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celestialspecial · 8 months

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Vibrantly Hidden

Synopsis: Lydia has been forced to return home to live with her sisters. The well of magick runs deep in her family, despite her best efforts to avoid that aspect of herself. But strange things are afoot in the town of Crystal Falls and in order to figure out these bizarre happenings she must work alongside her enemy from a rival coven-Billy Russo.

Authors Notes: This story has been my passion project as of late and something that I maybe hope to turn into something real and tangible one day. As a special thanks for all your support I want to share it with you first :) The title is still in the works as I explore other options- input is very welcome on it!

Warnings: 18+, Witchcraft and Magick, Some horror elements, graphic descriptions, smut (use your own discernment)

Chapter One: Click your heels together three times

There were few things I’m certain of in life.

Never conjure when angry or when the moon is waning.

River spirits never forget a bargain spurned.

The Russo Coven couldn’t be trusted.

It was the near end of august, September rode in on the back of a cool breeze and yellow tinged leaves.

Sipping a slightly-too salty margarita on a wine bar patio, the glass sweating despite the soft breeze.

While most people were excited about autumn and all the treats the “-Ber months brought I couldn’t help but feel a pit of sadness at the thought of summer ending.

Ignoring reality had been my personal goal for the season and I’d done it so well. Books by the pool, painting sessions on the beach(with all the retired folks), hikes along trails covered in moss and jagged stones.

Sipping cocktails on patios like this, savoring the complex flavors and picking at charcuterie boards with cheeses whos names I butchered while ordering.

I was living the life. But with each passing day I knew I couldn’t ignore it for much longer.

After budget cuts, my position at the local art museum was no longer “essential”. Having a background in art history left one wanting for jobs in a bad way.

I should be grateful for the job posting my older sister Elizabeth had sent but when I saw it conveniently was at the local college back home I couldn’t conceal the anxiety taking root in my chest.

I’d applied haphazardly, fully anticipating another, “thank you for your interest- we’ve decided to move ahead with other candidates.”

But when I saw the “we’d love to have you come on board!” Intro line I knew my fate had been sealed.

I needed this job.

It wouldn’t be so bad living back at home for a little while until another opportunity came along, right?

My younger sister Emily was ecstatic. It almost broke my heart a little to imagine telling her I didn’t quite feel the same amount of eagerness.

I’d moved away because I wanted to feel free, to see what my life could be outside of the confines of my hometown. Outside of what I was.

I had needed space. Space in the form of multiple hundreds of miles away.

Most people grow up playing on swing sets and eating peanut butter sandwiches. Growing up in a family of witches, is something entirely different.

When you’re young and impressionable the idea of having powers, knowing there’s more to life than what most others know. It can feel feel empowering.

To me it was daunting. Exhausting. It’s not all hocus pocus and fun spellbooks or brewing potions.

I didn’t want to be me. I wanted something else.

Something normal.

The Dawson name was well known and revered in the town of Crystal Falls. We’d been here since the town was christened along with a few other families.

There’d been a Dawson Mayor, Head of the newspaper, a few doctors, even a sheriff.

If only the upstanding community was aware that the Dawson name was a coven. Not just your run of the mill one, but powerful witches, dating back centuries.

The town today had no idea that witches had laid claim to this land so many years ago.

It’s not something one can post on social media. After the debacle in Salem all the smart actual witches branched off. Some migrated to the Midwest, others searched for the west coast.

The Dawson’s had gone upwards along the east coast, becoming almost nomadic in nature until settling into a small village, close to the ocean but gently tucked into a blanket of forest.

A river cut through town giving a grand display of multiple waterfalls that ended at the nearby beach.

If you caught one of the large celestial events of comets or a grandiose full moon the river and falls seemed to glimmer and glow, taking on an ethereal hue.

Hence the name- Crystal Falls.

Our family had helped imbue protective barriers around the town alongside the Russo coven. Another family of warlocks that had also managed to stumble upon this area.

It was beautiful and charged with an uncontained wild nature that must’ve called to our ancestors in some way. And above all else- it was home.

Me and my sisters had been raised by our aunt and grandmother after our parents died when we were young.

It had been labeled an accident. Driving through the mountainous terrain to reach town was dangerous even during the brightest of days.

But there had been signs, too many for our families liking, to chalk it up to merely an accident. There were too many “magickal” elements at play to ignore.

The brand new car losing control, the large tree having conveniently fallen, after the too conspicuous lightning strike and torrential storm appearing on an otherwise clear meteorological prediction.

I tried not to think of it too long, for fear of losing myself in the grief. Too afraid of falling into the whirlpool of those feelings and drowning, never to be seen again.

“Would you like another?” The waitress asked, taking away my now empty margarita glass.

“Yes please, actually do you have anything remaining from the seasonal menu?”

“Sorry, we just finished the last of the summer sangria but we do have our fall menu out! Fig spritzer with sugared thyme and a pumpkin spice bourbon.”

Another nail in the coffin. Summer was over and I needed to face the reality of my impending trip back home. Whether I liked it or not.

Picking some random Chardonnay off the menu in silent rebellion to their fall drinks I feel a tingle in my left pinkie.

I recognize that feeling. It appears when I’m sad. Or stressed. Or angry. Sometimes when I’m happy.

I’ll be watching a Netflix show and laughing so hard on my sofa and then I feel the tingling sensation in my fingertips.

Like dipping my fingers into super icy water then immediately into hot boiling water. I catch it and breathe into the feeling.

Willing it to stop.

Some tries take longer than others. Over the years I’ve managed to muffle that part of me that yearns to escape.

A rabid dog locked in a basement waiting for the caretaker to get sloppy, lazy. Bursting past the seam of the door and bounding freely into the night.

Not today. One day perhaps. I shudder thinking about it. Or maybe it’s just the breeze, goose bumps break out along my arms and chest.

Eventually after some practiced breathing I feel the tiny reverberations cease. Returning from whence they came.

Boy how I am not looking forward to going home.

The drive back home was a scenic four hour trek through mountains and forestry that could make any camper or hiking enthusiast’s mouth water.

I’d lost count over the years how many scenic overlooks dotted the area and if there was a drinking game involving shots every time a quaint picturesque New England type village popped up on google maps one would quickly die of alcohol poisoning.

“What do you want for dinner?” Elizabeth’s text pinged on my phone that was propped on the dash hastily.

“So excited!!!!” Emily responded not two seconds later. The age dynamics were far too apparent.

I couldn’t help but grin, I loved my sisters I really do, but it’s been so long since I’d lived with them.

Elizabeth came into her magic first- understandably so, being the oldest. Grandma was so proud, seeing Lizzy carry on the Dawson legacy.

“Easy Em”

“Sorry! Sorry! Drive safe!”

I rolled my eyes, chuckling a little as I turned onto another mountain path. This added time to my trip but I just …couldn’t bring myself to take the other route. Not yet.

After another hour or so of driving I finally saw the sign for Crystal Falls, keep right for 30 miles.

A crusted slab of wood with paint peeling off of it. Emerald green and white swirls of paint beckoning any passerby to stop.

It didn’t pass my notice that a handful of trees had leaves tinged in orange, a few scattered red bursts.

Traitors.

It would be beautiful. The kiss of death to summer and its green tinged warmth. I’d even miss the bugs.

Turning down the Main Street there was a constant stream of activity. People walking in and out of shops, visitors milling around the welcome center, campers clearly here for the upcoming fall foliage unfurling comically large maps of the cave systems.

There was a gazebo at the town center, a la Gilmore girls Stars Hollow that was always decorated according to season.

I said a silent prayer of thanks seeing the sunflowers still adorning it and not hay bales and pumpkins.

Festive mums sat in fat glazed pots in front of the stores. I rolled my windows down to inhale the smell of home.

Wondering if it’d smell like how I remembered. Fresh flowers, sweet honeysuckle and that tell tale pinch of chill.

Tree branches swayed overhead with the seasonal breeze. Yellowed leaves broke off of a nearby oak and scattered into the street.

I watched as a gaggle of school girls walked over them, crunching them into the pavement without a thought.

Turning off the main causeway and into the more scenic countryside where a few vineyards with their adjoining wineries sat.

Moon Brew Farm with their delicious peach wine. Cats Tail Vineyard that created a bubbly moscato with hints of fresh blackberry.

I could feel my mouth water just imagining it, that full mouth feel. Fizzing bubbles popping on my tongue and chasing it with a panini whose sides runneth over in pale cheese.

My stomach gurgled, begging for food. I had only stopped at a Wendy’s on the way since the McDonald’s drive through had a line longer than I cared to sit in.

The remnants of a devoured chicken sandwich rested on my center console. The paper still flecked with grease and a loose pickle that somehow managed to escape my mouth.

I passed a large estate off to the left. A high arched gate cutting the drive off at the main road. The stone pillar at the end read, “Russo.” Engraved into a black marble plaque.

I drove by, right hand on the wheel, left out the window in an honorary “one finger salute ” at the disgusting excuse for a castle marring our town.

Dirt billowed behind my rickety Subaru as I finally ambled onto a gravel driveway. The popping sound of rocks being shot out from underneath my tires like rapid shrapnel alerted the ladies inside.

“Lydia!” Emily was the first to run out, screen door slamming shut into Elizabeth’s face as she jumped the porch steps completely.

Lizzy scowled, pushing the screen door out of her way like it owed her money.

“Em, what the hell?”

I tossed my car in park just in time to see Emily’s grinning face and fists tapping at my window like a madwoman.

“Can you give me like a second?” I managed a laugh, popping the door open only to be tackled in a rib cage smushing embrace.

“I missed you! So-o-o-o-o much!” Each ‘o’ was accompanied by a sway of our bodies back and forth.

Elizabeth finally reached us, pushing a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

“Bet you missed this.” She joked, gesturing to Emily who had wedged her face into my shoulder.

“Shuff-Upf” came Emily’s muffled response as she refused to let go. Maybe she was afraid I’d disintegrate, that I was some clever illusion instead of actually being here in the flesh.

“Missed you-“ I gave a genuine, albeit weary smile to my older sister, somehow untangling a limb to motion her into the bear hug going on.

“So glad to see you.” She relented, easing into the sister shuffle.

It felt nice. I hadn’t stopped so much to reminisce on these things when I was away. I did miss them. I did miss home. I just didn’t miss what home had meant to me for so long.

Eventually Emily peeled herself off of me and dragged me into the house, not pausing even when I nearly tripped on the porch steps.

“Luggage can wait for later!” She had stated. Dinner was ready and honestly I just wanted to unwind and zone out into a pile of amazing food.

Elizabeth and Emily got the cooking gene from our mother. I got my fathers gene of enjoying said cooking.

Chicken pot pie with a flaky crust, yams coated in golden butter, green beans sautéed with almonds and pepper and a peach cobbler with succulent fruit from the local farmers market.

“I still can’t believe you’re home and not just for a vacation but like, for good.” Emily twisted her fork into the leftover cobbler morsels, licking a crumb from her thumb.

“Not for good, just…for now.”

Elizabeth nodded sagely, catching my hesitation and being kind enough to change the subject.

“How was the drive?”

“Not bad.” I spooned a piece of chicken coated in sauce onto my plate as Elizabeth took another bite of green beans. “I see tons of campers are already here. Don’t they know it’ll be weeks until fall foliage actually appears?”

“The mayor has been trying to push for more summer into fall events to draw in the crowds.”

“Yeah Elizabeth’s boyfriend has really been overhauling the event planning thing.”

“He is NOT my boyfriend.” Her cheeks turned almost as red as her hair. “It’s about time we had a member of the council actually give a shit about our town and its livelihood.”

Emily dramatically sighed, bringing the back of her hand to her forehead and fluttered her eyelashes. “Yes whatever would we do without dear Sebastyan.”

“The crab?” I smirked, reaching my fork towards another yam. Lizzy pulled the plate away giving me that older sister, raised eyebrow look. It spelled out “watch it” clear enough for me to relent.

“Don’t you start with me.”

Dinner wraps up with each of us carrying a Handful of dirty dishes into the kitchen. Piled high into the sink with an unspoken agreement to get to them tomorrow.

I watch the two of them joke and share inside info about their planned week ahead. Things I’d know if I lived here. Schedules that would make sense to me but are now new and unknown.

The two of them continue their conversation as I teeter my messy plate on top of an empty glass that once contained a milkshake. It feels weird to hear their voices in person again. The last time I was home was maybe two years ago? For Christmas?

Elizabeth is just as elegant as I remember. Tall, long red hair swept up into a modest pony tail. Barely a smudge of makeup on her but soft pale skin with a dash of freckles across her high cheekbones.

I remember standing on my tippy toes when we were little, getting measured against the doorframe, hoping and praying I’d grow as tall as my older sister.

Fate didn’t pay attention to my pleas. My body threw in the towel the minute I struck 5’3”. Cruel, if I’m being honest. She whisks about the kitchen making a funny face at something Emily said.

It feels like I’m in a fishbowl, hearing noises, knowing someone is speaking but it just sounds muffled and foreign to me. Like I’m not really here.

Emily makes another comment that pulls a laugh from Elizabeth. Emily has always been a lightning bolt. Even when she was a child. Her hair is cut into a blunt bob with thick heavy bangs. It’s dyed a dark brown that almost matches her hot chocolate colored eyes.

She’s maybe an inch shorter than me, a rarity in our family that the oldest sibling is actually the tallest. My younger sister however has a face full of makeup. It never looks to be too much, always tastefully done and complimenting her features.

They’ve changed so much and not at all from when I last saw them. From the pictures I’d had hanging in my apartment that now sit in a storage facility.

I feel the bubbling tightness in my chest and I’m yanked from my misty eyed staring. Being around them, their energy, I can feel parts of me clawing to get out. Like taking a spray bottle to a pesky cat, I shove it down.

Emily turned in first, working at a bakery requires her to be up before the sun. She gives me a quick hug once more.

“I really am excited you’re home…for however long.” Before starting up the stairs, sounds of the shower turning on and soft lilting singing to some show tune carries throughout the halls.

“Wine?” Elizabeth holds a glass up with a bottle of cherry wine, the deep scarlet liquid looks intoxicating.

“Please.”

We retreat to the porch as the last rays of sunset disappear behind the trees leaving that unsettling light blue that comes before navy then black.

The old rocking chairs groan as we take our seats. The sound the cork popping makes echoes throughout the woods surrounding the house.

I never forgot how quiet it gets. The crickets had just started their nightly serenade and a few owl hoots call out from a distance.

She pours me a hefty glass of the wine, handing it to me as we both delicately lean forward in our rickety chairs, balancing bottle and glasses.

Dozens of long shadows climb out from all around us. Reaching towards the front steps and skittering along the warped floorboards.

If I close my eyes it feels like I can even hear them calling out to me. Where have you been? Why have you been gone so long?

Every leaf, branch, blade of grass blending together to create large charcoal swaths against the forest floor. It both chills and excites me.

“It is nice, ya know? To have you home for more than four days at a time.”

I feel myself shaken from my stupor. Mind slowly drifting back to where it’s supposed to be in the present. On the porch. With my sister.

For the first time in years.

“You say that now since I’ve only been here for a few hours.” I take a long sip of the wine and let the fruity flavors dance on my tongue.

“I’m serious.” I hear her rocker stop creaking, her eyes focused on me. Like burning sapphires. I’d always been jealous of her eyes. “I think this…this will be good for all of us.”

I watch her take a drink before continuing, “We have a lot to catch up on.”

I ponder in silence, running my fingertip along the wine glass’ lip. For a little there’s only the sound of our rockers moving back and forth.

Occasionally I’ll hear the sounds of Emily getting ready for bed upstairs. A single car drives past on the road, far enough we can’t make it out save for the headlights.

The vibrant ripples of yellow cutting through the trees then fading into the distance. The trees gobble up the remaining light.

“How’s work been?”

Elizabeth smiles, pouring a little more wine into her cup. I notice as she sips deeply, letting her eyelids drift shut, pondering how to respond.

“It’s been good. I travel a little for work more now than usual but it’s ok. Rewarding.”

“I couldn’t do it. Be a midwife.” She nodded thoughtfully at my comment, staring off into the ever darkening tree line.

The moon is out, but I watch as it quickly becomes obscured by passing clouds.

“It can be tough, but I have this gift. It feels selfish to not use it. At least in a way that brings purpose to my life.”

I found myself nodding and staring off as well. Elizabeth is a healer, ever since she was little she had a knack for it. Never getting colds, being able to concoct awful tasting potions that somehow worked and cured a multitude of things.

Every witch can do basic magic but more often than not, there’s a specialty. A gift that is unique to that person.

Some people get lucky with theirs. Others not so much.

“You can go on the road with it. Really explore your options.”

“I do have over a hundred 5 star yelp reviews.” She grinned toasting her glass to the air.

“Elizabeth Dawson-“ I held my hand in front of me, punctuating gestures as if reading a headline, “Midwife To The Stars!”

We both giggled and took another sip after sloppily ‘cheers-ing’.

“Ahhhh I don’t know if California or New York is for me.” She chuckled, twisting a strand of her dark red hair held by her ponytail.

I settle back into my seat, rocking back and forth, pushing with my heels and feeling the entirety of my foot flatten then pitch back.

“Soooo Sebastyan?”

“Don’t start with me already.” Liz smirked at me, dipping her fingers in the wine glass and flicking a few drops in my direction.

Maybe this was ok. Maybe this would be ok.

How silly and naïve I was.

After half an hour of sitting on the porch and enjoying the entire bottle of wine, the sky had fully morphed from navy to inky black. The local owl continued to hoot, a rhythmic sound that I could feel myself drifting off too.

Elizabeth had already placed her glass on the counter by the sink, turning in for the night. Flipping the porch light off and only on occasion would the motion sensor light by the back door turn on.

Squirrels, chipmunks, raccoons maybe even a coyote or two always liked to wander up by the back door and sniff around our trash bins. I sat up reading in the living room a while longer, not quite ready to face my old room.

Instead choosing to inspect the first floor, wondering what new things I could pick out from the décor. A small painting of Emily’s rabbit, Artimus that was clearly done on a wine and paint night.

Large bookshelves lined the backwall surrounding the TV, so many books from Elizabeth’s studies, health magazines spread along the coffee table.

A wreath with some greenery bearing white berries and red bow, a few old coffee tins and tea containers holding either flowers or some assortment of pens and paintbrushes.

So much was the same and yet I still felt like an outsider.

Surrendering to the reality I did need to go to bed I gathered my phone, book and flicked off the last of the remaining lamps to ascend the stairs.

Our gallery wall floated along the steps. Photos of almost every generation of our family lay plastered against the drywall that desperately needed repainted.

Our parents wedding day, their smiling faces. Moms bright blue eyes and Dads goofy grin in his tuxedo which was so chic in the eighties. Then came photos of Grandma and Aunt Cora.

I quickly shuffled past them. I had weeks, no, months, to look at these and let the waves of guilt wash over me. Not tonight. Not before bed anyways.

Padding across the plush carpet to my bedroom, the door ajar and bedside lamp on. No doubt from Elizabeth. It didn’t escape my notice the bundle of lavender and dill laid on my pillowcase.

For protection. I hold the small bundle in my lap a moment, searching my mind for the exact spells its used for. My grandmother would have a fit if she knew it was taking me this long.

What can I say? I’ve been living life as a normal human for the past ten years to the best of my ability. Ignoring anything magickal or otherwise. I’d even avoided palm readers at the local county fairs I’d gone to.

I wanted little to nothing to do with magick. Regardless of how deep it ran in our family. I lay the bundle down on the end table right next to my phone.

Please protect me from bad dating app messages.

A stack of clean towels and beauty products rested on the toilet seat in the bathroom. I pulled my hair back into a low bun, splashing water onto my face and rubbing some milky cleanser that I knew had to be Emily’s onto my skin.

It smelled fragrant, like lemons and a sweet sugary after scent. Glancing up to survey the damage from the long day on my face, expecting to see dark circles, dull dry skin, but instead I looked fine. I looked normal.

Turning the cleanser over in my hands wondering if it had some “extra” properties in it that I wasn’t aware of but my younger glamorous sister did. I couldn’t see anything outside the ordinary.

I didn’t sense anything off.

Shrugging and placing it back on the counter, before returning back to my bedroom. Allowing myself to fall heavily against the mattress, a comical ‘huff’ escaping my lips. This was it. I was here.

For however long I needed to be. My fingertips ran up along the hem of the quit on my bed. Feeling the bumps of stitches along the pads of my fingers, the different textured fabrics. My eyes felt heavy.

Sleep called to me, sweet and deep. The edges of my vision blurred and darkened. With the last of my remaining alertness I turned the lamp off. I felt that deep heaviness fall over me.

In the far-off distance I could hear the owl once more. Then it was truly silent.

The back-sensor light came on. I whined as my room was immediately filled with a bright fluorescent light.

“What the hell...” I rubbed at my eyes, still not adjusted to such a bright searing light all of a sudden. Then I heard something knock against the garage. It didn’t sound like a skunk, or a raccoon.

Unless it was a huge raccoon.

Doubtful.

Pushing off of the bed I crouched down, making my way to the window. The curtains were sheer and the blinds were up. Peering around the side I craned my neck to see what was out there.

It was quiet. So startlingly quiet. No fauna chirping or calling out into an otherwise peaceful night.

The light was still on, but there was nothing in the yard. No animals, no creeps. Nothing.

I felt the hair on the back of my neck perk up. A green spark tickled the end of my fingertips and I didn’t even attempt to shove it away. My body knew there was something out there.

We’re so used to being the predator, never the prey. My eyes continued to scan back and forth, wondering if I needed to let one of my sisters know something was up.

Maybe this was normal? Did the light just randomly turn on from time to time? Ya know- technology? So efficient.

If that was the case why did I feel so…off? Something, isn’t right. Then I see it.

A flicker so fast that I’m half certain my mind made it up. Back in the tree line by the back of the garage, a different kind of darkness.

Not the shadows I had seen earlier from the trees on the porch. This is more opaque. It seems to undulate as it moves along the back of the yard. It doesn’t glide but rather jerks.

I feel my heart begin to race.

Its pace is slow, unseemly. Shadow against shadow and yet I can see it clear as day. Blackness that swallows the night whole. It’s form shivers and writhes against a large oak.

I must be dreaming. Yes. I’d fallen asleep and now I am dreaming something up that isn’t there. What a funny story I’ll have to tell my sisters in the morning.

But to be sure…

I grab my phone, sliding my finger across the screen to bring up the camera, pointing it out the back window. Somehow in the few moments it took me to grab my phone its gone.

The shadow isn’t where I last saw it. I am dreaming. I set my phone back down and then I see it. Or rather, it sees me.

It sees me, seeing it. And my body goes rigid.

Black malformed nothingness creeping along the garage and staring at me. Its featureless, save for cold pinpricks of red where eyes should be.

Red and beady, almost like light reflecting against an animals eyes.

It glows, but maybe anything would look glow-y against such a stark backdrop. The blood in my body runs like ice. The goose bumps have moved to my arms as well.

I don’t know how long we stare at each other. Maybe three seconds, maybe five minutes. I blink for the first time in I don’t know how long and when I stare back its gone.

Really gone this time.

I must have scanned the backyard and the fence and the woods and the garage multiple times for over ten minutes. I see nothing. My head feels fuzzy. Like I’d taken a large sleeping pill and have been fighting the effects for too long.

I hoist myself back into bed, because I am too afraid to go out there and check. Too tired to wake my sisters. It feels like my limbs have been replaced with sacks of flour.

Heavy, soft, the weight bringing me down. Pushing me against the mattress. I’m exhausted and alert and my body doesn’t know which to indulge more.

Eventually sleep wins and I drift off into a fitful night filled with dreams of sharp shadows following me. And one with red eyes leading the chase.

#billy russo #ben barnes #the punisher #billy russo x reader #billy russo x female reader #billy russo fanfic #ben barnes character #the punisher fanfiction #the punisher au #fantasy fic #witch #witchy fic #spooky season #ben barnes fic #marvel au #marvel fanfic series #warlock!billyrusso #witch!mc

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noelcollection · 1 year

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Today we grace your digital screens with a lovely pair of European dippers, also known as Water Crows or Pyets (the Scottish name).

The Naturalist’s Library praises the beauty of the song of Cinclus aquaticus and describes its curious adaptations to living alongside human-made machinery:

“It may often be seen perched on the inner spokes of the mill-wheel, singing its low melody; and we have known it to breed within the passage of the torrent which drove it … They sport about the banks of the stream, flying short distances, and during flight utter their single monotonous alarm or call note. When about to alight they drop or splash into the pools or stream, and almost never at once settle on the stones or rocks. They are one of our most pleasing songsters, though from the lowness of the note it is not often observed; but to the angler, who plies his rod at all hours, and in the most sequestered scenes, it is a well-known and welcome strain…

Their breeding places are chosen near to the brook or river, and often in curious situations. The nest is generally constructed under some brow or overhanging rocks, or among the matted roots of a tree; at other times under some fall, which is projected over a space hollow, and comparatively dry within, or beneath the dam or weir which serves to turn off the water to supply machinery; and we have once or twice observed it under the very sluice of the millwheel.”

Image from:

Jardine, William. The naturalist’s library. Edinburgh: W.H. Lizars et al., 1843. Vol. 25. Catalog record: https://bit.ly/2Q98p8i

#rare books #feathursday #natural history #british birds #birdlife

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mosswolf · 6 months

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im reading fossil capital: the rise of steam power and the roots of global warming at the moment, and its absolutely fascinating - i think most of us probably assumed that steam power overtook water power because it was just. better. like using an electric drill over a hand drill or something. but it's actually SO much more complicated than that, because coal was very expensive and water was free, and the reasons steam ended up being the main thing are to do with population/available workers (you can pick the location of steam engines, you can't move rivers), control of the power source (mill owners not being willing to accommodate other mills downstream or tolerate inconvenience caused by upstream), workers winning a 10 hour work day (the river flows arent consistent, and if you can't make your workers stay late then you miss out compared to steam), and so many more complicated social and economic factors??? the author also traces the way people talked about the environment impacts of heavy coal consumption (charles babbage!!! wtf!!) and it's just SO intensely interesting omg

#fossil capital #andreas malm #i think most people know him from how to blow up a pipeline #but i havent read that one yet but im super excited because of how well researched and thorough but accessible this one is

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vandaliatraveler · 2 years

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Valley Falls State Park is best known for the dramatic cascades and rapids formed by the Tygart Valley River as it “squeezes” through a narrow gorge on the way to its eventual confluence with the Monongahela River in Fairmont. The park was once the site of a grist mill in the mid-1800s, but the only evidence remaining today is a spillway, a grinding stone, and an abandoned quarry, now overtaken by forest. Falls notwithstanding, I’m ever in awe of the massive slabs of Upper Connoquenessing sandstone piled up on either side of the river - they provide both a testament to earth’s prehistoric past and an amazing riparian zone of rocky pools and sandy embankments where seeds from farther upstream can deposit and take root, providing homes to many uniquely-adapted species.

From top: American water willow (Justicia americana), a showy aquatic perennial that forms large colonies in the shallow riffles of streams; an eastern American toad (Anaxyrus americanus americanus), which was busy croaking and making babies in a rocky pool near the falls; sweet azalea (Rhododendron arborescens), also known as smooth azalea, a rangy, stream-loving shrub whose strongly-scented, white flowers have distinctive red stamens; yellow star grass (Hypoxis hirsuta), an exquisite riparian member of the lily family that clumps on the moist, sandy banks of fast-moving streams; royal fern (Osmunda regalis), a spectacularly beautiful fern that loves the nooks between the boulders at the river’s edge; and ebony spleenwort (Asplenium platyneuron), also known as brownstem spleenwort, an elegant, upright fern with a special fondness for the same rocky nooks.

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fyeahcompetentwomen · 1 year

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Round 2 Roundup!

or, one post to find them all!

All four groups of Round 2 are now live! Find each group's masterpost with all respective links here:

Group 1

Group 2

Group 3

Group 4

Plus, all 32 individual polls are linked below the readmore.

Group 1

Leia Organa vs. Deanna Troi

Andy/Andromache the Scythian vs. Villanelle

Dr. Maura Isles vs. Sister Beatrice

Seven of Nine vs. Michael Burnham

Evelyn Wang vs. Nyota Uhura

Olivier Armstrong vs. Joan Watson

Barbara Gordon vs. Granny Weatherwax

Parker vs. Lwaxana Troi

Group 2

Xena vs. Anna May

Siuan Sanche vs. Eve Baird

Kira Nerys vs. Susan Ivanova

Chrisjen Avasarala vs. Henrietta Wilson

Susan Sto Helit vs. Naomi Nagata

Melinda May vs. Jane Rizzoli

Dana Scully vs. Erza Scarlet

Root vs. Dr. Addison Montgomery

Group 3

Buffy Summers vs. Scarlet (Gunpowder Milkshake)

Elizabeth Swann vs. Margaret Houlihan

Kathryn Janeway vs. River Song

Gabrielle of Poteidaea vs. Phryne Fisher

Regina Mills vs. Nomi Marks

Galadriel vs. Miranda Priestly

Donna Noble vs. Mulan

Éowyn of Rohan vs. Violet Baudelaire

Group 4

13th Doctor vs. Helena "H.G." Wells

Philippa Georgiou (Prime) vs. Raffaela "Raffi" Musiker

Anne Lister vs. Olivia Dunham

Sophie Deveraux vs. Ahsoka Tano

Lara Croft vs. Sameen Shaw

Inej Ghafa vs. Jadzia Dax

Shuri vs. Annabeth Chase

Claudia Donovan vs. Samantha "Sam" Carter

#fyeahcompetentwomen #fuck yeah competent women #not a bracket #round 2 #masterpost

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rabbitcruiser · 1 year

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Talk Like a Grizzled Prospector Day

Talk Like a Grizzled Prospector Day commemorates the start of the California Gold Rush, which began on January 24, 1848, when James Marshall discovered gold while building a saw mill for John Sutter, near what is now Coloma, California. The day has its roots in International Talk Like a Pirate Day, and was inspired by Prospectors Day, which was once held at Knott's Berry Farm each year on January 24. It also was inspired by an episode of the Simpsons with the following exchange:

Bart: That ain't been popular since aught-six, dagnabbit. Homer: Bart, what did I tell you? Bart: No talking like a grizzled 1890's prospector, consarn it.

Common examples of characters talking like grizzled prospectors in popular culture include Dallas McKennon narrating Disneyland's Mine Train Thru Nature's Wonderland and Big Thunder Mountain, Gabby Hayes—both drunk and sober—in many Western films, Gabby Johnson in Blazing Saddles, Will Ferrell as Gus Chiggins on Saturday Night Live, and Walter Huston in The Treasure of Sierra Madre.

Prospectors first came to the Sacramento Valley after Marshall found flakes of gold in the American River near Sutter's Mill, at the base of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. At the time there were less than 1,000 non-native inhabitants in California. Newspapers began reporting the discovery of gold, and by August, 4,000 miners had descended on the area. The first people that came from outside of the territory came by boat, and arrived from Oregon, the Sandwich Islands—soon to be called the Hawaiian Islands, Mexico, Peru, China, and Chili.

In December 1848, President James K. Polk announced a report by Colonel Richard Mason which spoke of the abundance of gold in California; this prompted more prospectors to travel to the territory. Throughout 1849, thousands arrived, either traveling by sea or over land, and became known as '49ers. Mining towns popped up in the area, and with them came shops, saloons, and brothels. Many mining towns became lawless, and San Francisco became an important city in the territory. By the end of 1849, the non-native population had swelled to 100,000. The Gold Rush helped California gain statehood in 1850, and gold discovery peaked in the state in 1852. In all, more than 750,000 pounds of gold were extracted during the Gold Rush.

The implication of a grizzled prospector is of one who has stayed so long searching for gold that their hair has turned gray. Some prospectors refused to quit the profession and continued to live in the Western territories. So, when Bart Simpson mentioned a grizzled prospector from the 1890s, he was referring to a prospector that had stayed more than forty years after the Gold Rush happened, still trying to find gold, or other commodities such as silver, oil, radium, and uranium. Besides a gray beard, the stereotypical grizzled prospector had faded clothes, missing teeth, a pickaxe, and a mule. They had bouts of gold fever, and were suspicious of whoever came close to their claim.

How to Observe Talk Like a Grizzled Prospector Day

Celebrate the day talking like a grizzled prospector. Here are a few words prospectors commonly used, that you could use today:

Dadburn: to curse; e.g.: "Dadburned boll weevil done 'et my crop!"

Hornswoggle: to embarrass, disconcert, or confuse; e.g.: "I'll be hornswaggled!"

Consarn: the entirety of something, also a curse word.

Dumbfungled: all used up; e.g.: "This claim is dumbfungled! There's no gold left!"

Bonanza: a mine with lots of gold.

Borrasca: a mine with no gold.

Baby buggy: wheel barrow.

Muck: to dig with a shovel.

Powder monkey: a miner who used dynamite to make holes.

Johnny Newcome: a miner new to camp.

Blackjack and saw bosom: coffee and bacon.

Paydirt: land rich in gold.

Panned out: if they had found gold while sifting through dirt with a mining pan, then things had "panned out."

Flash in the pan: something shiny in pan that turned out to be nothing, or just a small piece of gold.

Stake a claim: claim a piece of land as your own as a place to search for gold, must stake the land with wooden stakes when you arrive.

The day could also be spent watching films such as The Treasure of Sierra Madre, or old Western films starring Gabby Hayes. A visit to the Sutter's Mill replica and the Gold Discovery and Visitor Center in Marshall Gold Discovery State Park could also be planned. The days' Facebook page could also be explored.

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scapegrace74-blog · 1 year

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The Man from Black Water, Chapter 4

A/N As promised, here in a pre-Christmas installment of my crossover fic. In it, we see Jamie find a place for himself at Netherton, despite hostilities on all sides. He and Claire are finally formally introduced, and we learn a bit more about Claire’s plans for her future.

Previous chapters and a character mapping to the Man from Snowy River universe can be found on my AO3 page.

Merry Christmas to all who celebrate, and a safe and happy holiday to all!

From his imposing stature to his iceberg gaze, Dougal Mackenzie would have been the epitome of a Highland warrior, had he been born two hundred years earlier. As it was, he’d grown up in the industrial slums on the south banks of the Clyde, going to work in the textile mills at the age of twelve. Being on the winning side of a knife fight several years later saw him fleeing the city in search of less hostile horizons. Brawn made him a desirable labourer. An ability to keep difficult men in line with his ominous reputation made him an adept foreman. He’d risen through the ranks to become the chief overseer of Netherton’s agricultural holdings over the past twenty years.

“He’s a hard worker, that one,” the estate’s chief cook remarked to Dougal as they crossed paths in the kailyard one afternoon. She gestured towards Jamie, who toiled nearby, splitting firewood for the kitchen stoves with admirable economy. The August sun stared down from an azure sky, and he occasionally paused to wipe sweat from his eyes and take a swig of water from a tin canteen sitting in the shade of an ornamental rosebush. Rollo lay nearby, his pink tongue afurl in the hot air.

“Aye, seems willing enough,” Dougal said a bit begrudgingly. He hadn’t been consulted about the hiring of this latest labourer, which rankled him. There was a long list of cronies he would sooner have assisted.

“I canna understand why the master hired him,” the stout woman continued in a lower tone. “He comes from the Highlands.” This last word was pronounced as though it was a communicable disease. Despite being in the shadow of the Grampian mountains, Netherton had always been staffed by Lowland Scots, even if, like Dougal himself, they were only a couple generations removed from their Gaelic roots.

Dougal had entertained similar thoughts himself, but he wasn’t about to stand about and gossip with the house staff about them.

“Twas a long time ago,” he said instead. “Good day, Mrs. Crook.”

Walking past the woodpile, he called out.

“Fraser, when ye’re done here, ye can muck out the stables.”

“Yes, sir.”

Despite a dark blue smear of sweat across the back of his cambric shirt, the young man seemed cheerfully willing to work without pause. He wasn’t even breathing hard. Dougal stalked back to his quarters in a foul mood.

***

Netherton’s stables were more luxurious than any croft Jamie had ever set foot in, with two long rows of stalls bisected by a stone alleyway that funneled the mountain breeze in summer and absorbed the anemic sunlight in winter. Still, horse shite was horse shite, no matter how pampered the beast that produced it.

Most of the animals were away from their stalls, either grazing in the paddock near the river where the grass was the sweetest or serving as mounts to Netherton’s large workforce. This made Jamie’s job easier, but he missed the opportunity to gaze into their limpid brown eyes and admire their glossy coats. He was on his sixth stall when two familiar pests stopped to watch him.

“Lookit than, Rupe. The teuchter’s shovellin’ shite. Pretty canny fer a teuchter, usin’ the flat end o’ the shovel an’ everything.”

This was Angus, a dark wiry stockhand who was perpetually spoiling for a fight. His companion, Rupert, was a soft-bellied lout who followed Angus around like a sheepdog, laughing obligingly at his jokes. Jamie had met men like them before and did his best to ignore them.

“They eat a lot of neeps an’ tatties in the Highlands, Rupe. Are ye diggin’ fer yer supper, laddie boy?”

Jamie unbent to his full height, well over a head taller than Angus. The smaller man stepped back but made a show of lighting a cigarette with casual indifference.

“Have they given ye the day off, Angus?” Jamie asked.

“I’m studyin’ tae be supervisor,” Angus declared with no little arrogance.

Staring Jamie directly in the eye, he let the still-burning match drop into the dry straw at his feet. A tiny curl of smoke immediately rose. Jamie casually hefted a shovelful of moist excrement onto the growing flame. It was an advertent error that saw some of the load land on Angus’ well-polished leather boots. The bully’s fists went up. Rollo let out a low growl of warning. Jamie tossed his shovel to the side in preparation for the altercation.

“What have you been up to, Kip?”

Claire Beauchamp’s precise elocution acted like a bucket of cold water and all three men scrambled to appear innocuous. Angus was quick to offer his assistance saddling her usual mount. When she refused, he and Rupert left the stables on the pretense of having work to accomplish elsewhere, which was doubtful.

For his part, Jamie went back to mucking stalls while still surreptitiously observing his employer’s daughter. She was carrying on a one-sided conversation with her horse as he was wont to do himself when he was alone. Her luxurious curls were tied back behind her ears but cascaded over her shoulders. She was at least wearing a riding frock today, although she appeared to be preparing to ride without supervision.

“Can I help ye?” he asked, when he noticed she was struggling with the gray mare’s halter.

“No, I’m fine,” she replied without so much as glancing his way.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jamie watched her stubbornly endeavour to repair the halter for another few minutes. Rather than offer his assistance again, he merely fashioned a halter and lead from a nearby coil of rope using a knot his father had taught him as a lad.

“Oh,” the young lady remarked as he slipped the harness over the docile mare’s ears. “How did you do that?”

Eager to show off his competency at something other than mucking stalls or chopping firewood, Jamie demonstrated the technique behind the Tom Fool’s knot, enjoying the way the lass’ golden eyes narrowed in concentration as she followed each movement of his hands. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t duplicate his efforts, and they both ended up chuckling at her ineptitude.

“You’re the boy from the train station,” she realized after they had finished tacking up her horse together. Jamie wasn’t certain whether to be pleased she remembered him or not. Certainly, the use of the word ‘boy’ wasn’t flattering.

“Aye,” he acknowledged. “James Fraser, mistress,” he introduced himself while politely removing his cap.

“I’m afraid I wasn’t very courteous that day,” she half-apologized with a subtle grimace. “A constitutional failing, I’m told.”

Sticking out her gloved hand, she introduced herself, as though he wasn’t aware to whom he’d been speaking all along. “Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp.”

He’d never shook a woman’s hand before and was uncertain as to the appropriate response. He wasn’t some titled suitor who might kiss her knuckles, even if they weren’t encased in leather. A firm shake such as he’d been taught seemed equally unsuitable. He was saved from having to hold her dainty grip indefinitely by her father riding into the stables. They both dropped the other’s hand as though the contact suddenly burned.

“Fraser, cool off this horse and stable him,” the cattle baron commanded.

“Aye, sir.”

Jamie was walking away when he heard the man release an exasperated sigh.

***

“Why aren’t you at your lessons?”

It was always a tender balance, deciding how much leeway to give his headstrong daughter, and when to rein her in. Lately, his attempts to argue that more feminine propriety was required if she was to secure a husband were met with greater and greater resistance.

“One of the broodmares is about to foal,” Claire replied. “I want to be there to help her.”

“The men are quite capable of handling it,” he argued, drawing his unwilling daughter back towards the manor house with a firm arm around her shoulder.

“I can do it better. If I’m to be a veterinarian, I shall need as much firsthand experience as I can obtain.”

This fixation with attending the Royal Veterinary College in Edinburgh was one matter in which he’d indulged his daughter for too long. He’d been certain she’d outgrow the notion as she emerged into womanhood.

“You should be concerning yourself with marriage, child rearing,” he explained for the hundredth time.

“The gentleman cattle breeder has a breeding program for his daughter as well,” Claire retorted, demonstrating the independent spirit and sharp wit that made him despair of ever finding her a husband.

“You’ll spend the afternoon at the manor with your Aunt Rosemary,” he decreed, feeling his face grow hot in frustration. “And Mister Randall will come to call on you this Saturday. I don’t,” he forestalled her protest with a raised hand, “want to hear another word about it. You are my daughter, and you will obey me.”

Watching her skirts swish angrily across the courtyard as she hastened away, Henry Beauchamp wondered how his only child could so resemble a mother she’d never met.

#my writing #outlander #fanfiction

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ambiguouspuzuma · 6 months

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Run of the Mill

Noru was the miller's son. It did not matter that his father had passed away, some three years ago, for his ancestry would always be thus, his provenance - even in biographies penned a century from now, if a family tree could be traced back, future diarists of his crimes would write - perhaps in their opening line - that he was born, remained throughout his life, and indeed died, the son of a miller.

Neither did it matter that the mill, the family business, had likewise passed into his hands, and that he had been running it successfully for those three years - in some ways more successful than it had ever been. For his father had built the mill, and that would also always be the case - if histories were written, centuries from now, if the building fell to ruin and was restored, if a museum was formed around its carcass - his father would be listed as its architect, its first proprietor.

If Noru tried to make even a minor change - raise the price of grain in keeping with the scarcity of harvests, for example - his customers, the townspeople, refused to take it seriously. For they had met him as a child, the miller's son, and of course that shy, sweet, flaxen-haired boy would never dream to extort an old man such as them - for surely such a doting son would remember his father's friends, and honour their attested agreements, the handshake inherited with his hands.

They laughed off all suggestions of a change, paying him a condescending compliment together with the original price. He was a chip off the old millstone, they might joke. He would never be a stone himself - never a miller, never a man - his own growth stunted by the pedestal installed above his head, the achievements of the father always held over the son. Long-term customers would come to reminisce, to pay their respects to his dead, but of course offered none of them to him.

"This is fine work," they would say, unable to leave it there. "You are your father's son, and no mistake."

So it was they built him up and put him down, reducing him to progeny when he had aimed for prodigy. It made Noru wonder, sometimes, to hear that said so often. Perhaps it had happened by mistake. Not his conception - his father had told him they'd longed for a child, and in any case he didn't have accidents, to hear the village tell of his career - but his parentage. For Noru to have been born beneath such a shadow, a sapling wilting under a full canopy of leafy boughs.

It was an injustice. He was good at what he need, a master in his own right, and he deserved that recognition, without the greater part of any credit funnelled off to the deceased. He had been born with this mantle, this yoke, a millstone around his neck, and he would never stand tall whilst it tethered him to the past. Noru needed to cut the cord - that much was clear. The only question was how.

The obvious answer was to move - to close down and set up shop a few villages west, where his father was unknown, and he could start again - but that wasn't possible. The mill didn't have wheels, other than those which caught the river's strength or ground his flour inside, and he couldn't take it with him. He was anchored here, rooted deep into the past, and he couldn't change that any more than he could change his heritage.

He would simply have to change the town instead.

It was the only option that remained. Noru had once heard that a person lives on for as long as somebody remembers them, and thus he set about to slay his father's ghost, the spectre that had haunted him his whole solo career. He had grown up in a shadow, but shadows could be banished in the light, and so he planned a cleansing fire to kill his father's memory, to clean the slate, to clear some space for him to rise from the ashes.

The townspeople never suspected that their grain contained shavings of henbane, for that sweet, shy, flaxen-haired boy would never grow up to become a poisoner - for such a doting son would never seek to weaken his father's friends, to lace their bread with white death, the weevil of fetid nightshade, to cause a plague that wiped out all his older customers.

He found he was immune from all suspicion, protected by the very image of that rose-cheeked child - always at his father's knee, helping to measure out the sacks, an old friend once removed - that had sealed their fate, unable to see him as anything else, unable to see the fires coming. But perhaps it took a child to raze a village. In the meantime, Noru saved the best grain aside: ready to take on the role of rescuer, to feed the young and sick, to write a legend of his own. It would take a miller to raise the town anew, and he intended to make that part his own.

#writing #short story #writeblr #original writing #original fiction #decided to have some fun with hyphens on this one #and long run on sentences

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dethharmonic · 1 year

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Community Gardens

Otto Octavius x Reader; Alternate Universe - Magic Summary: If you dig in the soil you can pull up roots. Your first day of working for the scary magic fella down the road. Chpt 3: tilling

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[click here for the fic on ao3]

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

You know when you lift up a rock and it was a nice little home for the dozens of bugs underneath, but you had to go and move that rock. So now they scatter and scurry to the other side of the rock in an attempt to flee and you feel bad about disturbing them, so you set the rock back where it originally was. But oh, now its too late and the little bugs are still frantic. This is how your brain feels when you wake up today. Sleep was hard to come and even harder to keep, with you waking nervously every few hours. Now that it was now on the edge of dawn, thoughts raced through your mind like those scared little bugs. You slapped your hands to cover your face, moving up to rub the last bits of drowsiness away from your eyes.

“Getting up now. Up. I am so awake and getting dressed.” You hoped stating these things would somehow make them occur without further effort on your part. Shockingly, this didn’t work. “AaaAaaUUUghhhh……..okay.”

Perhaps the hardest task anyone has ever done, you sat up and tossed your blankets aside. Birds were already beginning to chirp away by the time you shuffled around enough to get ready for your first day of assistant work. It wasn’t that you were dragging your feet purposefully, lord knows your anxious soul wouldn’t allow that. Though maybe in the very back of your mind you were. The apprehension blooming from a trip into town the previous day.

Partially because you wanted to take in the view (also you were avoiding the walk past Otto’s home), you had gone into town the long way. It was quite a busy road, but wide enough for carriages and pedestrians to comfortably share.

Honestly, what the path lacked in time saving it more than made up for in the scenery. Even the short bridge spanning the stream connecting to the river was masterfully made. It was truly baffling, the more you thought about how much work had been put into this road the less it made sense that the other road was abandoned. Sure, avoiding magic users tended to make people do silly things but the lengths this path went were just plain stupid.

So engrossed in your thoughts, you were shocked to see you were at the town already. As you had no plans to work, you figured you may as well learn the basic layout of the town’s marketplace. The center held the more extravagant shops, gradually fading out into humble carts in the surrounding clearing. Those carts were obviously more in your monetary line, but a little window shopping today sounded nice so you milled around the ritzy area.

One shop in particular stopped you in your tracks, though obviously catered as more of a touristy novelty, was an honest to goodness seller dealing with magic. At least that's what you gathered by longingly staring through the window display. Most of the shop seemed to be kitschy, but there was a portion that looked to have spell books and ingredients. The ring of a bell attached to the shop’s entrance drew your attention away, briefly looking to the pair of women exiting.

“God, the gall of her! Opening a place like this in this city!” One exclaimed loudly, barely waiting for the door to shut.

The sound of their mocking laughter snapped your head back to the window, dread clutching your chest. A bigger city doesn’t mean people are any less hateful, you supposed. Foolishly, you couldn’t help but listen to their conversation.

“Right? I can’t wait to see it crash and burn. I mean seriously, she should know better after that Octavius incident.” At his name your heart jolted and you fought to keep your gaze focused on the window display. The second woman dismissively waved towards the shop, sneering before continuing. “One freak blows half the town apart and goes on a rampage, then another thinks ‘Oh, I know just what the public needs!’ Unbelievable,” she scoffed.

“At least she waited a few years.”

“Oh please, still so fresh it’s like the smoke from the crater only just stopped. Anyways, what do you want for lunch?” They linked arms and finally moved away from the store, their continuing conversation muted in your mind.

That was enough of town for today, you thought. Eavesdropping that small conversation had drained any mental energy you had left. Too tired to walk the long scenic route again, you made a quick beeline to the short road. Eager to be home and...process, you accidentally bumped into a vaguely familiar man at the mouth of your road.

“Aah! Shit, I’m so sorry!” You hovered a hand out in case the man had lost balance, but quickly withdrew it when you saw he was fine.

“No worries, sweetie. You weren’t about to head down this way, were you?”

Much to your discomfort he placed his hand over your shoulder as he spoke. Ah, you placed his face now. The man that bothered you the other night. You either had very unfortunate luck or this guy loooves guarding the nearby path.

“Mighty unsafe, that road. Best use the main way.”

“Oh its fine, I live on the end of this road.” You leaned down to avoid his touch and swiftly crossed over to the boulder. “Anyways thanks for the tip, bye.” You awkwardly shuffled past the large rock, both avoiding anymore conversation and the plant growth to slip to the path beyond. Once you got home you slowly ate a bowl of cabbage soup while staring into the void. Afterwards, right to bed.

Back on the road this morning, you worried a bit about the stranger you agreed to work for. His demeanor didn’t quite scream that he would be the type to do what the townsfolk had said about him, but then again he did scare you so badly you thought your heart may jump from your chest. You were nervous, to say the least.

You hoped you weren’t too late, the sun only just peaking out into the sky when his home came into view. The crunch of the gravel under your feet growing just a bit louder with your hurried pace as you saw that Otto was leaning on his garden wall, looking at the opposing woods with an unreadable expression while quietly waiting for you. At the sound of your approach his head swiveled lazily to you, tilting slightly to the side.

“You don’t really know when dawn is, do you?” Unfolding his arms, he pointed to the horizon. “This is sunrise.” “Sorry,” you said with a grimace.

“Don’t be sorry, be punctual.” He turned away from you and stretched his arms out, letting out a soft grunt when you heard the pop of a joint. “I’m going to show you around the woods today as there are some things I have to frequently forage for, and it would be much less cumbersome if I didn’t need to do so myself. Also keep in mind the places I tell you to avoid, its best to respect boundaries of some creatures.” He stood then, tossing a linen bag your way. Apparently done with the conversation he set off towards the woods, motioning for you to follow. It was possibly a bad time to tell him that you had no sense of direction.

Also, a very poor memory.

After what seemed like hours, a half-full bag (which was surprisingly hefty at this point, lovely of him to make you carry it) and far too many instructions for your brain to remember, you both broke into a small clearing with a single white birch in the center. It was the only birch you’d seen that day, standing proudly within a spotty patch of wildflowers. Heavy moss blanketing the bark and a decent sized hollow about chest height being the most prominent features you could see.

Your attention was drawn back to Otto as he rummaged though the pocket of his cloak, curiously pulling out a double pointed quartz.

“The moss on this tree has a decently concentrated amount of latent magic, a wonderful ingredient but only if you’re not greedy about harvesting. Only what you can pull off in one hand, once a week at most.” He held the gem out to you, warily you took it. “An exchange is also wise,” he motioned to the hollow before continuing, “something nice of course. If you offer up garbage, that’s what you get in return. I want you to place that in the tree and collect a sample of moss.”

“Uhh,” you rolled the quartz between your fingers, glancing between him and the tree “alright?”

Stepping up to the tree, you gently set the gem in the oddly dark hallow. It just sat there. Not sure why you thought anything wild would happen. With a mildly disappointed hum, you looked over the thick moss. Finding a suitable chunk right below a limb, you gently pry off a handful. To your surprise the broken moss edges had a brief bio-luminescent glow, much like a lightning bug.

“Neat!” You carefully set the moss in the bag, making sure it wouldn’t get crushed once you began walking again. Absentmindedly you raised a hand to the spot the moss was picked from and gave a gentle pat to the tree, whispering a fond “Thank you.”

Careful to avoid stepping on flowers, you went back to Otto’s side. He had a peculiar expression on his face.

“What? Did I do something wrong?” You asked quickly, looking back at the tree with a worried frown.

“Hm? No, no its--” he cut off with a small chuckle, “Its just that was very respectful for someone who steals vegetables in the middle of the night.”

“To be fair, you do have enough cabbages in that garden to feed an army.”

“You’re highly exaggerating, I think.” He pulled a small silver pocket watch from his cloak, glancing at the time before snapping the cover shut. “The lake is just ahead and its about lunchtime, I suppose. I did make a sandwich we could split if you’d like.”

“That sounds great! I honestly didn’t think we had been out that long.” You craned your head upwards to look at the treetops, speckled light made its way through the canopy here and there but you wouldn’t have guess it was afternoon already.

He nodded and set off towards the lake with you following closely behind. As insanely nervous as you were to start the day, it had ended up being quite nice. This had actually been the most you’ve talked to someone (and had that conversation be pleasant, at least) in a hot minute. Unfortunately, the initial meeting paired with what you’d overheard in town still had you on edge. Until he gave you a concrete reason to distrust him, you were determined to ignore those thoughts and have a nice time. Also someone that shares their sandwich can’t be all bad. After a few minutes walking in a comfortable silence, the trees broke to a rocky shoreline. You had seen the lake from a distance when on the long road a bit away, but up close the view was breathtaking. Fallen pine needles mixed with the soft sand and pebbles, mossy boulders dotting in and out of the water’s edge. The combination of cool lake air and shade from overgrowth made the temperature a bit chilly, but not unpleasant.

My god, there’s even ducks.

“I’m gonna sit on that big ol’ rock.” You exclaimed, rushing past Otto to scamper up the side of a relatively flat hunk of rock. Once situated you turned back and gave a small wave. To your absolute delight, one of the actuators waved back. He sent a fond smile your way, taking a seat next to you on your boulder throne. You ate the shared lunch while taking in the scenery, deeply enjoying the peaceful vibe.

Movement at the base of the rock drew your eye. One of the actuators had found a glass bottle, rolling it slightly with the delicate claw. Another that was curiously nearby suddenly bumped into the other, attempting to take the bottle like a jealous toddler. At the sudden jerk Otto turned his gaze to the scuffle, letting out a stern “Hey!” to end the moment.

“So, whats up with those dudes. Do you not fully control them?” The question slipped out before you could think, you’d been painfully curious since meeting him. The words seem to jolt him.

“In a way. When I’m not actively telling them to do things, they can either act on my subconscious or do as they wish.” He spoke carefully, looking out to the water. “I’m not sure how much you know of me. The actuators were a custom mishmash of spells to assist me, but after …complications, they became permanent.”

You picked at the skin of your thumb, not sure what to say.

“The gems in the center of the claws are enchanted by different magic users, the essence of them granting a sort of artificial intelligence. I’ve gotten them mostly under control these days. Though they can get to be a bit much still.” He trailed off with a tired sigh.

“I can’t even begin to think of the skill it took to achieve that.” The actuators seemed to react well to being talked about, one ghosting a touch near your arm. With a light touch you traced along the joints, marveling at the smooth yet intricate metal. Absentmindedly you rested your hands along the actuator as you turned to look at Otto. To your surprise he had been looking at the feathery exchange of contact.

“They were a bit of a hassle, yes.” Judging from his demeanor, he seemed relieved that you didn’t push further. He slid off the makeshift bench, holding his lower back with a grimace. The actuator retreated from your grasp and you followed its path for a moment, looking out to the lake where a few ducks swam.

“Alright, you lead the way back!” He exclaimed suddenly.

“HMM?” Your head whipped to him as he barked out a laugh, witnessing your very panicked expression.

“Don’t worry, we have all day. Surely your memory can’t be that bad.”

“Yes. My memory is in fact good and not at all bad.” Maybe you really should have said something about your poor navigation skills. Whoopsie.

#otto octavius #doc ock #otto octavius x reader #magic!ock au #dethwrites

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thekeepersgrove · 4 months

Text

Rye's Floating Bookshop - 1st of Bloom

| Information | Calendar | Next entry |

I am Rye Everbloom, a harvest mouse and the second child of Juniper and Alder Everbloom. I was born under the brisk moon, on the fourth day of Awaken (Brisk 19th), and raised in the town of Undertree nestled at the root of the tree from which the town gets its name, some weeks of travel outside the region of the River.

I was a traveller once, never settling in one place and doing odd jobs to find room and board for the time I spent at my destination. But after the passing of my brother Moss I have chosen to take over his bookshop on The River, both to honour his memory and as my old bones tell me it is time to end my travels and settle down.

It is with a heavy heart that I begin this next step of my journey. The weather—mild and sunny, hinting at the thaw that creeps ever closer—lifts some of the gloom that has settled over my day. I still mourn the loss of my brother Moss, but I find some comfort in continuing the work that he loved.

I find the shop moored in the lovely town of Hurst, which is currently preparing the celebrations of the holiday Rinse, but I have some work to do before I can join the holiday cheer of the townsfolk.

As I enter the bookshop—struggling a bit to open the door which has jammed in the cold weather—I find it just as Moss left it; papers can be found strewn across the front desk, the books from the latest restock stacked high next to them, and the bookshelves are messy and out of order. My brother was never the tidy kind. The shop shows the signs of his passing, with a layer of dust covering everything in sight, muting the colours.

Although it saddens me that my nieces did not want to take over their father's business, I can somewhat understand their decision as I stand in his bookshop and feel the ghost of his presence and the weight of his absence.

I spend a few hours cleaning up—dusting, organising papers and cleaning up the mess of books that my brother has left. It is simple but hard work, distracting my thoughts from the grief. I could not escape it entirely, however, as the sight of his blue jacket hanging by the door and his favourite mug in the kitchen—bearing the words "River's Best Dad"—halts my activity and forces me to take a few minutes to overcome my emotions.

Once my task is done, the shop clean and my few belongings in place, I look upon the shop with satisfaction. While I have left much as I found it—the jacket still hangs where he left it—I have also made it my own. There is no point in forcing myself to linger in the grief, leaving the space untouched. A shrine can now be found in my living space off the side of the bookshop, dedicated to the Smiling God and centered around the figure I brought. Behind the front desk I put my odd decoration, the skull of the three-horned beast that I once came across in the travels, and I hope that it does not scare any customers who come visit.

I take a moment for quiet contemplation, breathing through my thoughts and feeling, before turning outwards. It is the first the day of the new year and the preparations for Rinse have been ongoing in the town outside. I exit my new floating home and look upon the town with its squat buildings, which add a certain charm to the surroundings. Animalfolk of all types can be seen milling around the riverfront, gathering around lit fires to get a break from the cold, and finishing opening the hole in the ice, which will be used for the celebrations.

I join the crowds, enjoying the chatter and the laughter of young children running around. Some have already started the celebrations, as I can hear yelps from the river as some start their Rinse, their swim in the river to wash off the remnants of the year left behind and cleanse themselves for the new year. While most do no more than a quick dip in the ice-cold water, some animalfolk take their time, enjoying the cold and the contemplation. Everyone, once they've risen from the water shivering and cleansed, join the groups warming up and enjoying the warm and spiced apple cider being handed out by volunteers.

I doff my clothing and walk into the water, joining the yelps of others as the cold hits me. I do not stay in for long, as the cold awakens the ache in my damaged knee, but I do take the time to ponder what it is I want to achieve this year. When I leave the water I have made a decision; this new year I will spend not wallowing in my grief, but instead live my life as my brother would have wanted. I will work on once again finding joy in the little things, of the daily ongoings, and the small joys in life.

As I join a group gathered around one of the fires, huddling under the blanket and enjoying the heat that slowly brings the warmth back to my body, a hare approaches. He is tall and lanky, and his brown fur shows similar signs of age as mine. As he hands me a mug of the warm cider he introduces himself as Angus Thisledown.

We talk for a while; I speak of my coming to the River and the bookshop—he remembers my brother and offer his condolences—and he tells me about the town and a bit about himself. He looks over at a group of hares around an adjacant fire fondly as he talks about his daughter and three grandchildren, who are also here celebrating. As he leaves to rejoin his family, he offers his warm welcome and hands me a memento, a bottle of the spiced apple cider to bring with me home.

As I walk back to Moss' bookshop—now mine—I feel the seeds of hope within me that perhaps this year will be better, more manageable. I spend the rest of the evening getting used to my new home—the soft lull of the river around me, the quiet creaking of the wooden frame—and have a simple meal before curling up with a cup of tea in the rickety rocking chair with its maroon cushion, enjoying the silence. It feels weird to slip under the covers of what used to be my brother's bed, and I can feel the vice of grief around my heart. But this too will pass, and I hope this coming year will bring healing. This year will be better.

#fox curio's floating bookshop #rye's floating bookshop #solo rpg #solo ttrpg #ttrpgs #ttrpg #journalling game

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simplegenius042 · 10 months

Text

FC5 Silva Omar Aesthetics

Bold - YES

Italics - Somewhat

HOLLAND VALLEY.

red, gold, and orange leaves against a clear blue sky // rows of apple trees in an orchard // pick your own pumpkin patches // baskets of puppies // a sleeping fawn hidden away from predators // pumpkin spice // the bite of apple cider // a harvest festival // the faint smell of a bonfire on the wind // the slight unease of getting lost in a corn maze // a hint of fall in the air when it’s still warm // golden sunsets // leaves just beginning to turn from green to orange // the rumble of a tractor // the buzz of an airplane flying low overhead // golden wheat swaying in the wind // the smell of gasoline // sprawling river deltas // crystal clear water // an old wooden dresser // family heirlooms // jingling keys // crimson blood // dark ink on parchment // the sting of a bruise // the warmth of a grand fireplace // gunmetal // work boots in the mud // cattails // the harsh cry of crows // the faint musty smell of taxidermy animals // farm animals making a racket // open air farmers markets // catching your clothes on a barbed wire fence // a fresh breeze through an open window // white rocking chairs // old farmhouses // scarecrows // wild westerly winds // the barely contained excitement for the approach of autumn

WHITETAIL MOUNTAINS.

fishing at dawn // the smell of woodsmoke clinging to your clothes and hair // wolfsong // locking eyes with another predator // a night that falls faster than expected // the crisp hint of snow in the air // log cabins // the scent of evergreen trees // stone fireplaces // a well worn camouflage jacket // old field guide books// the smell of a cigarette still lingering on your hands // lager // the roar of whitewater rapids // cool dark caves // the rough wood of an antique gun // the scent of iron // woodland paths crisscrossed by gnarled tree roots // a haze of dust from a recent rockslide // losing your breath as you wade into an icy river // winding mountain roads // an eagle’s cry // the bright red flash of a foxes tail at the corner of your eye // the patter of rain on dead leaves // petrichor // seeing your breath in the cold morning air // the click of a projector // the jangling of a chain link fence // gunpowder // the sizzling of a grill // burnt hair // the grand lobby of a lodge // gravel crunching underfoot // the cry of blue jays // information boards // brochures piled on a table // cold metal bars // the sour smell of a lumber mill // the rough texture of scouting achievement badges // muffled oldies music from another room // sharpening a hunting knife // blood red leaves blooming from bone white birch trees // red bleeding into the edges of your vision

HENBANE RIVER.

cloying floral scents // the thick mist that gathers near the ground at dawn // dewdrops sparkling on spiderwebs // the almost too intense morning sun // unseasonable warmth // birdsong // honeyed wine // walking barefoot in the cool grass // the clanging of a jail cell door // spying hazy figures of animals in the fog // lemon balm and lavender // the low growl of a wildcat that you can’t see (but it sees you) // choking clouds of pollen settling on cars like snow // vineyards // faint humming and singing from an unidentifiable source // juniper berries // feeling uncomfortably hot in overly formal clothes // lace // burning incense // frogs in the reeds // soft brunette tresses // long winding rivers // mesmerizing music // glistening trout // the sweet nectar of honeysuckle flowers // rumbling of truck motors // glass beakers // bundles of dried flowers // wind chimes tinkling // rough concrete bricks // tumbling barrels // the ringing of a vintage phone // sweet words // broken promises // moonflower and datura // the smell of freshly cut grass // the faint sound of children laughing

JOSEPH’S COMPOUND.

babbling brooks // humming // whistling // dogs barking // grand oak trees // the faint sound of hymns // a crate of ripe peaches // melted wax candles // the smell of fresh newspaper clippings // caged birds singing // a warm embrace // wrought iron arches // flames reaching for the sky // gentle voices murmuring // your feet sliding in thick mud // pouring rain // vape smoke // the slight scent of sweat // ink on skin // the smell of wooden church pews // the rustle of hymnals // old book smell // slight hint of ozone from old electronics // bradford pear petals floating on the breeze

DUTCH’S ISLAND.

creaking metal hinges // the crackle of a radio // the scratch of an old record player // the smell of antiseptic // the flickering light of a projector // the feel of pushing pins into cork board // echoing footsteps // shelves stacked with canned food and mason jars // dark shadowy figures on the edge of your vision // gleaming metal badges // a table of bullet shell casings // vertigo from standing on swaying radio towers // the sound of shattering glass // whistling pipes // suffocating heat // the chatter of squirrels // faint scent of mothballs// the sputter of a boat engine // the high electronic whine of an old television turning on // the sound of distant gunfire // tear stained letters // old family photographs // the smell of a mildewy basement

#oc: silva omar #far cry the silver chronicles #far cry 5 #character aesthetic #i did my best with this #might even update later when i have time

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jovialtorchlight · 1 year

Text

the mill is on fire

the mill is on fire, and people are streaming into town like there's a carnival. people are pulling off to the shoulder of the road and climbing out, cars lining the sides of the road for a good mile, like its the opening day of the fair.

there's a bridge overlooking the old mill, and the bridge is above the river and the falls. there's a mass of people on the sidewalk watching the heavy plumes of smoke and the licking black flame rising up from below. children sitting on shoulders to get a better view, like they're watching a parade go by. the flames dance and the firefighters spray water. the flames grow and the firefighters climb ladders to attack from above.

i turn to a old man, standing with his wife. he's lived in town his whole life, and he's watching it burn.

"who are you rooting for?" i ask.

"the fire," he says.

when rome burned who watched from the hills? did they dance to the fiddle? when mechanic falls Maine burned we watched from the bridge as the old greedy God of unfettered destruction claimed and lapped and consumed our town as if it were a meal.

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aceghosts · 2 years

Text

Far Cry 5 Aesthetics

Hey Everybody! I was tagged by @nuclearstorms, @harmonyowl, @clicheantagonist, and @direwombat to do this. Thank you all for tagging me!

Tagging: @sstewyhosseini, @purplehairsecretlair, @derelictheretic, @thomrainer, @hoesephseed, @natesofrellis, @marivenah, @henbased, @poeti-kat, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @ishwaris, @adelaidedrubman, @indorilnerevarine, @jacobseed, @shellibisshe, @turbo-virgins, @josephslittledeputy, and anyone else who wants to do this! (I apologize if this is a double tag. I haven't been super online lately.)

Rules: bold what applies to your ocs/their aesthetic, italicize what sort of or somewhat applies, strike through what doesn’t/never applies.

HOLLAND VALLEY

WHITETAIL MOUNTAINS

fishing at dawn // the smell of woodsmoke clinging to your clothes and hair // wolfsong // locking eyes with another predator // a night that falls faster than expected // the crisp hint of snow in the air // log cabins // the scent of evergreen trees // stone fireplaces // a well worn camouflage jacket // old field guide books // the smell of a cigarette still lingering on your hands // lager // the roar of whitewater rapids // cool dark caves // the rough wood of an antique gun // the scent of iron // woodland paths criss crossed by gnarled tree roots // a haze of dust from a recent rockslide // losing your breath as you wade into an icy river // winding mountain roads // an eagle’s cry // the bright red flash of a foxes tail at the corner of your eye // the patter of rain on dead leaves // petrichor // seeing your breath in the cold morning air // the click of a projector // the jangling of a chain link fence // gunpowder // the sizzling of a grill // burnt hair // the grand lobby of a lodge // gravel crunching underfoot // the cry of blue jays // information boards // brochures piled on a table // cold metal bars // the sour smell of a lumber mill // the rough texture of scouting achievement badges // muffled oldies music from another room // sharpening a hunting knife // blood red leaves blooming from bone white birch trees // red bleeding into the edges of your vision

HENBANE RIVER

JOSEPH'S COMPOUND

DUTCH'S ISLAND

creaking metal hinges // the crackle of a radio // the scratch of an old record player // the smell of antiseptic // the flickering light of a projector // the feel of pushing pins into cork board // echoing footsteps // shelves stacked with canned food and mason jars // dark shadowy figures on the edge of your vision // gleaming metal badges // a table of bullet shell casings // vertigo from standing on swaying radio towers // the sound of shattering glass // whistling pipes // suffocating heat // the chatter of squirrels // faint scent of mothballs // the sputter of a boat engine // the high electronic whine of an old television turning on // the sound of distant gunfire

#blue murphy #tag memes #thanks for tagging me in this #I think I captured Blue's vibes pretty well #and I'm not at all surprised that the Whitetail Mountains fits them best #I did Blue cuz they are my only FC5 Oc #hopefully I'll get another one of these out tonight

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strafethesesinners · 2 years

Text

OC Aesthetics: Far Cry 5 Edition

Hey all! So I love those OC aesthetic association games so much I decided to make my own in collaboration with @deputyash based on the regions in Far Cry 5! These are meant to be mostly abstract more than literal

Rules: PLEASE copy and paste and make a new post. Don’t reblog mine with your addition I will block. I don’t want 100 people posting on the same thing. You can tag us if you want but it’s not required! Also this doesn’t necessarily need to be fc5 OCs only! You can do any of yours

Guidelines: bold what always applies to your OC, italicize what sometimes/somewhat applies, strikethrough what never applies

Holland Valley

Red, gold, and orange leaves against a clear blue sky // rows of apple trees in an orchard // pick your own pumpkin patches // baskets of puppies // a sleeping fawn hidden away from predators // pumpkin spice // the bite of apple cider // a harvest festival // the faint smell of a bonfire on the wind // the slight unease of getting lost in a corn maze // a hint of fall in the air when it’s still warm // golden sunsets // leaves just beginning to turn from green to orange // the rumble of a tractor // the buzz of an airplane flying low overhead // golden wheat swaying in the wind // the smell of gasoline // sprawling river deltas // crystal clear water // an old wooden dresser // family heirlooms // jingling keys // crimson blood // dark ink on parchment // the sting of a bruise // the warmth of a grand fireplace // gunmetal // work boots in the mud // cattails // the harsh cry of crows // the faint musty smell of taxidermy animals // farm animals making a racket // open air farmers markets // catching your clothes on a barbed wire fence // a fresh breeze through an open window // white rocking chairs // old farmhouses // scarecrows // wild westerly winds // the barely contained excitement for the approach of autumn

Whitetail Mountains:

Fishing at dawn // the smell of woodsmoke clinging to your clothes and hair // wolfsong // locking eyes with another predator // a night that falls faster than expected // the crisp hint of snow in the air // log cabins // the scent of evergreen trees // stone fireplaces // a well worn camouflage jacket // old field guide books // the smell of a cigarette still lingering on your hands // lager // the roar of whitewater rapids // cool dark caves // the rough wood of an antique gun // the scent of iron // woodland paths criss crossed by gnarled tree roots // a haze of dust from a recent rockslide // losing your breath as you wade into an icy river // winding mountain roads // an eagle’s cry // the bright red flash of a foxes tail at the corner of your eye // the patter of rain on dead leaves // petrichor // seeing your breath in the cold morning air // the click of a projector // the jangling of a chain link fence // gunpowder // the sizzling of a grill // burnt hair // the grand lobby of a lodge // gravel crunching underfoot // the cry of blue jays // information boards // brochures piled on a table // cold metal bars // the sour smell of a lumber mill // the rough texture of scouting achievement badges // muffled oldies music from another room // sharpening a hunting knife // blood red leaves blooming from bone white birch trees // red bleeding into the edges of your vision

Henbane River

Cloying floral scents // the thick mist that gathers near the ground at dawn // dewdrops sparkling on spiderwebs // the almost too intense morning sun // unseasonable warmth // birdsong // honeyed wine // walking barefoot in the cool grass // the clanging of a jail cell door // spying hazy figures of animals in the fog // lemon balm and lavender // the low growl of a wildcat that you can’t see (but it sees you) // choking clouds of pollen settling on cars like snow // vineyards // faint humming and singing from an unidentifiable source // juniper berries // feeling uncomfortably hot in overly formal clothes // lace // burning incense // frogs in the reeds // soft brunette tresses // long winding rivers // mesmerizing music // glistening trout // the sweet nectar of honeysuckle flowers // rumbling of truck motors // glass beakers // bundles of dried flowers // wind chimes tinkling // rough concrete bricks // tumbling barrels // the ringing of a vintage phone // sweet words // broken promises // moonflower and datura // the smell of freshly cut grass // the faint sound of children laughing

Joseph’s Compound

Babbling brooks // humming // whistling // dogs barking // grand oak trees // the faint sound of hymns // a crate of ripe peaches // melted wax candles // the smell of fresh newspaper clippings // caged birds singing // a warm embrace // wrought iron arches // flames reaching for the sky // gentle voices murmuring // your feet sliding in thick mud // pouring rain // vape smoke // the slight scent of sweat // ink on skin // the smell of wooden church pews // the rustle of hymnals // old book smell // slight hint of ozone from old electronics // Bradford Pear petals floating on the breeze

Dutch’s Island

Creaking metal hinges // the crackle of a radio // the scratch of an old record player // the smell of antiseptic // the flickering light of a projector // the feel of pushing pins into cork board // echoing footsteps // shelves stacked with canned food and mason jars // dark shadowy figures on the edge of your vision // gleaming metal badges // a table of bullet shell casings // vertigo from standing on swaying radio towers // the sound of shattering glass // whistling pipes // suffocating heat // the chatter of squirrels // faint scent of mothballs // the sputter of a boat engine // the high electronic whine of an old television turning on // the sound of distant gunfire

Heath McCoy

Holland Valley

Red, gold, and orange leaves against a clear blue sky // rows of apple trees in an orchard // pick your own pumpkin patches // baskets of puppies // a sleeping fawn hidden away from predators // pumpkin spice // the bite of apple cider // a harvest festival // the faint smell of a bonfire on the wind // the slight unease of getting lost in a corn maze // a hint of fall in the air when it’s still warm // golden sunsets // leaves just beginning to turn from green to orange // the rumble of a tractor // the buzz of an airplane flying low overhead // golden wheat swaying in the wind // the smell of gasoline // sprawling river deltas // crystal clear water // an old wooden dresser // family heirlooms // jingling keys // crimson blood // dark ink on parchment // the sting of a bruise // the warmth of a grand fireplace // gunmetal // work boots in the mud // the harsh cry of crows // the faint musty smell of taxidermy animals // farm animals making a racket // open air farmers markets // catching your clothes on a barbed wire fence // a fresh breeze through an open window // white rocking chairs // old farmhouses // scarecrows // wild westerly winds // the barely contained excitement for the approach of autumn.

Whitetail Mountains

Fishing at dawn // the smell of woodsmoke clinging to your clothes and hair // wolfsong // locking eyes with another predator // a night that falls faster than expected // the crisp hint of snow in the air // log cabins // the scent of evergreen trees // stone fireplaces // a well worn camouflage jacket // old field guide books // the smell of a cigarette still lingering on your hands // lager // the roar of whitewater rapids // cool dark caves // the rough wood of an antique gun // the scent of iron // woodland paths criss crossed by gnarled tree roots // a haze of dust from a recent rockslide // losing your breath as you wade into an icy river // winding mountain roads // an eagle’s cry // the bright red flash of a foxes tail at the corner of your eye // the patter of rain on dead leaves // petrichor // seeing your breath in the cold morning air // the click of a projector // the jangling of a chain link fence // gunpowder // the sizzling of a grill // burnt hair // the grand lobby of a lodge // gravel crunching underfoot // the cry of a blue jay // information boards // brochures piled on a table // cold metal bars // the sour smell of a lumber mill // the rough texture of scouting achievement badges // muffled oldies music from another room // sharpening a hunting knife // blood red leaves blooming from bone white birch trees // red bleeding into the edges of your vision

Henbane River

Cloying floral scents // the thick mist that gathers near the ground at dawn // dewdrops sparkling on spiderwebs // the almost too intense morning sun // unseasonable warmth // birdsong // honeyed wine // walking barefoot in the cool grass // the clanging of a jail cell door // spying hazy figures of animals in the fog // lemon balm and lavender // the low growl of a wildcat that you can’t see (but it sees you) // choking clouds of pollen settling on cars like snow // vineyards // faint humming and singing from an unidentifiable source // juniper berries // feeling uncomfortably hot in overly formal clothes // lace // burning incense // soft brunette tresses // long winding rivers // mesmerizing music // glistening trout // the sweet nectar of honeysuckle flowers // rumbling of truck motors // glass beakers // bundles of dried flowers // wind chimes tinkling // rough concrete bricks // tumbling barrels // the ringing of a vintage phone // sweet words // broken promises // moonflower and datura // the smell of freshly cut grass // the faint sound of children laughing

Joseph’s Compound

Dutch’s Island

Tagging: wveryone lol @unleashed111 @deputyash @depyotee @multiverse-of-themind @belorage @heroofpenamstan @florbelles @adelaidedrubman @henbased @vasiktomis @natesofrellis @sleepfight @nightwingshero @derelictheretic @amistrio @foofygoldfish @redroci @cobb-vanthss @chyrstis @teamhawkeye @josephslittledeputy @clicheantagonist @confidentandgood @roofgeese @sleepfight @nuclearstorms @necro-hamster @perhapsrampancy @socially-awkward-skeleton @purplehairsecretlair @shellibisshe @madsismad @red-nightskies @redreart @beautiful-delirium @harmonyowl @refinedstorage @harlow1898 @shallow-gravy also please tag all your fc5 moots if you do it!

#far cry 5 #far cry 5 oc #fc5 deputy #oc: Cooper McCoy #oc: Heath McCoy #oc aesthetic game #oc aesthetics #Cooper aesthetics #Cooper aesthetic #Heath aesthetic

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adelaidedrubman · 2 years

Text

FAR CRY 5 CHARACTER AESTHETIC

tagged by @florbelles and @strafethesesinners for (and saw @deputyash helped created) this far cry 5 based aesthetic game, thank you!! doing the main girlies, and sending tags out to @henbased @ishwaris @blackreaches @derelictheretic @schoute @shallow-gravy @belorage @heroofpenamstan @stacispratt @starsandskies @snake-in-the-garden @bluemojave @josephslittledeputy @harmonyowl @beautiful-delirium @multiverse-of-themind @socially-awkward-skeleton @nuclearstorms and whoever else wants to play, brain mush!

HOLLAND VALLEY

red, gold, and orange leaves against a clear blue sky // rows of apple trees in an orchard // pick your own pumpkin patches // baskets of puppies // a sleeping fawn hidden away from predators // pumpkin spice // the bite of apple cider [spiked, bourbon] // a harvest festival // the faint smell of a bonfire on the wind // the slight unease of getting lost in a corn maze [she’s never lost] // a hint of fall in the air when it’s still warm // golden sunsets // leaves just beginning to turn from green to orange // the rumble of a tractor // the buzz of an airplane flying low overhead [derogatory, detested] // golden wheat swaying in the wind // the smell of gasoline [beloved] // sprawling river deltas // crystal clear water // an old wooden dresser // family heirlooms [she stomps them dead] // jingling keys // crimson blood // dark ink on parchment // the sting of a bruise // the warmth of a grand fireplace // gunmetal // work boots in the mud // cattails // the harsh cry of crows // the faint musty smell of taxidermy animals [disgusting freak shit. get rid of it. (fails to get rid of it. names it.] // farm animals making a racket // open air farmers markets [top ten places for her to be normal while acquiring dirt ipas.] // catching your clothes on a barbed wire fence // a fresh breeze through an open window // white rocking chairs // old farmhouses // scarecrows // wild westerly winds // the barely contained excitement for the approach of autumn

WHITETAIL MOUNTAINS

fishing at dawn [goal waking time] // the smell of woodsmoke clinging to your clothes and hair // wolfsong // locking eyes with another predator // a night that falls faster than expected // the crisp hint of snow in the air // log cabins // the scent of evergreen trees // stone fireplaces // a well worn camouflage jacket [not her kind of jacket] // old field guide books // the smell of a cigarette still lingering on your hands // lager // the roar of whitewater rapids // cool dark caves // the rough wood of an antique gun // the scent of iron // woodland paths criss crossed by gnarled tree roots // a haze of dust from a recent rockslide // losing your breath as you wade into an icy river // winding mountain roads // an eagle’s cry // the bright red flash of a foxes tail at the corner of your eye // the patter of rain on dead leaves // petrichor // seeing your breath in the cold morning air // the click of a projector // the jangling of a chain link fence // gunpowder // the sizzling of a grill // burnt hair // the grand lobby of a lodge // gravel crunching underfoot // the cry of blue jays // information boards // brochures piled on a table // cold metal bars // the sour smell of a lumber mill // the rough texture of scouting achievement badges [constantly joined and kicked out of girl scouts] // muffled oldies music from another room // sharpening a hunting knife // blood red leaves blooming from bone white birch trees // red bleeding into the edges of your vision

HENBANE RIVER

cloying floral scents // the thick mist that gathers near the ground at dawn // dewdrops sparkling on spiderwebs // the almost too intense morning sun // unseasonable warmth // birdsong // honeyed wine // walking barefoot in the cool grass [the combat boots stay on during ] // the clanging of a jail cell door // spying hazy figures of animals in the fog // lemon balm and lavender // the low growl of a wildcat that you can’t see (but it sees you) // choking clouds of pollen settling on cars like snow // vineyards // faint humming and singing from an unidentifiable source // juniper berries // feeling uncomfortably hot in overly formal clothes // lace // burning incense // frogs in the reeds // soft brunette tresses // long winding rivers // mesmerizing music [is dolly mesmerizing?] // glistening trout // the sweet nectar of honeysuckle flowers [top ten things she hates now, thanks] // rumbling of truck motors // glass beakers // bundles of dried flowers [not those fucking flowers] // wind chimes tinkling // rough concrete bricks // tumbling barrels // the ringing of a vintage phone // sweet words [spoken with sarcasm, allegedly] // broken promises [samson? she’s heard of him] // moonflower and datura // the smell of freshly cut grass // the faint sound of children laughing

JOSEPH’S COMPOUND

babbling brooks // humming // whistling // dogs barking // grand oak trees // the faint sound of hymns // a crate of ripe peaches // melted wax candles // the smell of fresh newspaper clippings // caged birds singing [more like complaining loudly] // a warm embrace // wrought iron arches // flames reaching for the sky // gentle voices murmuring // your feet sliding in thick mud // pouring rain // vape smoke // the slight scent of sweat // ink on skin // the smell of wooden church pews // the rustle of hymnals // old book smell // slight hint of ozone from old electronics // bradford pear petals floating on the breeze

DUTCH’S ISLAND

HOLLAND VALLEY

creaking metal hinges // the crackle of a radio // the scratch of an old record player // the smell of antiseptic [try not to get a stiffy from it, freak] // the flickering light of a projector // the feel of pushing pins into cork board // echoing footsteps // shelves stacked with canned food and mason jars // dark shadowy figures on the edge of your vision [sleep paralysis demons her best friends sleep paralysis demons] // gleaming metal badges // a table of bullet shell casings // vertigo from standing on swaying radio towers [she likes heights, dislikes falling] // the sound of shattering glass // whistling pipes // suffocating heat // the chatter of squirrels // faint scent of mothballs // the sputter of a boat engine // the high electronic whine of an old television turning on // the sound of distant gunfire

red, gold, and orange leaves against a clear blue sky // rows of apple trees in an orchard // pick your own pumpkin patches // baskets of puppies // a sleeping fawn hidden away from predators // pumpkin spice // the bite of apple cider [her own blend] // a harvest festival // the faint smell of a bonfire on the wind // the slight unease of getting lost in a corn maze [what do you mean? what is there to be uneasy about?] // a hint of fall in the air when it’s still warm // golden sunsets [beloved, but she prefers sunrises] // leaves just beginning to turn from green to orange // the rumble of a tractor // the buzz of an airplane flying low overhead [no spraying pesticides that couldn’t be easily administered underground for her plants, thanks] // golden wheat swaying in the wind // the smell of gasoline // sprawling river deltas // crystal clear water // an old wooden dresser // family heirlooms // jingling keys [to her lab drawers] // crimson blood [samples in test tubes, never on her] // dark ink on parchment // the sting of a bruise // the warmth of a grand fireplace // gunmetal // work boots in the mud // cattails // the harsh cry of crows // the faint musty smell of taxidermy animals [swap for: the formaldehyde stench of lab specimens] // farm animals making a racket // open air farmers markets // catching your clothes on a barbed wire fence // a fresh breeze through an open window // white rocking chairs // old farmhouses // scarecrows // wild westerly winds // the barely contained excitement for the approach of autumn

WHITETAIL MOUNTAINS

fishing at dawn // the smell of woodsmoke clinging to your clothes and hair [a distinctly chemical smoke, but it does cling] // wolfsong // locking eyes with another predator [she disputes the binary, but she does make eye contact] // a night that falls faster than expected // the crisp hint of snow in the air // log cabins // the scent of evergreen trees // stone fireplaces // a well worn camouflage jacket // old field guide books // the smell of a cigarette still lingering on your hands // lager // the roar of whitewater rapids // cool dark caves // the rough wood of an antique gun // the scent of iron [crucible tongs] // woodland paths criss crossed by gnarled tree roots // a haze of dust from a recent rockslide // losing your breath as you wade into an icy river // winding mountain roads // an eagle’s cry // the bright red flash of a foxes tail at the corner of your eye // the patter of rain on dead leaves // petrichor // seeing your breath in the cold morning air // the click of a projector // the jangling of a chain link fence // gunpowder // the sizzling of a grill // burnt hair [not hers, wouldn’t happen if people listened to her lab safety rules] // the grand lobby of a lodge // gravel crunching underfoot // the cry of blue jays // information boards // brochures piled on a table // cold metal bars // the sour smell of a lumber mill // the rough texture of scouting achievement badges // muffled oldies music from another room // sharpening a hunting knife [better a scalpel] // blood red leaves blooming from bone white birch trees // red bleeding into the edges of your vision

HENBANE RIVER

JOSEPH’S COMPOUND

cloying floral scents // the thick mist that gathers near the ground at dawn // dewdrops sparkling on spiderwebs // the almost too intense morning sun // unseasonable warmth // birdsong // honeyed wine // walking barefoot in the cool grass [do you want lyme disease?] // the clanging of a jail cell door // spying hazy figures of animals in the fog // lemon balm and lavender // the low growl of a wildcat that you can’t see (but it sees you) // choking clouds of pollen settling on cars like snow // vineyards // faint humming and singing from an unidentifiable source [she knows the source] // juniper berries // feeling uncomfortably hot in overly formal clothes [yes, the lab coat gets hot] // lace // burning incense // frogs in the reeds // soft brunette tresses // long winding rivers // mesmerizing music [her bubblegum pop, she would classify] // glistening trout // the sweet nectar of honeysuckle flowers // rumbling of truck motors // glass beakers // bundles of dried flowers // wind chimes tinkling // rough concrete bricks // tumbling barrels // the ringing of a vintage phone // sweet words // broken promises [rip to her grad school enrollment] // moonflower and datura // the smell of freshly cut grass // the faint sound of children laughing

babbling brooks // humming // whistling // dogs barking // grand oak trees // the faint sound of hymns // a crate of ripe peaches // melted wax candles // the smell of fresh newspaper clippings // caged birds singing // a warm embrace // wrought iron arches // flames reaching for the sky // gentle voices murmuring // your feet sliding in thick mud [put on fucking shoes] // pouring rain // vape smoke // the slight scent of sweat // ink on skin // the smell of wooden church pews // the rustle of hymnals // old book smell // slight hint of ozone from old electronics // bradford pear petals floating on the breeze

DUTCH’S ISLAND

creaking metal hinges // the crackle of a radio // the scratch of an old record player // the smell of antiseptic // the flickering light of a projector // the feel of pushing pins into cork board // echoing footsteps // shelves stacked with canned food and mason jars // dark shadowy figures on the edge of your vision // gleaming metal badges [her name tag means nothing here] // a table of bullet shell casings // vertigo from standing on swaying radio towers // the sound of shattering glass [please don’t break her labwear] // whistling pipes // suffocating heat // the chatter of squirrels // faint scent of mothballs // the sputter of a boat engine // the high electronic whine of an old television turning on // the sound of distant gunfire

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