#but posing as a pheasant on one foot is great too

[frenchcrow]

I recently ordered a gyroscope (because fuck yeah cool math gadget) but reading the instructions was... an experience

[ID: an instruction paper with 12 different ways you can play with the gyroscope, labeled in order: "Fat top ; Sit back ; The heart is not afraid of leaning ; Play a bit role ; Pull and go ; Celestial being immortal ; Posing as a pheasant standing on one foot ; There is a world inside ; Hat juggling ; Near misses ; Great reservoir ; Tumbler" /END ID]

[diningpageantry]

When Are We Not Dreaming

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15747540

Word Count: 21,648

Summary: This is the tale of two lovers, existings in two worlds and meeting only in their slumber. When dawn breaks, away the sun leaves the moon to rest and sulk and await the return of his starshine. When the day trickles away, the warrior of the land returns to the darkness to only find warmth. One a war machine built to slaughter, and one a dark creature built to survive, and both exist to kill. Bloodshed shall end when lovers find paths within each other.

-

Simon Snow is the greatest warrior of his time and he’s sent off to slay the Bloodtaker, a demon who has been terrorizing the lands. He falls in love with him instead, and falls out of himself in the process.

TW: Suicide Attempt (Not graphic; Romeo And Juliet-esque).

Notes: Mega thanks to my betas, @ravenclawbaz @jessethejoyful @thedrag0nqueen and @wisest-girl for their efforts on this work! Also, I am not publishing the whole fic under the cut; I’m only posting the first section because it’s quite large. Also, I have art of Demon!Baz, if you’re interested in my interpretation. Anyway, enjoy!

A man steadily approaches a broad opening, fingertips dragging against the crumbling stone walls surrounding the village. They seem to deteriorate at just a glance, raising high and towering as ghosts hiding away an abandoned land, splattered with dried blood and fresh fear of a village now gone.

The bravest warrior, from water-tip to water-tip of England, Simon Snow, stares at the barren wasteland of a previous town, brain buzzing with energy, with ability, with skill to be the one man to finally defeat the Great Bloodtaker. There’s only rumors of his true form, yet when he comes to the mortal realm, he’s bursting with charm; a dark man, tall of stature, with a gentle voice, upturned lips, and a handsome face.

Soft-spoken. Ruthless.

A demon.

A demon walking the land. A demon who’s said to be akin to vampires. If he pleases, he’ll suck the life from your neck, provoked only by a broken deal. He uses favors as an exchange of currency, posing as a poor man. Only a true fool would resist the pleas of the attractive trickster, one that asks for home, for food, for care. The figure then makes deals around, promising good health for a dying man’s wife if he can provide anything of his wishes. All fall for his tricks, all being unable to provide the small things he wishes (a single red shoe, a young pheasant hunted by hand, all differing according to the victim). He sends a curse upon them, continuing to each family until the final night of bloodshed and destruction. The night he attacks.

And now stands Simon Snow, the one chosen to take down the Bloodtaker, to end his path of destruction and blood consummation of the great people of the lands. He takes in the aftermath, hand clutching the hilt of his sword while utterly unsure of what he’ll face.

But alas, as he descends into the crumbling town, he faces nothing in the empty homes and discarded shops. All but rotting food and a pet or two, left untouched and crying for help, have been emptied out. Snow lets the animals smell him. He has nothing to offer but small pieces of bread, and even that runs short too quickly.

The bodies are gone, most likely dragged off somewhere to be burnt to hide the evidence of bloodless carcasses, but it was too late. The word spread far and wide of another town culled by the cannibalistic beast.

It has been occurring far too often, and for far too long. It’s time for this to end.

It’s the time that Snow has been trained for.

With every clash of the blade, with every strike in the heart of his enemy and cry into battle, he grew stronger and more capable. With every training day, The Grand Mage tutting aside at every sloppy movement Snow makes and reminding him countlessly that he was chosen for a reason, and the reason was not to make a fool of him and his country.

He was chosen because he’s magic with a sword; his energy explodes out of him. He’s a killing machine, stronger than the largest brigade threatening the lands. Snow’s choosing was one of tradition, one passed from the previous Grand Mage--the one who found him, who built him to become what he is. Brave. An honor to look upon. The country’s unbeatable weapon.

Despite his reputation, Snow hasn’t completely proven himself without a final challenge.

His challenge is proving himself absolutely, once and for all, as the greatest warrior to come to man. The destroyer of all creatures, human or beyond.

That could be proven, of course, if the demon would step out of his shadow.

Which does not happen. At least, not within his daylight hours of searching. This prompts Snow to set up camp, laying in an abandoned bed in an abandoned house. Drinking ale until he sends his lone body spinning into a spiral of sleep, waking only in the depths of a pit of his mind.

Only his mind doesn’t exist. Purgatory only holds enough, and not one's’ mind.

Yet there stands Snow, clamored in armor and sword in hand, in a strange place with only one staircase as an exit, leading him into an unsure descent.

With nowhere else to go but down, Snow goes. Sinking into the world, into the depths, into the new land he’s unsure of. Steps taking him deeper and deeper. It’s burning hot, as if flames licked at the wall from behind the thick stone.

Hotter and hotter, into the lair of the Bloodtaker.

As Snow’s decline continues, the walls slowly compress, pressure squeezing the air out of the man’s lungs as the world reeks of fire and blood.

Then, as if someone flipped a lever, it’s clear. Open.

A long hallway to an open room, flames crackling beyond his sight.

And there, Snow finds the Bloodtaker, lounging in his seat and swirling a glass of something unknown, something dark. The creature sips it slowly, watching the gold speckled man enter his realm. His piercing eyes following his every move, like a hunter watching its prey. Yet, he doesn’t advance towards him. Not even as Snow draws his sword, hand shaking in the slightest. Snow feels… scared?

“O-O’ great Bloodtaker,” he begins, the metal of his suit clattering the slightest against itself. “I’ve come to destroy wha-what’s destroyed so much… else…” he trails, watching the great beast rise to his feet and approach Snow steadily.

Assumedly, this is his true form, which is somehow grander than what the stories have told. He seems to have some of the attributes that the tales tell, but with more embellishments; pitch black hands, razor sharp claws, pointed teeth and curling horns. He stands at possibly a foot taller than Snow, rising to his feet with impeccable grace, silken robes following in swirls as he steps forward. Pause. Another step, reaching closer and closer to the glowing man of maybe 19 years of age, face relaxed and eyes traveling over the smaller figure before him.

Snow freezes, feet moulding to the ground beneath him as he gapes up at the human-like creature. His skin is much richer in person; like he was sculpted by the gods with river clay and given gemstones for eyes.

He looks like he was built for sin.

By the way Snow reacts, he feels as though the Great Bloodtaker has casted his will onto him. The mortal’s breath catches in his throat as the creature’s hand rises and levitates above the long line of tawny neck, staying as an untouched claw under the jaw of the man.

“You’ve come to bring what upon me, exactly?” he coos, velvety voice twisting Snow’s insides. “You think you can defeat me , mortal?”

Snow’s chin lifts further, breath trying to scratch out in huffs. “Y-yes,” he manages out, eyes staring directly into the creature’s leveled gaze and sputtering out breaths as the Bloodtaker drops his hand to his side, stepping back swiftly and meeting both clawed fingers in front of him in a clasp. The creature’s mouth draws out into a smirk, watching the golden boy scramble to a fighting stance. “I’ve been sent to-to t-take your l-life…”

The Bloodtaker drags his tongue slowly against his top lip, chin tilted up as he stares down at Snow, lips tweaked into a smirk. “Oh you can’t possibly do that, can you? Not with such a simple blade?”

Snow advances in the slightest, hand trembling. He’s not quite sure he exactly can. “I can, I can, I can. ” He has to. He can’t return to his homelands without the head of the beast, but yet, his stance falters, limbs nearly giving. He’s weak to whatever curse the demon cast upon him, giving in to his gaze as the monster grins.

“Oh, but you can’t,” he breathes, stepping back forward as Snow drops his blade, leaving it to clatter against the ground. The Bloodtaker’s hand reaches forward to Snow’s face, nails subtly dragging against the underside of the human’s chin. “Why don’t you stay, oh brave warrior, and keep my lonesome self some company? I’ll feed you for your time, and you can try to defeat me tomorrow.”

Snow crumbles like the gates of the town, head shaking yes as his feet tumble forward. His eyes drift around the room for the first time, absorbing his surroundings. Although he could have sworn that it was empty except the throne, it now has a large dining table, filled to the brim with various foods and drinks, causing Snow’s stomach to growl at the sight.

He drags himself there, immediately beginning to stuff his mouth with whatever he can get his hands on. It dawns on him, half a turkey leg down his throat, that the creature could have easily poisoned his food in attempts to kill him. It’d be so simple, and there he sits, across the long end of the table as he swirls his wineglass slowly, eyeing him carefully through long sips.

Yet Snow doesn’t stop. After all, he’s eaten enough for two regular meals anyway, and he’s going on his third, ravenously hungry from his travels, both alive and in his current realm. As he exists, he’s starved. He stuffs himself further until he can barely manage another bite, food smeared across his face and dripping off his chin as he chugs down ale and clean water , eyes closing and hands trembling as he gulps.

And the beast just stays, eyes locked on the mortal’s face.

One would expect the beast to attack, as he’s fattening up the merely muscle and bone fighter, but instead he admires. He stays, watching his curls bob too and fro and catching the eyes of the man on occasion, giving him a long, satisfied stare. Even as he finishes eating, raising to his feet with a gentle grunt, the creature gives him a once over. “You are free to stay, Great Warrior,” the demon offers, gesturing over his lair.

“It’s Snow,” he states clear as day, eyes flicking over the creature. “Simon Snow, The Mage of Warriors.”

A curt snort comes from the demon, swirling his blood-thick drink. “As if you hold any power above me,” he purrs, licking his lips once again before waving a hand to himself. “Pitch. Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch is the name my human form takes upon.”

Snow, with raising brows, watches him with curiosity. “Such a bold name for one to pose as a beggar, no?”

“Such a bold question to ask a creature that could kill you so quickly.”

“I don’t believe you’ll kill me after you’ve fed me.”

The creature, or so as he calls himself Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, sneers at the mere mortal before sipping from his glass. “I like to play with my food.”

Snow shifts his weight again, this time in the slightest. Food . “Do the words have any significance?” he queries, stepping over to the throne and sprawling himself over the grand chair.

Bold and idiotic, this brave man, and why the creature hasn’t killed him yet is the mystery for the ages.

As he sits, untouched by the darkest creature of the land as he disrespects his power, he continues to challenge him, to question him, to dig deeper into the mind of the being.

“My name?” Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch mocks. “I… it quite fits me. I’m quite handsome, and a handsome face requires a handsome name?”

“Such as Basilton?”

“ Yes .”

Snow smiles in the slightest. “I quite like that part. Basilton .” He draws it out, head resting back against the cushioned side. “Basil? Bazzz?”

“Baz is quite a crude bastardization of the name...”

“Exactly,” Snow grins. “ Baz . A tad whimsical.”

“I don’t think I agree that it would be fitting.”

“I believe so.”

Baz cocks a brow, sipping his wine (thickened to look like blood for the dramatics) and rolling his eyes for the effect. “You dare taunt a demon?”

“I dare taunt a demon who won’t kill me.”

“I see why you have no further title than Mage of Warriors.”

Snow throws a mean look, but it doesn’t stick.

“Alas, The Warrior is speechless.”

The golden man watches him and slowly spreads across the chair even further, making a point of the demon’s (frankly inexplicable) lack of punishment for disrespect. Baz remains in his seat adjacent to Snow’s, though, enjoying the mortal for all he’s worth, for he’s never had a moment to truly enjoy something so beautiful in his long lifetime, and he’s not quite sure he’ll be able to again.

Fate is so sick and twisted, even for the darkest of creatures. To live without a love, to exist without simple joys is a robbery of a life at all. So, it should be drunk in; sipped slowly and with caution, but finished to fill. To live a short life, one full of true existence is preferable to a never-ending life without such care.

A life known by the striking soldier with rich honeycomb skin, speckled like a hen’s egg and bronze licks of hair curling at every odd and end. He’s a sight to drink in, a sight that Baz doesn’t quite want to take in steadily, but instead he wishes to have him all to himself for now, and for the rest of time.

Such fate isn’t one that would be so kindly graced upon a killer like himself, but wishes can be dreams and dreams can be wishes.

And thus stands their bickering interactions, a back and forth of questions, such as Snow asking why he chose such a lair as his and Baz simply answers “It doesn’t beg the question whether or not he’s genuinely dark”, which was satisfying enough for the mortal, but not enough, as he asks further questions of how he came to be a demon, why he attacks such villages, and whether or not he takes the effort to make his hair fall in a careful way. The personal grooming questions were a tad odd, but somewhat reasonable, given the humanoid’s attention to detail in his appearance. All questions are ones that other creatures would slash the throat of the man after he dares speak, but Baz simply listens, giving snarky answers and snide comments, all the while a small smile trying to push through his cheeks. He takes notice as Snow starts to yawn, struggling to keep a conversation while his eyes grow heavy.

“Tomorrow, then,” he says, eyes drifting up to meet Baz’s. “Tomorrow, I’ll kill you.”

“Tomorrow it is.”

Tomorrow it is. It echoes through Snow’s brain as he rattles awake, laying among the sheets of an abandoned bed in the emptied town.

read the rest on archive!

[sussex-nature-lover]

Saturday 2nd January 2021

Review of the Year Q2 April, May and June 2020

I did start off for today’s entry by looking at world news and events, but it was so heavy on Coronavirus and reports of violence that I gave up and decided to stick to reviewing my own Blog, not to be egocentric but it just makes for more pleasant reading.

Lockdown was hard. We were just so fortunate here that we have each other for company, outside space of our own and a huge cast of entertainers to watch and write about. The weather decided to play ball too.

The field directly across the lane played a big part in the Blog and we knew something was going to happen there this year when the farmer started readying the land.

April saw one of the last chem trails we were going to see in the sky for rather a long time.

Data from the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs saw huge drops in nitrogen oxides and nitrogen dioxide between the beginning of the UK's first lockdown and April 30, with pollution down by 30-40%           

source BBC

We felt safe walking down the lane as there was virtually zero road traffic. There are no footpaths where we live, no street lights either as it happens and no bus route, so it became very quiet.

‘Happy Rhubarby Anniversary’ a gift with food yards rather than food miles

It was during April that me and Crow celebrated 40 years of marriage. We’d been planning to take a little break away and to have a big family BBQ get together and neither of those things could happen. We had some lovely gifts and cards though and a nice enough time out in the garden.

One of our gifts was super thoughtful and hopefully long lasting

Everything around us started to flourish and of course we got out and about to see it all, got some exercise and had a change of scene (on foot only) It was just so peaceful everywhere/

I featured a series of photos of the line of trees in our back garden  ‘The Apostles’ viewed from around the local area, so we always knew when we were looking towards home.

The wildlife thrived. Pheasants are always a feature of my photo album and love a good pose, but I managed to start capturing a few shots of  insects, dragon flies and damsel flies (below) which are not such easy subjects.  

It’s no secret how much I love the Spring time and the new baby lambs and rabbits. I can’t believe how many photos I have of them and can stand for hours just watching the lambs skipping around and playing together.

Cheeky! location just the other side of the front door. You’re not coming in.

I was thrilled to bits when the Long Tailed Tits returned to the feeders as they pass from the woods to the conifers, I always miss them when they’re not around and we were delighted by all the wild flowers in the verges. There were some great homes for all the insects this year.

Goldfinches have usually come in to the garden but it became a standing joke that the moment my finger hit the camera button they’d have gone a split second before...but that began to change.

Notice on the ground at the local railway station

Meanwhile we were listening to daily briefings from the Government and the advice about how we should behave started to evolve.

People were doing all kinds of sponsored and public spirited things including 99 year old Captain Tom Moore walking in the garden, with the aid of his frame. It started off as a family sponsored effort but caught the public imagination and he went on to raise £38.9 million, including gift aid which went to charities associated with the National Health Service and its workers.

Captain Tom Moore knighted on 18th May - which just happens to be the birthday of the younger Ms Nature Watch (Ms NW tY)

At home we had two major players in the story of new life. Above ‘Daisy Waldron’ Wood Pigeon of this Parish, who nested right outside the front bedroom window where I look across to the field. Below some shots taken from the back of our hallway following the calamitous exploits of Tracey Song Thrush who needs to learn a thing or two about nest building.

We gave her a bit of a helping hand and she cottoned on, but the nest wasn’t successful this time.

There was drama over this side wall nest box too. Who would win possession in the end? The Great Tits or the House Sparrows?

The House Sparrows prevailed and eventually reared two successful broods.

Cistus in the garden. We had two rogue blooms with the pink stripe

Our walks took us up through the Hop Gardens and I researched and wrote quite a bit about Hops and Oast Houses. It was interesting watching them grow. I was just disappointed that we missed the harvest. Doh! Won’t make that mistake again.

And we had a very unexpected and lovely visitor one evening. We’d never seen a Badger in the garden before let alone right up by the house.

Badger at the kitchen window June

There were two new-to-us sightings of birds. Linnet (above) and Whitethroat (below) showing how little a distance you have to walk from home to see something entirely different. Our garden is fairly unkempt with a few wild areas, native hedging and lots and lots and lots of trees with woodland beyond. Surrounding the house are fields and different types of hedgerows, ponds and pockets of woodland. There were plenty of Swallows and Swifts down the lane too.

Back on home turf it was proving to be a really good breeding year.

Male Great Spotted Woodpecker feeds his youth (with the red cap on top of its head)

It was while we were watching the Woodpeckers in late June, when the feeders were temporarily relocated to the Conifer row, that I had an enormous and very welcome surprise.

Could I be right? Is that fuzzy green outline in the background really what I think it might be? I was feeling Eagle-eyed but I do have a bad habit of trying to turn things into what I want to see, rather than what they actually are. However, YES, after a total absence of more years than I can even remember, Greenfinch were back! I’ve kept on saying that our garden is blessed with various kinds of Tits - Blue, Great, Coal, Marsh and Long Tailed, but light on Finches. Greenfinch had deserted us, Bullfinch, rare and in fact not seen at all throughout 2020. Goldfinch, dare I say it, very flighty and Chaffinch in decline. The sighting of a Greenfinch made me unbelievably excited and happy and later on we had juveniles visit for food too. Happily it seems Chaffinch also had a good season and of course, Goldfinch turned up trumps and even let me get some photos. They’ve been seen here as late as New Year’s Eve 2020 when I’ve only ever seen them in the garden during Summer. These are all excellent signs and I just want the Bullfinch to buck their ideas up too now, I’ve been flirting with a very promising photo from the front hedge, but I know it’s a House Sparrow really.

And we’ll never know if Tracey was able to nest elsewhere, but we did have young Song Thrush from someone.

This was the first time we observed a Kestrel close by. She nested extremely close to where we’d seen Little Owls for a couple of years and she raised two chicks. One day she actually came hunting in our garden. We saw all three Kestrels regularly on our walks up past the farm and liked to watch the youngsters’ flying practice.

I’ve got to mention it. After thinking the Season may have to be cancelled, play had resumed behind closed doors (no fans present)

25th June, Liverpool FC’s 30 year wait to become Premier League Champions is over.

I won’t go on. Sad though that we’ve been denied the victory parade we’ve been waiting for - we had loose plans to go up to Liverpool. Oh well, the achievement’s there in incredibly difficult circumstances and the trophy cabinet’s been upgraded.

Decoration of the Day:

White silk horses bought in Hong Kong so long ago it was before the handover in July 1997

Music Choice:

Music of the Day because. Championes.

LoLa and Hauser perform piano and cello.