2

TBBW C30 - Sneak Peak

Finally, I have something written for the next chapter of The Big Bad Wolf at the same time WIP Wednesday comes around in the week! Thank you to @stars-and-darkness for reading over this and helping me get Klaus' characterisation right. And kudos to Joseph Morgan for portraying such a complicated character but like damn is Klaus hard to write. I'm still not sure if I've got it spot on. But eh, this is fanfiction.

Anyways, here's part of the flashback that opens chapter 30. Fun fact: originally, I didn't plan the flashback between Sam and Klaus in chapter 27, in fact that was improvised when I started writing the chapter. However this flashback was always going to be here, as it's quite a significant one.

______________________________________________________________

1992, Minnosota, Superior National Forest

North East Atlantic Pack Settlement

Klaus woke up gasping, his panicked heartbeat ringing in his ears, and as his body jerked, trying to escape the phantom hold on his heart, he reached under his pillow and grasped the handle of his dagger, sweeping it out at an opponent that wasn’t there. Only then did he freeze – back braced against the bed’s headboard, blade pointed out into the dark – realising this was not the place that haunted his dreams, nor was there a familiar figure lurking in the shadows. This was his room in Lycaon’s cabin – there to the right, upon the set of drawers, were his collection of records sat next to the antique player. To the left, beside the window where the moonlight cascaded in through, stood his easel, a half-painted canvas fixed in place and paints scattered across the surfaces nearby. He was alone. He was safe. A few doors down, he could hear Lycaon’s heart beating, breathing softly in his sleep.

Klaus lowered the dagger, his shoulders slumping as he tried to catch his breath, letting the blade fall uselessly from his fingers, down onto the bedspread. The covers were a mess of tangled sheets, the rumpled duvet cast aside in his alarm, and Klaus only waited a second for his heart to calm down before pushing his legs off the bed, landing his feet on the floor. He threw the sheets completely aside, grateful for the prickle of cool, blissful air tickling his sweat-drenched skin. And then he let his head drop into his hands, trying to ignore the way they shook as he scrunched his fingers in his hair hard enough it was nearly painful, wanting the distraction. He’d let his hair grow out a little, even since arriving at Lycaon’s. Nothing as extreme as the haircuts he had sported in earlier centuries, but the strands had grown long enough to curl into their natural state, hanging over his eyes and teasing the nape of his neck. The stubble decorating his cheeks and chin was similarly a few days too old. Enough to look unkempt.

He'd been staying with Lycaon and Sam for about a week now, adamant his stay would only be temporary. But Elijah’s continued efforts to locate him had passed being a simple annoyance and crossed into dangerously hostile territory after his brother started systematically making his way through all their family’s estates, looking for Klaus with vicious efficiency, compelling the staff, even slaughtering the rare few vampires bound by loyalty when they denied him information. Elijah had even taken to, in a rare show of pettiness and rage, burning any art pieces he found, leaving the ashes for Klaus to find (or for his minions to report back about – Klaus was not foolish enough to show his face in person, well aware Elijah was trying to flush him out). Apparently, Elijah had even thrown a particularly beloved art piece Klaus painted in the 17th century into the grand fountain of their Italian Villa in Tuscany, the water running red with blood from the vampire’s head he’d thrown in with it. It was a travesty, was what it was. Four centuries worth of aged art – gone, destroyed, just like that! Not to mention competent sirelings were hard to find and trusted ones even harder. He’d have to train another one now and who had the bloody time for that?

Anger at the situation that had befallen him was good. Better, even, than the fear that was starting to creep into his chest as Elijah started to get too close, familiar with his tricks. And Klaus knew that once his brother found him, it was not a friendly chat that Elijah sought. No, Klaus knew what it felt like to be hunted, had spent centuries running from a monster after his head. This time, he knew he was not the predator in this game of cat and mouse.

Elijah didn’t just want revenge. He was out for blood.

All because Klaus had let his temper get the better of him. He’d never had a great record with it to begin with, true, but even he could admit his words spat out four decades ago had been...not quite thought all the way through.

The last century had not been his best. Ever since the fall of New Orleans, since Marcellus… and then Chicago, daggering Rebekah and saying goodbye to Stefan, Klaus had been unbalanced. Emotionally… charged. Particularly quick to ire (to which the witch coven in Spain’s Alicante province could attest to in bloody detail). His loneliness had started to gnaw at him in a way it hadn’t since his time under The Curse of the Five, spiralling into a miserable despair that was only quenched by violence. So, when his brother had found him in the cobblestoned streets of London’s supernatural underbelly, right in the middle of vampire territory, he’d been relieved to see him – until Elijah greeted him with a fierce fist to the jaw.

“Is it true?” Elijah had demanded, when he’d heaved himself to his feet after their following fight, looking down on his brother’s beaten form with barely controlled fury. “Did you do it?”

At the time, Klaus had thought he knew what had inspired Elijah’s ire. They hadn’t seen each other since that fateful night in New Orleans, where they’d split up, fleeing Mikael’s wrath in different directions hoping it would give them a better chance at escape. It had worked, but Klaus received no word from Elijah, and although that was a good sign – the news of the death of an Original by The Destroyer’s hand would not be easily silenced – he and Rebekah had spent the next decade on edge, not knowing about their brother’s state and unable to contact him, fearing Mikael’s interception. But there had been no Rebekah with him then, when Elijah found him, their sweet sister sleeping soundly in her coffin. Her absence and the implication of it (Klaus daggering Rebekah, again) was a pathetically predictable reason for Elijah’s fury.

The punch to the jaw, and quite possibly his brother’s entire stance, all high and mighty, superior in his morals and honour, had pissed Klaus off no end. So, instead of explaining why he had daggered their sister – foolishness, going back for Stefan, he had already handled it, Stefan knew nothing, he would be safe – he dragged their confrontation out, deliberately being abstruse.

“Do what? I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, Elijah. I’ve done a lot of things.”

“Is our family gone?” Elijah had spat at him then, losing his patience with such vitriol that Klaus had felt his eyes widen, shocked - and even slightly afraid - as his brother advanced. “Did you discard their bodies in the ocean like useless trinkets?!”

Klaus had been so thrown by the accusation, he had frozen in shock, unable to say a word in his defence. He wouldn’t- He would never do such a thing. To throw his family into the depths of the ocean, to forever be encased in a watery grave for the rest of eternity, caught in between life and death - it was a fate he feared could happen to them, not something he would do to them himself. And to see Elijah looking at him like that, like he believed Klaus was capable of such a crime, could hurt their siblings in such a way-

It was one thing to have the world see you as the villain, the monster in children’s nightmares. It was another to see yourself as such. But it was an entirely different beast to see the same condemnation on the faces you loved, the faces you trusted.

“I didn’t want to believe father. But Rebekah is not here. Kol, Finn - they are not here.” Elijah had continued, taking his stunned silence as confirmation. The mention of Mikael - the implication that Elijah had believed such a thing because Mikael had accused him of it - landed a heavier blow than Elijah ever could. What had Elijah been doing? When had he spoken to Mikael? What else had been said? “But it is true, isn’t it?”  

Klaus should have denied it. Told the truth. Pleaded with Elijah to believe him, if that was what it took.

But he had spent his life fighting other people’s beliefs. Spent his childhood trying to prove Mikael wrong, to make him believe he wasn't a weak disappointment of a boy, but a man grown, a warrior worthy of his father’s name. He’d spent his first few weeks as a vampire trying to convince his mother he wasn’t a monster, and then pleaded with her more still, when she took his wolf away, believing that with it running free, he would always be little more than a beast. An abomination. And then as the decades passed, as the centuries followed, it was not his parents he had to prove wrong, but his siblings. Finn first, who always hated what they were, but was doubly disdainful of Klaus, now knowing they were not brothers by blood. Then Elijah, who watched Klaus sacrifice his honour to protect them all, slaughtering all their enemies brutally and ruthlessly in the name of not greed or ambition, but family and found him lesser for it. Rebekah was no better. She could be as violent as the rest of them, it was true, but there was still a naivety to her. A longing to love and be loved in return. She didn’t see the risks of betrayal and heartbreak, and so when Klaus tried to protect her from it, in a way no one had protected him, she cursed him for it, turning her own back on him when it suited her. And then Kol - who never looked at Klaus with disdain or disgust, still stared at him in fear sometimes. Like he no longer recognised him.

It didn’t matter if his siblings had once stood by him when Mikael cast him out, declaring him their brother, no matter what their father decided. It didn’t matter that they promised to help him break their mother’s curse, accepting him for not just who he was, but what he was. Those words and promises were hollow when their actions no longer reinforced them.

In the end, what was the point in fighting people’s perceptions, when they would never believe you anyway?

So Klaus didn’t fight it.

Didn’t deny it.

Elijah had already decided who he was. What he was capable of.

Maybe he was right. And that? That was the worst thought of all, making him indignant with rage at the injustice of it all.

“Yes.” He had answered, voice steady in challenge, watching as his older brother’s face twisted with pain, relishing in returning an ounce of the hurt Elijah had caused him with such an accusation. 

Elijah’s words were a lie. What was one more, in the grand scheme of things?

A great deal, he came to realise.

When Elijah came at him, the raw pain on his face twisting into hate and blinding rage, Klaus had fought back just as viciously, the two of them barely walking away in one piece that night. And now, decades later, the wound of that two-sided betrayal still stretched as far and as wide as a ravine, haunting him, invading his dreams, twisting his memories into nightmares.

They were getting worse. Fear of Elijah’s pursuit or simply the familiar loneliness encroaching him on all sides made for a poor mental state. Any night, he could be haunted by ghostly echoes of the past. Henrik. The night of his first turn. The binding of his wolf. The Curse of the Five. The burning of New Orleans. The memories all swirled together, twisting into familiar and unfamiliar shapes, macabre and frightening. Sometimes Mikael thrust the white oak stake into his back as the theatre burned around him. Sometimes Kol stabbed him through the heart with a dagger tailored just for him in the middle of The Abattoir. Sometimes Rebekah left him to Mikael’s beatings, no longer coming to his defence, no longer standing between him and Mikael’s sword like she’d throw herself on it to protect him. And then sometimes, like tonight, Elijah would rip his heart out, no longer believing his lies, just like how Klaus had ripped out their mother’s. Justice served; a heart for a heart.

Klaus inhaled shakily, squeezing his eyes shut, hands clenching in his hair hard enough it hurt as he forcefully pushed such thoughts away.

[dduquette-a]

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄   𝐓𝐎   𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃   𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐄         —         AN   EXTENSIVE   BLOGROLL.

SOLO   MUSE   BLOGS      :

allen   francis   doyle   from   angel   the   series      —      @frstsoldier

amara   from   supernatural      —      @amoralforce

ansel   from   the   originals      —      @northsalpha

anton   bevell   from   supernatural      —      @antonbvll

bela   talbot   from   supernatural      —      @hellsbelas

bill   harvelle   from   supernatural      —      @harvellepatriarch

carl   gallagher   from   shameless      —      @godsmstke

cordelia   chase   from   btvs   &   angel      —      @visiongrl

denny   duquette   from   grey’s   anatomy      —      @dduquette

fiona   gallagher   from   shameless      —      @gllghrlegacy

halfrek   /   cecily   underwood   from   btvs      —      @halfreaks

gideon   axel   zelikovitch   from   supernatural      —      @caambion

illyria   from   angel   the   series      —      @smurfdemon

lip   gallagher   from   shameless      —      @lipgllghr

lucille   smith   from   the   walking   dead      —      @saviormatriarch

negan   smith   winchester   based   in   supernatural      —      @ngnwnchstr

sierra   morton   from   shameless      —      @spprtstaff

spencer   masters   from   supernatural      —      @lostsistr

AND   A   LIST   OF   MULTIS         :

btvs   /   angel   the   series      —      @slayedlives

cobra   kai      —      @karatelives

medical   /   first   responders   dramas      —      @savdlives

supernatural      —      @huntedlives

tvd      /      the   originals      —      @mysticlives

the   north   east   atlantic   pack   from   the   originals      —      @northspack

the   walking   dead      —      @riiskedlives

misc   fandoms      —      @theirlives

[northspack-archive]

POWER   LIES   IN   EMBRACING   YOUR   TRUE   NATURE.            [      AN   INDEPENDENT   WRITING   BLOG   FOR   THE   NORTH   EAST   ATLANTIC   PACK   FROM   THE   ORIGINALS.      MOSTLY   ORIGINAL   CHARACTERS   WITH   ONE   (1)   TOKEN   CANON.      SIDEBLOG   TO   @northsalpha.      ]

[northsalpha]

#𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐒𝐀𝐋𝐏𝐇𝐀      :      independent,  selective  and  mutuals  only  writing  blog  for  ANSEL  STELLANSON  ÚLFHEÐNAR    (  OF  THE  NORTH  EAST  ATLANTIC  )  from  the  TVDU    /    THE  ORIGINALS  fandom.  their  character  has  been  loosely  created,  but  heavily  dominated  by  personal  headcanons.  tortured  regularly  by  hope.  est.  2015  &  revamped  2023.  credit  for  my  amazing  carrd  goes  to  @etherealstuff.

A  CHARACTER  EXPLORATION  INTO      →      an  eternity  of  shame  and  regret,  alpha,  befriending  the  moon,  pride,  creator  and  leader,  grief,  the  old  ways,  resurrection,  making  amends,  i  can’t  stop  breaking  things  (even  when  i  don’t  want  to),  calloused  hands,  running  free,  king,  power  beyond  imagination.

i.  CARRD.    ii.  HEADCANONS.    iii.  MEMES.    iv.  BLOGS.    v.  THE  PACK.

[mapquestdirections]

From New York to Florida Drive with Mapquest Directions

You’re in for a treat if you’re taking the drive from New York to Florida! The United States’ east coast is jam-packed with historical sites, picturesque routes, and breathtaking views of the Atlantic Ocean. Making the most of your drive is important whether you’re on the east coast or going south to north.

If you are planning a road trip or traveling to an unfamiliar destination, mapquest directions is a great tool to help you navigate with ease.  We’ve planned the most efficient path for you to follow so you can take advantage of all the attractions and activities a journey from New York to Florida has to offer.

Which route should I take by Mapquest Directions?​

I-95 South is, in our opinion, the finest route from New York to Florida, and here’s why: To get to central and southern Florida, this is the shortest path. It travels through nine states as well as Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, D.C., Williamsburg, Charleston, and Savannah, which are all significant historical centers. Nearby coastal communities like Jacksonville and Daytona Beach offer stunning ocean vistas.

Driving from NY to FL

What’s the distance on Mapquest Directions?​

While the distance will depend on your exact location and destination, you can get a pretty good idea of how far you’ll drive by using a major city as a point of reference. Here’s time and travel info if you’re coming from New York City:

To Daytona Beach, approximately 1,070 miles, or a little over 2 days

To Destin, approximately 1,261 miles, or almost 2.5 days

To Fort Lauderdale, approximately 1,263, miles or almost 2.5 days

To Jacksonville, approximately 937 miles, or almost 2 days

To Key West, approximately 1,440 miles, or almost 3 days

To Miami, approximately 1,283 miles, or more than 2.5 days

To Orlando, approximately 1,078 miles, or a little over 2 days

To Panama City Beach, approximately 1,206 miles, or almost 2.5 days

To Pensacola, approximately 1,238 miles, or almost 2.5 days

To Petersburg, approximately 1,157 miles, or a little over 2 days

To Tallahassee, approximately 1,098 miles, or a little over 2 days

To Tampa, approximately 1,133 miles, or almost 2.5 days

[northsalpha-archive]

𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊  𝐎𝐅  𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐋      /      𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇  𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐓  𝐀𝐓𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐂  𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐊.      [  𝐌𝐔𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐒  𝐂𝐀𝐍  𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓  𝐀𝐍𝐃  𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆.  ]

[sonxofxansel]

@luposcainus​ continued from (x)

The Lupine was not from around here.

This town was on his bucket list , but when he came here it seemed like he was drawn to this place. Lupos was back home in his little island village . Caspian has never well experienced being in a pack. This is because maybe Lupos was already like a pack.

The Prince made a small dip of his head. He ruffled his hair. There are rules ? It felt like he was in another world too.  He opened his mouth to speak. Oh boy.  

" Oh yes I have come here by myself. I am not from around here, and umm.. I heard that there are rumored to be strange things  here..”  The wolf fiddled his fingers.

Unlike most wolves the prince doesn’t have the ability to tell if one is a wolf or not .  “ I am not too familiar with the wolf culture here.”

he had to be from some far-flung bloodline if he had made it the whole way to new orleans without a flicker of hesitation. the city was a fucking shitshow lately - either run by vampires or the covens were striving to take back control. whichever one it was this week, one thing cary knew for sure was that; it wasn’t the wolves calling the shots inside the city limits.

cary nodded, accepting the other’s words as truth. he must be alone. one of their own scouts would have picked up any other trespassers by now.

‘ strange things is puttin’ it lightly. ’ the comment was muttered under his breath and cary held out his hand, offering it to the other wolf, ‘ cary anselson. this settlement is the north-east atlantic pack. you’re welcome to stay for as long as you need, but i’d advise you to stay out of the city. ’

[dethtale]

consider my next idea:

jules from TV.D being a distant relative of ansel, by extension the north east atlantic pack.

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

Years ago, I was at folk festival with my dad. This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence; he and I have tried to hit at least a couple per year, sometimes more, since I was very young. Since I was too young to have a say in where we were going, but as soon as I got old enough to be interested, I wanted to visit as many as possible. My mother will go along to some and my brother stopped going as soon as he got old enough to opt out, but my dad and I have shared folk festivals for my whole life.

Anyway. Years ago, I was at a folk festival with my dad. I don’t hesitate to say where it was, because we’d traveled quite a long way to get there. It was the Stan Rogers Folk Festival in Canso, Nova Scotia. One of the biggest folk festivals in Canada, in this tiny town by the Atlantic Ocean. My dad and I planned that trip for months, packed up tents and drove fifteen hours to spend several days there. It drew the best folk musicians from across Canada and North America and even the UK, it was an absolutely lovely time, and it was worth all the logistics. I saw my favourite singers multiple times each, and discovered many new ones.

One of my favourite singers at the time was J.P. Cormier. He’s a Canadian master of folk and bluegrass music. He can play an absolutely ridiculous number of instruments as though he were born with them. He does East Coast-style and Celtic-style music, despite technically having been born in Ontario. He played Stanfest every year, but he wasn’t on the schedule that year, because he’d agreed to perform elsewhere. This was a pity, but I’d seen him at other festivals, and there was lots of other good stuff to enjoy.

On the Saturday noon show at the mainstage, where most of the festival attendees had gathered because there was big stuff going on there at noon, they announced that they had a special performance. They asked us to put our hands together... and then a door opened from this tiny little shed at the back of the field where the audience was gathered, and out walked J.P. Cormier. He has quite a distinctive appearance, so everyone recognized him instantly, even just from his outline. The entire field erupted in cheers. I will never forget how it felt to stand in that crowd and see him emerge, take a moment to realize what was happening, and then just get caught up in the euphoria. I was nineteen years old. My father, in his early fifties, standing next to me and also erupting into applause, had to be close to the second-youngest person in that field. And still, I felt surrounded by my people. My dad pointed out to me later that they’d never said J.P. Cormier’s name when they announced him; the entire crowd just knew who he was and cheered.

The crowd noise did not die down once he got to the stage; he had to pick up the microphone and then wait a while. Once he was finally able to talk, he informed the crowd that he was on a plane to some other place (the Sudbury Folk Festival, I think, where he’d agreed to perform on the weekend of StanFest), when he’d realized he belonged at StanFest and couldn’t miss it. So as soon as the plane landed, he purchased a ticket and flew straight to Nova Scotia, and got himself the folk festival. Renewed cheers occurred. I only thought later of how the people at the Sudbury Festival must have felt about that. I still don’t know how much notice they got, or if Sudbury found a suitable replacement. But StanFest fucking benefitted that day.

J.P. Cormier than played an absolutely beautiful set, to an audience that did not settle down. One song he played was a new one that my father and I did not know, called Molly May. It’s a classic East Coast folk song, about a ship that is beloved by its captain but ends up going down in a storm. The incompetent replacement captain who leads it into its downfall was described, in the lyrics, as: “A young boy from Canso.” Canso is the small town where StanFest takes place. After the set ended, and after we’d finished marveling at how fucking cool it was that we’d just seen all that happen, my dad and I speculated about what the real song was. What was the real lyric that he’d replaced with “Canso” to appeal to the Canso crowd? As folk festival veterans, we were of course used to hearing singers modify their songs to put the location’s name into the lyrics. But we did agree that it was... an interesting choice to put the local town name into a song to make it say a boy from that town had sunk a ship.

We bought the album, of course, and when the festival ended and we got in the car for the long drive home, we put it in the CD player. When Molly May came on, we listened excitedly to see what the real lyrics were, and the CD said: “They put a young boy from Canso/At the wheel of the Molly May”. We discussed how cool it was that he hadn’t changed the lyrics, we’d just happened to hear a song about Canso for the first time while we were in Canso.

I’m telling this story because of something that happened yesterday, while I was listening to my music at work. The song McRory came on, sung by the Newfoundland band Celtic Connection. It’s a song of theirs that I’ve always liked, but I’d never looked up before. I know Celtic Connection mainly does covers, and McRory references the Canadian province of Saskatchewan in its lyrics, so I’d always assumed it was written by some older Canadian composer. But after hearing it yesterday, I decided to look it up. I was quite surprised to learn it was written by Pete St. John, an Irish folk singer/songwriter. An Irish songwriter wrote an Irish folk song referenced Canada. That is not how that normally happens. Normally, Canadian folk bands/singers, particularly our East Coast bands/singers, write their own Celtic-style songs that reference Canada and Ireland or Scotland (depending on the background of the writer - basically our East coast is full of people who came over here from Celtic countries and write songs about/in the tradition of said countries), and they cover folk songs that are written by actual Irish and Scottish people that reference Ireland and Scotland. Meanwhile, Irish and Scottish folk bands/singers write songs about Ireland and Scotland and cover other songs about Ireland and Scotland and do not write about Canada, because we are not part of the great historic tradition of Celtic music. We’ve just sort of latched onto it from over here. So it’s cool that McRory is an exception, being written by a guy in Ireland.

It’s like that time, when I was in my early twenties and got really into the Steve Earle for the first time, that I learned he has a song called Justice in Ontario. I excitedly played it for my dad, showing him that this American country singer has a song about the Canadian province of Ontario. My dad knew Steve Earle a bit, but hadn’t known that song  before, and after it, he told me there must be a city called Ontario somewhere in the States, and Steve Earle was singing about that. I told him it is actually about the Canadian Ontario, and he didn’t believe me until I actually Googled the song.

That feels like a very Canadian thing. I realize the international joke is that we’re very polite, and there’s some level of truth to that in some ways, though day-to-day, lots of people here are dicks. And we have a lot of national problems, most prominently the fact that we’re built on a genocide of native peoples that was committed historically but has effects, ranging from garden variety discrimination to in-built systemic racism to intergenerational trauma and poverty to straight-up continued cultural genocide, that persist today. And when we get reduced to “the country of polite people”, that get swept under the rug pretty easily. So I do hesitate to say Canadian identity is based on anything non-horrifying, because first and foremost, it is based on some horrifying shit.

But as far as non-genocide-based summations of Canadian cultural identity go, this feels like one. The idea that someone from some other place can’t possibly mean you. You’re not important enough for them to know about. They must be talking about the States. I guess the J.P. Cormier example doesn’t really apply because he was Canadian, but it’s the general idea that Canso’s a tiny town and we were surprised to learn it actually was the subject of a song by this giant of the folk music scene. Being surprised when people notice us is a culturally Canadian thing, maybe on par with what the British mean when I watch panel shows and hear them joke about queueing.

Anyway, J.P. Cormier is a genuine musical genius, Steve Earle is a global treasure, and McRory is just a really good song. Here are the songs in question, they’re all lovely and worth hearing:

[mysticlivesmoved]

desperately   calls   for   more   ansel   muses      /      descendants   of   ansel      /      members   of   the   north   east   atlantic   pack   for   brida   to   interact   with.   girl   has   been   loyal   to   one   pack      &      one   pack   only   for   over   a   thousand   years.   she   tucked   one   of   ansel’s   kids   under   her   arm      &      ran   them   to   safety   when   mikael   attacked.   that’s   family.