#bloodfield

[valmesi]

este domingo 11 de diciembre en el @theurbanlive tributo a grandes bandas de la escena emo, no se lo pueden perder si quieren revivir esos años de nostalgia depresiva. . . . #bloodfield #oceangraves #blink182 #falloutboy #30secondstomars #yellowcard #pxndx #divisionminuscula #fromfirsttolast #tributo #bringmethehorizon #adaytoremember #jimmyeatworld #boxcarracer #greenday #mychemicalromance https://www.instagram.com/p/Cl5HkZfNj3Z/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[soupykappa]

I loved this fic so much and although I finished it a while ago now my lazy ass forgot to post the sketch of the scene where Wesker kills Chris. I was all over the place with this drawing struggling with proportions and such, but this is the closest I’ve gotten to liking it so far. One day I hope to remake this piece in color, and probably digitally too. This fic made me cry more than anything I’ve ever read in my life if that says something.

Bloodfield (sacrilegious_fingers) wrote this Chrisker fic and they’ve also made others, so go check them out. 👍

[christiansorrell]

Howdy, I'm Christian / MeatCastle

I am an indie TTRPG designer, adventure writer, and editor. I am best known (in the few parts of the internet where I'm known at all) for my Mothership Sci-Fi Horror RPG modules like The Bloodfields at Blackstar Station, There is a Goblin on the Loose in Icarus Station, ULTIMATE BADASS, and The Mole on PIRAD ONE. I've also made supplements for MÖRK BORG, Liminal Horror, and other indie TTRPGs.

I've worked as an adventurer writer, editor, and/or developer on 30+ projects like Cloud Empress, Triangle Agency, and Orbital Debris. You can check out my full portfolio for all the details. If you have a project you'd like me to help out with, you can find my best contact info there as well!

You can find my games/game stuff on Itch.io and some of it on DriveThruRPG.

I have a monthly newsletter, Missives from the MeatCastle, where I review games/adventures I've run, talk about game design and freelance life, and create a TTRPG freebie for you to take to the table. You can check it out (and subscribe) here.

Beyond all that, you can keep up with me here (where I plan to be posting a lot more), regrettably still on Twitter, Bluesky, and even Mastadon.

[imeternallylove]

Cloud Covered - S.Holmes

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Warning: Graphics of violence, torture of dead and plenty of more brutality

Word: approx 3.5k

main mastetlist  | request & ask | prompts | theme song

Chapters index

Bloodbath (you are reading this) | Marionette | Invisible Strings

It's an abominable to see. 

Two victims were strewn on the floor, and one was hanging upside down. Blood is spilled as far as the eye can perceive, staining both the walls and the ceiling, creating a gruesome bloodfield scene. The odour in the air is revolting.

"My god," Sherlock hears you gasp next to him, shaken by the sight. He doesn't blame you; it's beyond anything he's ever seen, and he can easily say he's been in some gruesome crime scenes in the course of his job.

But his concerned against one another continues to be and before proceeding and allowing his own inquiry to begin, a gentle hand grips his partner's shoulder and he leans close. "Wait outside," he asserts that reassuring squeezed into your shoulder. He watches as you give a nod giving one final startled glance around his surroundings before turning around and going towards the police outside the warehouse's closed doors.

Sherlock returned his concentration to the crime scene only when you were close enough to the door, taking his first steps ahead and closer to the corpses. He crouches close the first, his sombre stare fixed on the horrified, wide-eyed look of the dead body, apprehension from his final moments on earth imprinted on his soulless eyes.

Only a few details emerge from his solitary observations: the corpses are soaked in their own blood, concealing any wounds or scars. Before handling the bodies in the mortuary, Sherlock always waits to meet them. He argues that people should look with their eyes, not their hands, because hands are awkward and untidy, and dragging their fingers across a flawless crime scene ruins so many aspects.

Many facts can be deduced by Sherlock with a single glance at a person, object, or scenario without even moving a muscle.

He takes his time studying the bodies and their ravaged faces, capturing everything in his memory and safely storing it for future use. It takes him twenty minutes in that stinky warehouse to be satisfied with his mental notes, and he turns to leave, his own feet leaving faint bloody prints behind from how dirty the floor was.

Once outside, he nods to the fellow officers, indicating that he has finished his studies and that the bodies may be taken away for further investigation before making his approach towards you, who appeared to be preoccupied in a hushed conversation with two police officers and a witness.

When they notice Sherlock's arrival, both officers leave, assuming it was time to get back to work. "How do I address you?" Sherlock asks the witness, a youngster of the same height as himself, pretty directly.

"James. McGuigan, James." The boy responds calmly, despite the fact that he, too, is visibly shaken by the circumstances.  Sherlock took note of every expression he made. "I was just telling the officers that I have no idea what happened here," he adds, casting a furtive glance towards the warehouse before returning his attention to Sherlock. "I was going for a morning jog when I saw all the blood, so I immediately called the police."

"You did well," Sherlock replies, his hands in the pockets of his long coat. He casts a glance at you, who returns his stare with a begging look to leave the location within as little time as possible. "Do you usually go for a jog around here?"

"Yes," the boy says, nodding. "It's serene in here, and there's plenty of space." I went here this morning as well, and there was no blood."

Sherlock's brow furrows slightly, allowing the witness's comments to enter. "Interesting," he says, though you groan at his uncommon habit, he speaking slowly and attentively before nodding. There's nothing else to listen to, so there's no time to waste. "I'm sure you've had enough of the cops.” Sherlock steps towards to the boy, “thank you for your time with us." He gracefully lowers his head,  hand finding your back to stroke against before departing and tugging the shorter along; which meant you. 

You take out your phone and dial your friend's number; it takes a few moments for her to answer. "Hey, Molly." You greet with large exhaustion. "Have your toys arrived?"

The mortuary room, shall be you both next stop.

"Jeff Hewlett, Vincent Mcbride, and Reynard Hall." Molly says it with her arms crossed across her chest and an uncomfortable expression on her face, as if corpses still frightened her despite years of working in a mortuary. "Vincent and Jeff are siblings, not sure how Reynard falls into the picture."

Despite hearing Molly's remarks, Sherlock remains silent, leaning over Reynard's corpse and studying. The bodies had all been cleaned of blood, and the cause was clear; they had all been shot, albeit no bullets were recovered in them or at the warehouse.

"Jeff and Vincent have been dead for a while." Molly speaks up once more, watching as he moves on to Vincent's body. "I'd guess two days. Perhaps three."

"But our witness said there was nothing in the warehouse yesterday." You ponder during where you stood against the wall, brow furrowed, looking, waiting, having never been fond of mortuary space.

“Indeed,” Sherlock straightens himself up. “Only Reynard was killed there. Whoever did it painted us a whole show to make it seem like all three murders happened at the same time, in the same place.”

You pucker up, your weary face tilting. "But why?"

"Why not?" Sherlock retorts. "Perhaps it was a warning for Reynard, showing him Jeff's corpse as a threat. He wasn't given a choice, however. The killer definitely wanted him dead as well. It was most likely a game for their own entertainment, as well as an opportunity to leave a magnificent crime scene behind with all that splattered blood."

You ponder, your mind already absence. "Bloody Hell..."

"I wouldn't use the word magnificent to describe such a bloody scene." Molly mutters, breathes deeply, and shakes her head slightly. "In any case, there's more. Check their chests."

Sherlock doesn't need to be told once more, yanking at the white sheet that covers the rest of the dead. His brows furrow and he leans in, curious.

"What on earth is it?" You ask yourself, moving closer.

"All three bodies have the letter J carved on the left side of their chest." Molly adds this as she uncovers the two more bodies, displaying the same wounds that Sherlock saw with a little magnifying glass.

"Beautiful," Sherlock thinks to himself as he walks up to examine Reynard's scar. "The murderer left his imprint... He wants everyone to know that he did it. It's another jeopardy a warning that this could be a case for a serial killer."

The proprietor of the mortuary room frowns. "You should tone down your enthusiasm for murd-"

"Collect their files and bring them to me. All three of them." Sherlock commands, straightening his back and walking towards you, his arm wrapping across your shorter shoulders to urge you along. "I need to do some research."

Things were finally getting fascinating around there.

Shouting out the route out of Sherlock's flat to take you home. "Jeff and Vincent were cousins," he recalls fast as the outcome of his momentous laboratory spills out, loud enough to alarms you, half-sleeping from the passenger seat window.

You two share a knowing, amused gaze as a bright shade of pink sweeps across your cheeks after his delicate smooch on your hairline. "The entire thing could have been a family issue, a misunderstanding- but then you have Reynard, eh? Who appears to have no connection to them. However," Sherlock says, raising his finger. "According to my research, Vincent and Jeff were in a relationship. This could be a love problem instead, but it's still strange because of the cousins."

"Ugh, please. Don't tell me it was about illicit bromance like old fashioned in 70' European," you counsel with a smile. And your comment made him snort next to you.

"This J is dropping hints, which indicates that they intend to return. But if they don't, we can rely on your brilliant cousin illicit bromance concept." You can't stop yourself from laughing. Till you realize what he implied then your smile faded: "Are you trying to say we supposed wait for someone else to die before going after this 'J' ?” Your brow furrows in bewilderment.

“Exactly.” Sherlock gives a short, innocent smile. "God! Sherlock Holmes, that’s bloody nonsense. What's we need to do is avoid the next victim, not waiting and enjoying it!" You shout out as he turns right, leaving you dumbfounded. 

Your water is just starting to boil when Sherlock asks, "-so what about steak and your fondness for wine?"

"Huh," you keep staring out the window, knowing he's only attempting to loosen you by addressing the food topic, and the only response you gave him was the muttering in rage. "Nah, I saw plenty of blood today."

"We're going to have burger for dinner," Sherlock replies hastily. "There will be no more second thoughts."

“Fries, also”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You were about going over soda when Sherlock's phone started ringing. He urged him to slow down his car and search his trousers pocket for the device. He frowned at the number as you gazed upon him doubtfully, then slid his thumb to the green button. "—Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock stared down at the body, and the body stared back to him.

"She was discovered exactly like this an hour ago." The officer from the local police department explained. "She drowned and washed up on shore, but we called you because she has the letter J carved on her. We do believe you are familiar with this."

Sherlock shut his eyes and exhaled slowly. He'd been overly confident, certain that he'd put the pieces of the puzzle together, that he'd tied all the traces together and located the real victim the murderer was looking for.

And now this - an elderly woman and she defies the men-only pattern, has no ties to any of the previous cases, and smashes Sherlock's assumptions and inferences in the blink of an eye.

And Sherlock is never, ever wrong with his predictions.

He feels your palm on his arm, a delicate tug of reassurance, of comfort, but he brushes it aside and walks to kneel over the body. You shake your head at the others, signalling that Sherlock needs a bit of solitude time.

"She used to work at a local, tiny grocery store." Sherlock claims that bending his head as he searches the body with furrowed brows for any wound other than the J sliced through her garments. There was nothing, which was not surprising given that drowning her shouldn't take much effort.

"Hold on, Greg." You paused the line and step over him, scracth your shoulder; by now it's already midnight and you're still at the crime scenes with nothing in your tiresome stomach. "You got that from just looking at her?" He sighs as he hears you ask in stupor.

"When I was younger, I used to go to her store and buy candy." He explains, possibly in a fairly harsh tone, though it was common for the frustration to crawl up on his chest and adhere to his ribcage. "She is unrelated to the other victims. She's most likely retired by now. It makes no sense."

No one says a thing. The wind from the Thames is refreshing, yet the air is dense. If Sherlock doesn't comprehend, the others obviously don’t either.

"Perhaps the connections between the victims weren't as straightforward as I would assumed." 

Curled up within your coat, you allowed the darknight breezes swirl over you, leaving your blonde hair tangled. You've known your thoughts went away into the cloud from your body since this granny bodie had a sheer string with Sherlock.

"Anytime," you say as you offer your namecard to one of the local police officers, who appears to be the lieutenant. 

Sherlock could hear your breath hitching behind him, followed by the noises of you turning around and exiting the room. He looked over his shoulder as his girl walked away, briefly wondering if the mortuary had finally become a bit too much for you to bear, before returning his gaze to the corpse.

"Mercury poisoning." Greg reinforced his thoughts, an uncomfortable expression on his face as he gripped the victim's files against his chest and watched Sherlock. "In his body, a big dose was injected. Considering the others, I'd say this was a rather clean death."

Sherlock concurred silently, his gaze fixed on the J cut right below the body's collarbone. “Name?”

"Clifford Shelton," the proprietor of the mortuary room replies, returning her gaze to the paperwork. "A kindergarten teacher, Oxford Montessori Schools."

There it was. The headache came slowly, cautiously, curling its twisted fingers around his thoughts and squeezing it.

"Do you think there's any connection to the other victims?" Sherlock questions, putting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose and frowning at the gathering annoyance.

"Nothing that I can think of."

“Figured.”

Sherlock straightens up, disregarding Greg's somewhat irritated expression. Seconds passed slowly, static silence filling the air as he stared harder and harder at the corpse, as if the jigsaw pieces might fall into place on their own if he did it long enough.

"Where did Y/N go?" Molly is the one who breaks the silence, her hands moving to draw the sheet over the dead, effectively ending Sherlock's investigation.

The detective's attention slowly returns from the shrouded body to the pathologist, accepting the query before returning to the exit. "I don’t know.”

"So," Greg begins, his tone tinged with doubt and perhaps a hint of amusement. "You can't figure it out?"

"I haven't start to figured it out yet." Sherlock corrects Greg, irritated by his choice of words. He has copies of all the victims' files strewn over his desk, but the more he stares at them, the more difficult it is to think. Part of him blames Greg; honestly, the shorter's presence lowers his IQ by the second.

“Right.” He nods slowly, a kitten-like smile twisting on his lips, yet he doesn't dare to continue his tormenting.

"He was thirty-two years old, making him the second oldest victim so far, but there's still a significant age difference between him and Mrs. Madison from Thames river." They both were in your house, Sherlock muses as he leans over the papers, fists gripping the table. "In any case, it's barely significant. He was born and reared in Scotland and has no history of being linked with any of the men." He sighs and leans back against the table, his palms against his face, away from the paperwork. "I feel like there's something obvious here which I'm overlooking." 

There was a brief moment of silence before you stood up, the entrance of the door. "He should be in Oxford, it’s Tuesday and no necessary to be in London." You mutter, barely audible, before turning and heading for the bedroom instead.

Sherlock kept an eye on you, the unfamiliarity of the circumstance, along with your out-of-character actions, making you nervous. He exchanges a glance with Greg, who returns his gaze, and he suddenly feels as if there's something else he's missing that isn't related to the murders.

"Is she-"

"Is she okay? You should go ahead and ask her." Greg shrugs, maintaining his nice, casual grin, but his eyes were clearly prodding Sherlock; attempting to break past his thick mind loaded with puzzles and detective novels. "Did you happen to forget Clifford was Y/N's ex?"

Sherlock's mouth opens in surprise, then closes again.

"Thought so." Greg laughs and shakes his head slightly. "Go talk to her."

Three knocks on the door before Sherlock stepped in, turning the handle. “Y/N?”

His shorter girlfriend sat on the bed, phone lighting out on your hands, apparently doing nothing more than being lost in your own thoughts, yet a smile spreads across your lips as your gaze meets Sherlock's, albeit somewhat tiredly. "Hey, beb."

Sherlock pursed his lips, locking the door behind him; he believed Greg would busy himself in the sitting room or the kitchen (like he always did), so he stepped farther into the room. He knew about Clifford and you, but the whole serial murderer thing managed to take over his entire head, seizing its place and leaving no room for other facts.

Even those about his girlfriend.  

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asks, the mattress sinking slightly as he sat next to the shorter, bony fingers searching for you to hold. He senses you relaxing only for his touch, and you shrug.

“I hate your silly question.. It has been a long time. I haven't spoken to him for years." You say, seizing the opportunity to finally express yourself now that you have the opportunity. "It's just... strange -- you know? That someone I used to know..." You trail off, words turning to ash in your tongue before you can say anything, yet there is no need for a detective to figure out the finish of this phrase this time.

Sherlock's hand squeezes yours, and your head leans on his shoulder. "Suddenly, it all feels a lot more threatening when it's about someone you know, doesn't it?" Sherlock hums, now his head resting on his woman's shoulder, lips placing a kiss to the top of your hair. "Are you scared?"

“Kinda.” You chuckled defeatistically. "Well, if something happens to us, I mean; I guess 'J' knows who we are. Mrs Madison and Clifford happen to be related to us." You breathe out with a slight smile on your face. "And I wished I'd died first because I couldn't live without your goofy face."

Sherlock's stomach clenches, and he is anxious but determined. He presses your hand once more. "Nothing is going to happen to us." He then draws you closer into his warm embrace. "Just put your trust in me."

“I always did.”

“I know.”

While his lips were connected to yours, the deadpanned blank countenance quickly covered over your agonised sorrowful appearance that you showed to him. And, despite your best efforts, you sense no peace from his embrace, at all.

To your mastermind that running back and forth in your veins, something within you shouts louder and more profoundly in the silence.

a/t: eh i did told you don’t hate me yet xD

[placesyoucallhome]

FFXIVWrite #4 Off the Hook

He knew what he was walking into, didn’t mean he liked the bureaucracy of it. 

“A dozen counts of theft, three poaching, four resisting arrest, and… one public indecency?” The Serpent officer raised an eyebrow over the stack of papers, an elezen man looking none too pleased to be on this job in particular despite the cushy seat and clean desk, flanked by standing serpent privates, an uninterested hyur boy, and a familiar moonkeeper. Mikro’a only shrugged, giving nothing, that was only the list of broken laws he’d been caught for. 

“Yeah. And you said--”

“I know what I said.” The elezen snapped, “For enlisting for the Cartinau conflict, your record will be wiped. A clean slate. On paper.” 

The threat was clear, gone, but not forgotten, he’d still be walking on eggshells at best, he wouldn’t be arrested for previous crimes, but new ones would not be given any grace. Dark claws scratched at ratty clothes and dingy lavender hair, he didn’t have anything to lose at this point really. But the only other moonkeeper in the room looked like she was about to lose her lunch, dark skin almost ashen, pink-purple ears flattened back as she could only look at Mikro’a in abject horror. There was nothing she could do, could say.  

“I get it. Sennight of barracks and training, then off to the bloodfields.” He huffed again, a hand held out to ask for a pen, to scribble along the bottom line of the contract laid out in front of him. The officer pushed a quill and ink pot over, time to sign his life away. 

“No, wait--” She finally burst, reaching out to stay Mikro’a’s hand, the officer sputtering orders to stand down that she couldn’t heed, “You can’t- If you’d just said you wanted to do better- I- I could’ve figured out something, we could’ve--” 

“Mihki, you know damn well you wouldn’t have given me a second thought even if I had been on my knees about it.” He pulled his hand out of reach, and she flinched back. 

“N- No. No I-” She stuttered, she’d given up her family tradition of poaching, looked down her nose at the rest of them as they struggled in the Shroud. She struggled into the ranks of the law and order instead, and now she was going to have to file her baby brother’s death sentence for it. It was too late.

His signature wasn’t much more than a scribble, the paper shoved back over the desk before he turned to leave for the armory and barracks, “Hey, at least I’ll get a few meals before I die, more than you ever did for me.” He shot over his shoulder, he knew what he was walking into. 

[yellowcry]

And my days are numbered

After days in a way, they had found another village. Agustín hopes, prays that they could stay

Twice to once!

After days of walking, Agustín could swear his legs were about to fall off. Moving through the tropical forests, just to hide somewhere, find another small village away from the bloodfield. The amount of effort to move was exhausting. But they also needed to find a safe place to stay there. Two loaves of bread and a couple of arepas could only get them this far. Luisa needed provisions, she was a big girl after all. And Agustín needed too, but he would prefer to feed her at first. It was a habit of giving her his portions, claiming that he wasn't hungry that he got from the situation where they had such a small amount of food that it just couldn't be enough. He just was doing his best to stay strong for Luisa during her childhood. Even when Luisa was a fully-grown adult who towered over him.

 

He had to make Luisa rest several times per day. She was always the type to push through even when it was evident how much she needed sweet rest. From the sweat that she tried to wipe off until her papa could see it to the times when her movements were slowing down. 

 

Luckily, the card "I'm too old, I need to take a break" always worked. It was a good key for Luisa to immediately step back without complaining or attempted denial of being fine.

 

On one hand, moving through the jungle was hard, it would be much easier if they were on the laid way from city to city. But there was a bigger chance of becoming a victim of assault too. And if there was an isolated village, usually of native people, they had a chance of being left unseen.

 

Agustín froze, observing giant mountains — taller than he had ever seen. But, the most strange thing that he could see was a crack, that broke one of the elevations in half. Even if he wasn't interested in geography, it wasn't possible naturally which left him confused over the sight.

 

It left him in a stupor, unsure for a while. On one hand, it could mean somebody was there. At the same time, they could waste time trying to get there, just to find nothing. It wouldn't be too long, a couple of hours at best. Tho taking that he and Luisa were both tired, it could be way longer.

 

The other thing that added its weight was their place. Agustín was awful in spatial orientation, he was that one person who could get lost between two trees. Luisa was better, but she didn't have a good internal compass as well. It wasn't clear how long would they walk until the next possible stayover.

 

He sat on the hot rock, stretching his sore limbs. The sun was still hight, but it started to go downhill already. Luisa shifted from foot to foot, eye twitching. 

 

"Are we going there?" She asked hesitant, lips pointed in the direction of the cracked mountain.

 

Agustín groaned, he didn't know. It was a game of guessing where he couldn't tell if it would do anything for them. It wasn't something he enjoyed but as far as he was aware nobody could predict the future. 

 

He just wanted to protect Luisa. Any parent would do anything for their baby. Agustín checked their supplies, trying to scale their next set of actions. There wasn't a right way to do this, just stepping on a random slab in the temple hoping that it wouldn't fall under their feet.

 

"I think we should check for anybody else." He ended up saying it with a heavy heart. It wasn't an easy decision, and he wasn't even sure if it was right. They could find nothing, they could find another hostile armed group. Everyone knew that you could get burnt if you played with fire. And Agustín didn't like burns. Both physical and metamorphic.

 

Agustín pushed himself through the mountains, broken stones ripped his clothes and scratched his skin. By the time they had gotten in here the sun was setting over the horizon. It painted the sky bright fruity orange. Not dark yet, but shifting to this step by step.

 

What he could see inside were the neat lines of houses. The place was all ruffled. Asphalted roads were all cracked as if an earthquake just passed through, crashing everything on its way. Maybe it was the case with mountains too.

 

Better yet, there were people. Peaceful villagers that didn't seem dangerous and just wanted to enjoy their lives. Something that Agustín could relate to at an extreme point. And he needed this, just a small house to stay, he could help them with the housework. Anything would be enough, no matter how small or uncomfortable it would be. Just a roof over their heads.

 

Several villagers came over, probably attracted by the noise like moths flying at the light source. Just wanting to see what was going on. 

 

Agustín held Luisa's hand in a tight grip, looking over the people. "Excuse me.. " He cleared his throat, the crowd stared at him. "Me and my hija have no place to stay."

 

He felt bad, there was a chance that they wouldn't be pleased with two strangers coming in and asking for a place to stay.

 

One of them muttered, fixing his hat. "Doña Madrigal was always the one to deal with all problems."

 

From the tone of his voice, Agustín could see that Doña Madrigal held a hight respect in here. Not a person you would want to disappoint or make her disapprove of you.

 

The other villagers looked at his fellow countryman, getting into unsured chat. "But they had lost their house too..."

 

"She's still our leader." Just as he thought.

 

Doña Madrigal had looked nothing like Agustín imagined. She was old, all wrinkled, enough to be the same age as his parents. But at the same time steady, full of life experience that Agustín would never line up to. 

 

They sat at one of the local houses over a cup of coffee much to Luisa's delight, they weren't able to get it for a while. Agustín didn't know what to do. He didn't want to ask questions not to look rude. This woman's decision was the heaviest weight on the scales of whenever they could stay or not. So it was important to make a good impression. As much as their exhausted, disheveled selves could.

 

Señora Madrigal took a deep breath, eyeing Agustín. "Señor..." She stumbled, realizing that she didn't know his name.

 

"Agustín Rojas." He clarified after a few seconds of awkward silence between them "And Luisa." The mentioned girl drummed with her fingers, eyetwitching over the old woman's gaze. Trying to find herself a place in grown-ups conversation.

 

Madrigal nodded, keeping a stern expression. Not hostile, but distrustful. Maybe it was an understandable reaction, considering that they appeared out of nowhere. "What..." Swallowed. "What happened with your home..." Her tone was uncomfortable, pained just from saying these words.

 

Agustín tried to keep a calm face, ignoring the heart rushing in his chest. "War climbed there too..." 

 

He could see how Doña's face lost its colours, going so pale that he almost thought that she would faint any second now. Her wrinkles deepened from horror, eyes shrank. "War?" She gasped under her breath. 

 

Maybe it wasn't a surprising reaction. There was no doubt that she was old enough to witness (and remember) a Thousand Days war. Hearing about somebody else being affected by the other must be painful like putting salt in a wound. The thing that lay so deep inside her eyes, but wasn't forgotten. Part of his stomach twisted in guilt. Realizing that he probably had awoken the worst memories.

 

Doña Madrigal just stood like this for a while, trying to maintain herself. "Another one..." she breathed out, but before Agustín could get confused over the fact that she didn't know it she continued. "I apologize for losing my temper, I just..." She hesitated, hiding her hands under the table Something ringed. "Remember something. Regardless." She looked between Agustín and Luisa. "Encanto welcomes you both. I do not think we have many spare houses, but you can stay in church for a night."

 

They were.... Agustín gasped in relief. At least they were in safety now. And Dios, he prayed for this to be their final stayover.

 

"Thank you so much, Señora!" He jumped from his place, knocking his cup over the table. Luisa's almost had the same fate, but she reacted in instant, taking it from the way. He shook Madrigal's hand in delight. "I owe you so much!"

 

"No need for thanks..." Her voice trailed again, lips were purced in discomfort. "I understand your situation really well." Doña had said firmly. Now, standing closer, Agustín could see that she held a round thing that was attached to her belt. Something like pocket clocks, but he didn't know for sure.

[1five1two]

'Bloodfield'. Casey Weldon. 2019.

[reliaofdreams]

Working on a fan art for The Wandering Inn by Pirateaba but accidentally made this while doing it, looks kinda cool thought I'd share! Though in the Watsonian sense, I reckon it were to have a title, it'd be "The Bloodfields by a Level 11 [Landscape Painter]"

...wish the final art would look this coolio lol ;P

[that-random-fangirl]

Made my screensaver all these photos, and they make me so happy and yet also make me want to cry

Pictures of family who aren't here anymore, friends I've lost touch with, friends I haven't seen in so long, it's bittersweet

Each photo prompts a memory and I start to laugh but then my eyes burn and I want to go back and live it again

[valmesi]

@bloodfieldmusic - cielo atrás falta poco para el nuevo sencillo de #bloodfield , próximamente en todas las plataformas de su preferencia. . . . #teaser #newsingle #musicvideo #cieloatras #stars #rockalternativo #nuevosencillo #preview (at Guadalajara, Jalisco) https://www.instagram.com/p/Ck39YPPPccH/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[levy-tran]

was looking through 911 accs & i’ve decided i’m gonna take my bathena + madney content and go 🧍‍♀️

[christiansorrell]

MeatCastle GameWare Store Launch Sale!

My entire catalog is now available at the MCGW Store! After months of frankly terrible interactions with my last fulfillment partner (more on that later, perhaps in a future Missive), I have finally gotten my inventory back, set up my own store, and have a much better setup overall. To celebrate, EVERYTHING (print AND digital) is 30% off (applied at checkout)! VISIT THE SHOP HERE!

The entire catalog of MCGW-published supplements are here:

The Bloodfields at Blackstar Station (Mothership 1e)

Corpo Culture Killed My Dog (Mothership 1e/System-Free)

Tunnels in White (Liminal Horror)

MeatCastle GameWare Annual #1 (Mothership 1e, Mork Borg, and System-Free)

The Mole on PIRAD ONE (Mothership 1e)

There is a Goblin on the Loose in Icarus Station (Mothership 1e)

ULTIMATE BADASS: Optional Action Movie Rules (Mothership 1e)

You can grab EVERYTHING I’ve ever made in print for around $50 USD or get it all digitally for just $26! The sale will run from now until the evening of 12/10 (so two full weeks)!

Also, @indiepressrevolution will have both The Bloodfields at Blackstar Station and There is a Goblin on the Loose in Icarus Station on sale at Pax Unplugged this weekend (Dec. 1st-3rd) at Booth 3426!

[the-god-of-hellfire]

The Vampires of Gravehaunt Hills!!

Sculpts by the lovely fellows over at Titan Forge, printed and painted by me.

Knocked these guys out in about a week and a half of furious work.  They were a fun exercise in not overthinking and just committing to ideas.  Not the most original color scheme, but they were fast and fun, and I feel good about how they turned out.  Excited to field them with the upcoming release of the Bloodfields tabletop game.

[wanderingandfound]

Okay this is my last formal pitch to get my followers to listen to Friends at the Table, an actual play podcast focused on critical worldbuilding, smart characterization, and fun interactions between good friends.

Season 7, Sangfielle, just started.

It's an entirely new setting, you can just start here and won't be missing anything.

Sangfielle is a weird west/gothic horror setting. Set about 200 years after things began to go Wrong, "Sangfielle" refers to the expansive Bloodfields contained within the ringed city of Concentus.

But seriously, space is weird so within Sangfielle this city is out of sight.

We have mysterious (dragon?) egg sacks, we have pomegranates the size of beach balls, we have a goat woman who was kidnapped and raised on an evil train and now wears parts of that train as armor as she has become a knight hunting down more trains.

Have you ever wondered what if the bug dude from Naruto was also the brother from The Mummy? We have him too.

Episodes 01-03 are the worldbuilding sessions where they play "The Ground Itself". Yes eight players are a lot of people to keep track of but it was a fantastic game in my opinion and I recommend you start here.

Episode 04 is character introductions. I'll be honest this episode is really long and I listened to it twice and still didn't retain much of it. You can skip this if you want. The characters will be given brief introductions when they appear onscreen the first time.

Episode 05 is where their game of "Heart: The City Beneath" starts. The players have split into two parties so there are less voices to distinguish. This episode just came out Thursday so if you listen to this you will be all caught up!

Friends at the Table can be found on your podcast app of choice, or at their website friendsatthetable.net. Fans are paid to create transcripts which can be found at transcriptsatthetable.com.

[chemiosmotic]

es fixed her mysterious supernatural skin condition and duvall acquired one. that's just fine! these things happen out there in the bloodfields!

[gonebut]

Allen testifies and makes a good witness. The Daily Press (Newport News, Virginia), 19 April 1911. In 1909, the churches of Newport News' East End, known as Bloodfields for its violence, commenced a campaign to curtail liquor licenses in the neighborhood.